Escapades of a Porno King

by George Alexander

  Table of Contents

  Escapades Of A Porno King CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  Escapades Of A Porno King

  George Alexander

  This page copyright © 2014 Olympia Press.

  He made them all— the starlets, the hookers, and the liberated ladies — each in a totally new and unique way!

  IN THE NAME OF RESEARCH!

  “Ah, could you move over a little to the right,” he suggested, rolling the tasty blonde on his left onto his lap. “Thanks,” he grunted to her companion, an action-built brunette with bulging breasts. “I think that'll do it.”

  Positioning himself between the head of the blonde and the tail of the brunette, he asked, “Is everybody ready? Okay,” he murmured, “here we go!”

  The living sex sandwich went into motion. Each person followed their instructions to a tee—bucking, moaning, and slurping like pros. After about three or four minutes the blonde broke free and said in a pained voice, “Hey... I've got a better idea. This doesn't seem to be working. At least, I'm not getting off on it.” Pushing her dark-haired girl friend into position, she moved between her legs and lowered her face suggesting, before her voice became muffled, “Tell the guy to get behind me... and do what comes naturally.”

  He did... she did... in fact, all three of them did... naturally!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sun was just going down over the Hudson. Jack Garney stood on the balcony of his apartment on Riverside Drive, trying to get an idea. Behind him there was a chaos of paper, typewriter ribbons, coffee cups, empty bourbon bottles, and half-smoked joints. It was fairly certain that no erotic notion was going to arise like a Phoenix out of those ashes.

  Across the river, through the-ferrous haze of the evening, banks of high-rise buildings stared blankly back at him. Paradigms of infertility. A tugboat steamed down the river, trailing a roiled grayish wake. The thickness of the August air was like a skin across the sky. But it was untouchable, and Jack's brain still registered... “nothing.”

  The doorbell rang from inside the apartment. Reluctantly, Jack picked his way through the paper wasteland, trodding on the traces left by numerous abortive uprisings of his imagination. “Well,” he thought to himself, as he shoved aside the bar of the police lock that wedged his door shut and reached to release the top lock—two cylinders, “When you can't get it up, you can't get it up.”

  After the unlocking ritual was done, the door still remained chained from the inside. He drew it open the length of the chain—about six inches—and peeked out.

  “Hi,” said a pleasant feminine voice from the darkness of the hallway.

  “Hi,” Jack said, recognizing Joan Deerfield, a slim, blonde-haired girl from upstairs. He closed the door a bit, undid the chain, and let the door swing open.

  “I came down to return your book,” Joan said, holding out a slim paperback to him. Jack took it and glanced at the title. Show Off. It had been about his fifth essay in the “erotic literature” field. That made it ancient history, but Jack remembered it well—as he did all his books that were based on fact, or more accurately, autobiography.

  Jack studied the girl before him briefly. In a year as her neighbor, he had come to know her well—in a rather shallow, social sense. Her penetrating green eyes contradicted the casual implications of the straight, dirty-blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. As she shifted her weight, her large, unencumbered breasts jiggled beneath her loose-knit pullover. Jack's eyes passed rapidly over the nipples that jutted out firmly forming two button-sized lumps in the otherwise smooth cloth, and his gaze darted down to where Joan's short, swirling white skirt brushed the tanned flesh of her long, coltish legs. All this took perhaps a second. Jack held up the book. “How'd you like it?” he asked, reading the caption below the title...”... I held my breath as she worked herself into an orgiastic frenzy. Then—I realized—she wanted me to watch!...” Below those words, a three-quarter shot of a nude girl, her leg drawn up, her arms crossed, and her hands grasping her breasts, stood next to his pen name—“George Alexander.”

  “It was great,” Joan smiled. Then, so as not to give the wrong impression—or so as not to give the right impression too soon—“There's some really good writing in it.”

  Jack was just remembering why Joan had borrowed the book. “You girls going to try writing one?” Like a lot of other friends and acquaintances of Jack's, the girls upstairs—Joan, and her two roommates—had thought they might like to try a little of his style of writing. He wondered, usually, whether they wanted to do it for the money—or for the kicks. In Joan's case, he didn't have much to wonder about. Joan's father was the head of a large corporation, and Joan had all the money she could use—in addition to a good job as an assistant editor in a prestigious publishing house downtown. Still, she had never published anything herself, and maybe that was what she was after.

  “I think so,” Joan said, in answer to his question. “The three of us are going to get together some night and just let our imaginations run wild, and put it all down on paper.”

  Jack winced inwardly at the thought of a book being written by a committee—but his mind soon found another appealing turn, as it fastened on the thought of three girls getting together to spill their libidos into the public domain.

  “That's a pretty hard way to write a book,” he offered.

  Joan laughed. “We're not going to worry about whether it's any good or not,” she said. “We're just going to do it for the hell of it, and see what happens.” Jack saw her eyes wandering past him to appraise the situation in his apartment. “You working on another one?” she asked.

  “I'm trying,” he said. “But I just can't seem...” he hesitated a bit, looking for the right phrase... “to get my inspiration up.” He glanced back over his shoulder, to realize that the chaos in the apartment was even worse than he had thought. “Gretchen's out of town for a week,” he said, referring to his wife, “and when she's not here, I just kind of let things go.”

  Joan nodded. “I don't know how you can think in this mess,” she said. She frowned slightly, and then smiled a little, as if she had been mulling over a puzzling thought and come to a resolution. “Say, if we get started on one of these books, could you kind of look it over and tell us if we're on the right track?”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Any time.”

  “That would be great,” Joan grinned. “And if you could do that—maybe we could help you with a little... inspiration.”

  Jack allowed a little “You-don't-say-so?” expression to cross his face, which was immediately met with a “Yes-I-do” expression from Joan. “That is,” said Joan, “if your wife wouldn't mind.”

  “My wife's gone to Acapulco with an old boyfriend who turned up rich,” he said. “You might say we have an understanding.”

  Joan nodded, and then Jack felt her eyes giving him a quick once-over. For thirty-two, he was in pretty good shape—six-one, with muscular shoulders to show for his four years of rowing crew in college, a thick shock of jet-black hair, and a well-chiseled, uncompromising face.

  Joan was ready to cut out the nonsense. “How about tonight?” she said.

  “Well,” Jack chuckled, “I was going to fly out to San Francisco to see the Mets play... but I don't like the guy who's pitching, and besides, I'm scared of airplanes. What time?”

  “How about right now? We're just about to have dinner. If you haven't eaten yet, you could join us. Cindy should be home any minute, and Janice is just about done with the stroganoff.”

  “Fantastic,” said Jack. “I'm getting a little tire
d of TV dinners. I'll tell you what. Let me grab my typewriter and some paper, just in case I do get inspired, and I'll come up now. You girls can work on your book, and maybe while I help you I can get started on one of my own.”

  Jack retreated into his apartment, and Joan followed him. As he coiled the wire of his portable electric and fitted it into its case, she scooped up a box of paper, a ream of second sheets, and a folder of carbon paper. In minutes, they were out the door.

  “Do you want to wait for the elevator?” Joan asked, noticing that it was in the basement and seemingly not moving.

  “Hell with it, you're only two flights up. It'll take that goddamned thing longer to get up seventeen floors than it took Columbus to sail to America. Let's take the stairs.” He motioned Joan to go ahead, and felt a dim stirring in his pants at the thought of the short skirt—a full eight inches above her knees-ahead of him. Joan started up. Jack let her get half a flight ahead of him, and was just being rewarded with the sight of a pair of jiggling buttocks, loosely veiled by a pair of white lace bikini panties, coming into view beneath the swishing white hemline, when Joan turned back to glance at him. “Getting any inspiration yet?” she asked, shaking a bit to shove her right buttock toward him. She had a strong tan line—Jack knew she could well afford to spend lots of time at the beach—and the pure white flesh of her ordinarily covered parts crept out from beneath the panties.

  “Just a little,” he grinned.

  “Just a little?” she smirked, raising her eyebrows provocatively. “Well...” As she continued up the stairs, she reached around behind herself, up under her skirt, and, deftly catching the seam of her panties on one side, shoved it over into the cleft between her buttocks, revealing all of a large, creamy globe. Jack's organ gave a jerk, and he felt “inspiration” growing in the pit of his stomach. She did the same on the other side. Then she continued, slowly, up the stairs. As she went, the cloth of her panties worked even farther into her crack, and wisps of blonde hair appeared at the edges near her crotch. The cloth drove Jack wild, as the rhythm of Joan's stair-climbing rubbed it first one way, then the other. He imagined it rubbing the lips of her cunt, and the tight, pink flesh around it, and the hot little hole of her ass. Meanwhile, that tantalizing shadow of a line that formed when her legs straightened and her buttocks bunched up, that seemed to flash out from her crotch and spread out and down, till it was eclipsed with the next step, flashed first on the right, then on the left. Wherever it appeared, there was above it that tight little bunching of flesh, pure white, unseen by the sun that had tanned the rest of her so thoroughly, and Jack was tempted to rush up behind her and grab it, pinch it in his fingers, spread it till he could see the dark pink of her cunt-lips protruding from beneath the panties...

  Finally, Joan reached the top of the stairs. Suddenly, she bent all the way over, and looked at him, upside down, from between her legs. “How are you doing now?” she asked, fastening her inverted gaze on the lump that was rising in his pants.

  “Out of breath,” he said truthfully, “but not from climbing the stairs.”

  Joan reached behind her again, hooked her fingers into the rope of cloth that lay tightly in her crack, lifted it—giving Jack just the briefest glimpse of her cunt and asshole—and then spread the cloth neatly out again, covering her treasures. Jack shook his head in amazement, and they proceeded into Joan's apartment.

  Janice Wild, one of Joan's roommates, was in the kitchen, just finishing supper. Janice was about two inches shorter than Joan's five-six, with dark hair and eyes and a robust figure. Jack thought he remembered something about her working for a fashion design house. She was caught by surprise—she was clad only in a body stocking of dark blue, under which she wore nothing. She obviously had not expected Jack. She heard his voice before she saw him, and with a quick, “Oh, shit, Joan, I didn't know you were bringing anybody back...” she swung the door to the kitchen closed.

  “It's only Jack,” Joan said, cracking the kitchen door open a little. “He's going to help us write our book tonight.”

  “Well, I don't have a goddamned thing on,” Janice said, “except this piece of gauze, or whatever you call it.”

  “I think Jack can take it,” Joan said, looking back at him with a grin.

  “I don't know,” Jack said under his breath.

  “OK,” Janice said. “Open that goddamned door, then, because it's hot as hell in here, and there's no breeze when it's closed.”

  Joan swung the door open, and there was Janice, her full, melon-like breasts with large, dark nipples practically forcing their way through the flimsy blue material, her rounded, sensual belly curving toward the mound of womanhood between her legs, and her buttocks making the cloth sag at their bottoms where their weight hung plumply ripe, like fruit waiting to be picked.

  “We don't have to stand on too many formalities with Jack,” Joan was saying. “I think by the time the night is over, we'll all know each other pretty well.”

  Janice chuckled into her pot of stroganoff. “Is that so?” she said. “And we're supposed to write a book too?”

  “That's the gig,” said Jack, forcing himself to take his eyes off Janice's body. “Where shall I set up my typewriter?” He wondered vaguely just how much of this the three roommates had discussed among themselves. Joan and Janice—it occurred to Jack that everybody's name began with a J so far, although Cindy's arrival would ruin that—seemed on first impression to be pretty loose, but as he remembered Cindy, the quietest of the group, whom he had met only once or twice, she could be a little tighter. She was pale, and slender almost to the point of being flat-chested. She wore wire-rimmed glasses, and worked in some kind of chemistry lab. He wondered how she'd fit into all of this. At least, he remembered, she had the habit of wearing skirts that were almost up to her ass. But that could have been just because they were in fashion...

  Following Joan's suggestion, Jack set his typewriter up on an end-table that they pulled out from beside a sofa. His back was to the window, in which the picture of the sunset was rapidly fading to blue-black, broken by twinkling lights from the Jersey shore. Joan brought him a bourbon on the rocks, and he slumped back to wait for dinner. Moments later, there were noises at the door, and Cindy appeared, carrying a large pocket-book with a few bags sticking out of it. “I brought enough paper to write three books,” she said, as she locked the door behind her, “and a few other items that may help with...” Her voice trailed off as she saw Jack for the first time.

  .. descriptions,” she finished softly. “Hi,” she said, putting her bag down.

  “Jack's going to help us tonight,” Joan said. “Oh,” Cindy said, not positively and not negatively, but apparently trying to adjust to the idea.

  “He's going to have dinner with us, and then we're going to get started.”

  “Well... great,” Cindy said, although her tone indicated to Jack that she felt she might have been able to spill her libido a little more freely without him around. “It'll be great to have some real professional help...”

  Cindy wandered toward the kitchen, and caught sight of Janice. “Jesus Christ, Janice, you don't have anything on!” she exclaimed.

  Janice looked at her with amusement. “Haven't you ever seen me this way before? Besides, in this goddamned heat, this body suit feels like a fur coat.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Cindy muttered, and wandered off toward her bedroom. Once there, she yelled back, “Is that all you're going to wear for dinner?”

  “Shit, I may take this off if I get any hotter,” Janice said. Jack sort of hoped she wouldn't, because he was pretty hungry, and didn't want anything distracting his attention to the food. “What do you want to know for?” Janice yelled.

  “Oh, I just want to know what everybody's wearing,” Cindy said, her voice considerably lighter now. “You know, I'm one of those conformists. In high school I'm the one who would always call you up in the morning to see what you were wearing, so I'd be sure to fit in...” Her voice, which had a hab
it of trailing off, did it again, but in a few seconds she emerged from her room. Jack almost fell off the chair. Cindy was clad only in her underpants. Her round little breasts, crowned with pale, small nipples, stared brazenly at him as they cut through the charged air. “I was going to try to find something to put on, but I figured, what the hell...” She wandered into the kitchen and dipped a spoon into the stroganoff. “Tastes good,” she said. “Just the right amount of wine this time, I think.”

  Joan shook her head. “This is going to be some writing session,” she said. Then, “I'm beginning to feel overdressed.”

  “Don't tell me you're a conformist too,” Cindy said, emerging from the kitchen bearing a board with cheese and crackers on it.

  “I guess you've got a point there. I should stick to my guns—or clothes.”

  “Besides,” Cindy said, “It would be nice if you'd give my little tits some time to adjust to society. If you let those floppy udders of yours loose, mine would probably shrink to nothing from embarrassment.”

  “Well, we can't all be the Great Earth Mother,” retorted Joan. “Besides, you've got some advantages.” Cindy was standing within reach of Joan now, bending over cutting the cheese. Joan reached out and gently grabbed one of Cindy's nipples. “It isn't every girl whose tits double their size when she gets excited...

  Cindy leapt back, laughing. “I've only got one trick,” she said. “Let's not use it up too soon.”

  Joan turned to Jack. “See those teeny little nipples?” she said. “When Cindy gets excited, they get about as big as balloons. We had a contest one night.

  Cindy approached the cheese tray with circumspection, from the other side, grabbed a piece of cheese and a cracker, and started munching on it. Jack tried not to stare at the crotch of her panties, through whose sheer material a bulge of pink-lipped flesh could clearly be seen, nearly hairless. That had always appealed to Jack, and he wondered whether he could have predicted it from Cindy's almost white-blonde hair, which fell like silk past her shoulders and curled ephemerally toward her exposed breasts. Cindy was, he saw, just a shade this side of being bony. Her pale, clear blue eyes, her turned-up nose, and her delicate but determined chin, gave her a beauty that would—had she been a bit taller than her diminutive five-two—have made her perfect for fashion modeling. He imagined her in bed. An hour earlier he would have predicted that she would be insipid—but now, he imagined that what was undoubtedly a tight little cunt nestled between her slim legs could really grab hold of a man and take him for a ride. Not to mention all the positions that her supple little body could undoubtedly manage...