Lola Licett - Queen of Porn:

Devlin Carter knew how to talk. When he was a skinny door-to-door household products salesman, people would buy toilet cleaner they never used just to shut him up. A random suitcase filled with dildos and X-rated VHS videos crossed his path and, after selling the lot in one day, Devlin knew that his future lay in the sex industry. Years later the VHS video had gone the way of the dinosaur, but Devlin was now the official owner of Shooting Star Studios and the unofficial owner of so many sex-related websites, products and services that he had trouble keeping track of them. Fortunately, he had three very able staff members who did that for him. All three were overweight, middle-aged women who were in denial about being overweight, middle-aged women, but they also had wide experience in legal and financial matters—abilities which had served Devlin well for years. He liked to call them his Three Merry Wenches. Everyone else called them the Three Fat Cunts.

It hadn't started that way. When Devlin founded Shooting Star Studios he had hired women as receptionists, but men for the more responsible positions in administration. This was partly because of his innate sexism towards women doing 'men's work,' but he also worried about split loyalties. He knew full well that most of his actresses were being underpaid and he thought women in the office would act against him on behalf of their fellow-women.

Experience taught him the opposite. The men he hired, almost without exception, proved susceptible to 'persuasion' from young, attractive women in a way that other women were not. And as for women's loyalty towards other women, he discovered that envy trumped loyalty every single time—especially the envy overweight, middle-aged women felt towards slimmer, younger women. In the end, Devlin only hired overweight, middle-aged women as his top administrators and they rewarded him with profitability beyond his wildest hopes. Moreover, they were so invested in sticking it to their fellow women every chance they got, that Devlin got to play the hero and rescue the juicier girls from their clutches. Safe in his office, they could then demonstrate just how grateful they were.

But, at present, Devlin sat in his office alone. On his huge desk were three flat-screens, his gaze on the large central screen, wearing his glasses so he could see the photos of wannabe actresses who had written to him asking for work. Devlin was an old man who endeavoured to look younger. He still had a full head of dyed yellow-blond hair, his clipped eyebrows were dark and his tanned face hid the lines pretty well. The flowered shirt and a yellow jacket also distracted the attention. He wore more rings and bracelets than a gypsy fortune teller and they clanked slightly as he clicked his mouse, going through the images of pretty young girls, one after the other after the other.

A movement on the second screen caught his attention and he looked up. It was the security camera's view of his personal assistant's office just on the other side of his own office door. At the desk was Dolores Burrito—one of the Three Merry Wenches—a large woman wearing a floral dress two sizes too small and with hair that looked dyed even in black and white. She made Devlin think of a circus clown's cruel mother. Across from the desk, the door had opened—the movement which had caught his attention—and a girl entered, slim with perky tits; probably one of the fluff girls. It was clear by her body language that she was there under duress. The girl looked around, clearly staring at the movie posters that decorated the office wall. Dolores lifted her head with the look of a bloated hyena interrupted while feeding. She said something. The girl jumped, took a breath and then stepped up to the P.A.'s desk like there was a trap door in front of it. Devlin put on his headphones, clicked on the sound of his hidden microphone and sat back, making himself comfortable.

'Hi, Ms. Burrito,' said Shirley, trying to smile. 'I'm Shirley. I work in the—'

'I know who you are, sweetheart,' said Dolores. 'What do you want?'

'I, um ... I need a copy of something.'

'Of what?'

'There's an actor who works here—Roger Ramrod. Well, that's what he calls himself, I don't know his real name...'

Dolores leaned back, her chair creaking like a dragon's neck.

'Anyway,' said Shirley hurriedly. 'I need his latest check-up results. You know, from the doctor.'

'You want me to commit a felony?' said Dolores.

'No,' said Shirley. 'God, no.'

'Well, medical records are confidential and to hand over confidential records to a third party without authorisation is a felony and you were asking me to give you Roger's confidential medical records, so it does sound a teensy bit like you were asking me to commit a felony, wouldn't you say?'

'I didn't know it was a felony.'

Dolores looked at the girl with dead fish eyes.

'Well, now you do,' said Dolores and she went back to studying her computer screen, her podgy fingers clicking the mouse with a surprisingly light touch. Shirley stood awkwardly before the desk, hair in front of her face like an insecure schoolgirl.

'Listen, Ms. Burrito,' she said. 'We have a bit of a situation in Studio 69.'

The mouse clicking stopped.

'Lola?' said Dolores.

'Yeah. She wants to see Roger's O.K. from the doctor or she's not going to let him fuck her.'

Dolores leaned back again. The chair creaked and there was a loud 'Ping!' which made Shirley jump. When Dolores looked back at her, Shirley was shocked at the hatred she saw in the glittering eyes. It was so intense that it took the girl a moment to realise it was not aimed at her.

'You tell Her Pornographic Majesty this,' said Dolores. 'If she wants to know whether a man is safe to fuck, she comes here in person and—'

There was a crack of wood and both women jumped. The door to Devlin's office had opened and the man himself was walking in, hands waving as he talked.

'Dolores. I'm wondering about this lesbian website we're thinking of—why, hello,' he said to Shirley as though just noticing she was there. 'And what's your name?'

'Shirley, sir.'

'Call me Devlin. Everyone else does. Right, Dolores?'

'Yes, Mr. Carter.'

'Ha-ha! You see?'

Shirley smiled awkwardly. Devlin smiled back and ran his hand up and down her arm.

'Everything all right, Shirley?' he asked.

'More or less, um ... Devlin.'

'More or less?'

'Well.' Shirley looked at her feet and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. 'I was asked to fetch a document, but Ms. Burrito here said it was a felony.'

'A felony?'

Devlin looked at Dolores with raised eyebrows. The look he got back was deadpan, but the fat woman swallowed in discomfort. Shirley bit her lip to hide her smile.

'She asked for Roger's monthly medical report,' said Dolores. 'And I can't go handing out confidential papers without authorisation.'

'You can if I authorise it,' said Devlin.

The two oldies stared at each other—Devlin with a smile and Dolores without. Then Dolores struggled to her feet, the chair springing backwards and bumping against the wall.

'I'll go fetch the necessary paperwork, Mr. Carter,' she said.

'Thank you, Dolores.'

Shirley stared at the floor as Dolores left the room. Only when the door clicked shut did she look up. She saw Devlin smiling at her. Standing so close to him, she also saw the grey roots at the base of the dyed yellow hair, the groomed and darkened eyebrows and the loose skin around his eyes. But if she let him go a little out of focus, he might be a man of (maybe) fifty. She smiled back.

'Thank you, sir,' she said.

'I told you ... Devlin.'

'I like calling you "sir." Makes me feel like I have to do what I'm told.'

'Really?'

Devlin looked her up and down, then gently ran his finger down her arm.

'Shirley, the fluff girl,' he said.

'That's me. Best blow-jobs in town.'

'That's quite a claim.'

'I can prove it.'

'Oh?'

There was a leather couch in the office for people waiting to see Devlin. Shirley tossed her script and her water bottle onto that couch, then removed all her clothes and threw them on top. She stood, hands on hips, her face flushed red and perky nipples pointing towards Devlin. Textbook exhibitionist, he thought as his cock protested the sudden lack of space in his pants. He had to clear his throat before speaking.

'Shall we step into my office?' he said.

A grey car drove up to the studio gate and stopped at the barrier. Dave Batterham, the security guard, looked up from his copy of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' and peered out through the window of his small air-conditioned office. He saw a short man in a cheap suit step out of the car and make his way towards the office, wiping sweat off his balding head with a handkerchief.

'Shit!'

Dave dropped his book and was out of the office in two seconds. He knew the man and didn't want him busting his Airco unit again.

'Hey, Mr. Harrison!' said Dave as he approached. 'How you doing?'

'Roasting,' said the man called Harrison.

'Yeah, it's a hot one today.'

'Dave, right?'

'That's right, sir.' He gave the man a clap on the shoulder. 'You're on my appointments list, Mr. Harrison. No need for you to get out of your car.'

'Don't I have to sign in and get a visitor's pass?' said Harrison.

'I'll bring it out to you. You can wait in your vehicle.'

Harrison looked back at his car. Dave noticed that all the windows were rolled down, even in the back.

'The air conditioning is bust,' said Harrison. 'I don't know what it is with me and Airco. Every time I get it fixed it just breaks down again. It works for my wife, but the moment I get in the car it commits suicide. She says I'm cursed.'

'Ha! What an idea,' said Dave, backing away. 'Well, you just wait there and I'll bring out the necessaries.'

Ten minutes later, the grey car was parked on the lot and Harrison was walking towards the studio office building, a plastic tag with the word 'Visitor' clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt and a briefcase held under his arm. He went through the swing doors and up to the chest-high reception desk in the foyer where a skinny young man with acne and white ear-phones sat staring at his computer screen. He was watching something with goggle eyes and, although his hands were under the desk, Harrison could guess where at least one of them was.

Harrison coughed. No response. He tried coughing louder. Finally, he slammed his hand down on the desk. The boy jumped, pulled the ear-plugs out and the tinny sound of screaming orgasms was suddenly audible. The boy lunged for the mouse on his computer, did some frantic clicking and finally the sound stopped. Straightening his tie, he leaned back and fell on the floor, the swivel chair rolling away behind him. Harrison pretended to look at his fingernails as the boy scrambled back up, pulled his chair to the desk and sat behind it in his official position. He cleared his throat.

'Can I help you?' said the young man.

'I have an appointment to see Mr. Carter,' said Harrison.

The boy looked around, saw a clipboard with a list of names and grabbed it, knocking over a tub of pencils. Harrison stared back at his fingernails as the boy tidied up the pencils, then checked the list and saw it was for something else. He was still hunting for the list when Dolores came through a doorway and headed for the stairs. For the first time in his experience, Harrison felt glad to see her.

'Harrington?' she said.

'Harrison,' he said. 'Humphrey Harrison.'

'Yeah, whatever. What are you doing here?'

The glad feeling had now disappeared.

'I have an appointment with Devlin,' said Harrison.

'Is that true, Richie?' she said to the young man.

'Um ... it could be,' said the young man, rifling through papers and knocking the pencil tub over again. Dolores groaned. She was already carrying a number of files under her arm and she seemed reluctant to walk the extra few feet to the desk. Understandable, thought Harrison, as he tried to ignore the part of his brain wondering how someone that fat managed to walk at all. Finally, her patience gave out and she rolled her bulk over to the desk, giving Richie a look that would have made Harrison quit on the spot. Reaching over the desk, she took immediate hold of the roster and checked the names.

'Yup, here he is,' she said and tossed the file back over the desk. She gave Richie one more dirty look and then walked across to the stairs and started to climb them. Harrison wondered whether he ought to follow her. He looked at Richie who shrugged. Harrison wiped sweat off his forehead, took a deep breath and went up the stairs after Dolores. Richie sat back down in his chair. Behind him, the hum of the air conditioning unit slowly died away.

Harrison and Dolores climbed the stairs and walked to the office without a word being said. Harrison could hear her laboured breathing and the squeak of her shoes as she walked. When they got to the door, he stepped forwards to open it and would have tipped his hat if he'd been wearing one. Dolores simply went past him, dumped her papers on her desk and navigated around it to her chair. Harrison closed the door, looked around and saw movie posters lining the wall with images of sexy women with long legs and impossible breasts in various poses and outfits. Then he heard a girl's voice, faint but distinct, all moans and coos and loud sighs. It was coming from the other side of the blue door to Devlin's office.

'Mr. Carter will be with you in a minute,' said Dolores as she clicked her mouse. 'Maybe even less.'

Harrison went to sit on the leather couch and saw discarded jeans and a woman's top lying on it. He placed them carefully in a pile on one side and sat down on the other. The girl's voice was now saying 'Mmm!' and 'Oh yeah...' and Harrison found he was sweating.

'Is it me or is it stuffy in here?' he said, wiping his head.

'It's stuffy,' said Dolores. 'I turned off the air conditioning half an hour ago.'

'You could turn it back on?'

'Oh, I will.'

Dolores continued to click her mouse. There was a definite male grunt from the other room.

'Any chance of a coffee?' asked Harrison.

'Do I look like a waitress?'

Dolores turned her attention to the files she had brought in. There was quiet from the next room. Then Harrison jumped as the blue door opened and a naked girl walked out. Her cheeks and Venus mound were flushed pink and she bounced as she walked.

'Hi,' she said to Harrison.

'Hello,' he said back.

'These are mine,' she said, pointing down to the clothes.

'I sort of guessed that.'

'Why, are you a detective?'

Harrison laughed uncomfortably. He actually was a private detective, but now didn't seem the time to advertise it. The girl bent over to gather up her clothes. Harrison looked away.

'Don't do that,' said the girl. 'I like it when men look.'

'Oh. Okay.'

The girl didn't get dressed. Instead, she tucked the bunch of clothes under one arm and went up to the desk. She had a slim, tight body and lovely round butt cheeks—far prettier than the big breasted grotesques on the surrounding posters, thought Harrison. Dolores seemed to think so too and this was clearly not a happy thought. Despite her deadpan expression, something in her boiled at the sight of the girl's delicious youth and the girl seemed to know it.

'I believe you have something for me?' said the girl.

Dolores held up a sheet of paper. The girl took it from her and looked over the document.

'Yes, this seems to be in order,' she said. 'Thank you, Dolores.'

She turned, showing her lovely naked butt to the woman behind her and giving Harrison a big smile that was not entirely free of malice. Then she turned on her heel and bounced out of the room.

Dolores seemed at a loss. She stared at the pile of folders as if not knowing what they were. Then she saw Harrison trying not to look at her, feeling his pity for her, and she roughly moved her chair so that she was hidden behind her flat-screen.

'Go knock on the door, Harrington,' she said. 'The boss should be tucked in by now.'

'The name's Harrison.'

'Whatever.'

Harrison knocked on the blue door and entered. The office had fake wooden panelling and like the other office was also covered in movie posters, albeit in frames under glass. There was an enormous couch facing a massive flat-screen on the wall and on the huge desk were three more screens. In the deluxe leather swivel chair sat Devlin and he was indeed tucked in. He leapt up and went across to Harrison with his hand out.

'Humphrey, old man! Good to see you!' he said, shaking his hand with vigour.

Devlin was fifteen years older, but Harrison knew better than to say anything. His client liked to play the jovial uncle who still had it and Harrison made it his business to give his clients what they wanted. He suspected one of the reasons he got the first assignment was because he wasn't taller than Devlin.

'How's the wife?' said Devlin.

'She's fine,' said Harrison. 'And how's yours?'

'Which one? Ha ha! You want a coffee?'

'Love one.'

'Black, one sugar?'

'Well remembered.'

Devlin gave Harrison a clap on the shoulder and went to open the door.

'Hey, Dolores!' he called. 'Could you bring two thirsty men some coffee?' Harrison didn't catch what she said back, but when Devlin replied, his voice was hard and cold: 'Well, if you treated the secretaries a little better, maybe they wouldn't have quit and then you could have got them to make the coffee. Now go get it and bring some water as well.'

Devlin closed the door with a decisive whap. He turned, a smile back on his face, and he went over to join Harrison who was looking at the posters. Every single one of them featured Lola in various costumes and poses.

'Ah yes,' said Devlin. 'Lola Lickett—the star in my firmament. The pain in my ass.'

'She is a good looking woman,' said Harrison.

'L.A. is full of good looking women. But yes, she does have something special.'

'She makes a lot of money.'

'For herself. Not for me.'

Harrison looked at Devlin and, for a moment, under the tan and dyed eyebrows, he saw a bitter old man. Devlin dumped himself in his deluxe leather chair and waved for Harrison to take a seat himself. There were two identical chairs available for visitors, both leather, both comfortable looking—but not luxurious. The king must have a throne, thought Harrison as he took his seat.

'I thought she was your top star?' said Harrison.

'Not in terms of turnover,' said Devlin. 'That honour goes to Candy Luscious. Her DVD sales have overtaken Lola's and her films get almost twice as many downloads.'

'So why not put Candy posters on your wall?'

'Because I want her to think Lola is still Number One. Ever since Lola started acting the prima donna every woman in this studio has grown to hate her and the more they hate her, the better it is for me.'

'How so?'

'Because instead of bugging me for pay increases and better working conditions, all the women are obsessed with knocking Lola off her perch. They worker harder, work longer and for less money—all in the hope that they can topple the queen from her throne.'

'Really?'

'You sound surprised.'

'Well...' Harrison wiped sweat off his bald head. 'I thought these days, women were feministic?'

'You must be kidding!' said Devlin. 'Humphrey, the women who come here want to be stars, not feminists! There's not a single woman who wouldn't stab Lola in the back in order to take her place.'

'But I thought women wanted equality?'

'With men, not with each other! And most women I know don't really want equality at all—they just hate being at the bottom end of a hierarchy. Who doesn't? But when a woman is at the top of a hierarchy, she loves it! You just have to look at a bride on her wedding day to see that!'