Christina Ch 05

The next morning I called in my hairdresser, my manicurist, and my masseur and had them all apply their considerable skills (I got them, after all, as a birthday present from the queen of goa, a good friend) to prepare me for what lay ahead. I was going back to work, in a sense, and I wanted to be at my best in all-possible respects, especially the physical. I do not deceive myself -- I know that my appearance has gotten me into doors that would have been fortified to the nth degree against anyone less fortunately endowed, and besides, I know how important it is to go into a new story feeling absolutely at the top of my game.

From the outset, that was my attitude, that the unraveling of the mystery of Paul's -- what should I call it? Sellout or disappearance or change of life? -- Would be treated simply as another story, fascinating, no doubt, and challenging, but no more so than, say, the capture of those oil tanker pirates in the Seychelles or the behind the scenes machinations in the toppling of the government in Paraguay, both of which I had taken part in. to maintain that attitude, I had to quash my feelings and muster up all the objectivity I could, because I knew that my love for Paul could do nothing but cloud my vision and retard whatever progress I might be able to make toward the solution of this bloody mystery.

Once I had been primped, rubbed, and clipped to near perfection by my adorable caretakers, I went right to work, starting, as usual, with my favorite tool in these preliminary rounds, the telephone. First I called Reese Jacklin, who -- amazingly enough -- could tell me nothing more than the name of quicklime's producer, one Tony Jacobs. Jacobs was a nodding acquaintance of mine from some embassy party or other, and when I called he remembered me instantly. But he knew nothing, or so he claimed. He said he had simply been ordered by the president of constellation films to use Paul as the lead in the picture, and ordered in terms that brooked no argument whatsoever.

"What could I do?" he said, and I could almost see him shrugging as he shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "My hands were tied."

I thanked him and immediately called constellation, tapping my fingers on the phone table and fuming silently as I ran the telephone maze of secretaries, receptionists, and the palace guards who kept the executives from talking to anyone but their mistresses. I finally got through to Desmond Starkey, constellation's president by reminding his personal secretary that I was part of a group that had bankrolled the first seven pictures the studio had ever made.

It was hardly worth my time. Starky had much the same story as Jacobs, that he was simply acting under orders.

"We're not independent anymore you know," he said. "We're just a division of amalgamated industries. They tell us what to do."

"Even down to the lead actor in a tacky little racing film?" I said. "I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you will, Christina," Starkey said. "It happens to be the truth. I get a phone call one day from the home office, they say 'use Paul Bayard in quicklime'. So I use him. I make it a point not to argue with the home office."

"All right, Desmond," I said. "Thanks for nothing."

"Any time, sweetheart," he said cheerfully. "And don't be a stranger."

We hung up. Just as I was about to dial the home office of amalgamated industries (located, appropriately enough, in Cleveland) the phone rang. It was Katy.

"My god," she said, "I've been trying to get you all morning. The line's been busy."

"So have I," I said. " Hacking myself a pathway through the corporate jungle."

"Amalgamated?"

"I was just about to call them."

"Don't bother. You won't get anywhere."

"How do you know?"

"Because," she said. "I've already talked to the fellow who keeps their wheels greased out there. He guarantees me that no one in Cleveland really knows what's going on."

"Not even the chairman of the board?"

"No one."

"Hmmm," I said brilliantly. "Who is this wheel greaser of yours?"

"His name is Leonard snider. He's a lawyer, and he has some sort of connection with both amalgamated and constellation, although I've never been able to get him to tell me precisely what that connection is. Some sort of liaison man, I imagine."

"Sounds positively opaque," I said. "What's his phone number?"

"You don't have to call him," Katy said. "I've already made you an appointment."

"Fantastic!" I said. "You know, if you didn't make so much money as it is, I'd hire you."

"Don't make me offers until you hear about the kind of appointment it is," she said ominously.

"Uh-oh."

"Exactly. What it boils down to is that I got you an invitation to one of his parties. They're quite notorious."

"Doesn't sound so bad," I said. "Especially after some of the parties I've been to." I immediately recalled the pirates of the Caribbean party that Xavier had thrown once, in which each of the guests ended up coupling dog style with some one and ' walking the plank ' into the swimming pool full of Dom Perignon. Or the Olympics benefit sponsored by an aging athlete who had once won three gold medals, and which featured a decathlon unlike anything ever seen outside the pages of the karma sutra.

"I'm sure I'll be able to manage it," I told Katy.

"I'm sure you will, darling," she said. "But I'm going to come with you, just to be on the safe side."

"Wonderful!" I said, truly meaning it. We made the arrangements and chatted for a moment about trivialities before hanging up. Once the phone was back on the hook, I sat back in my chair and relaxed inside for the first time in days. I have an instinct for the right track -- an instinct that is indispensable to the work I do -- and now I felt as if things were finally going somewhere. This Leonard snider sounded very promising indeed, and I silently thanked Katy for the referral, knowing she had saved me much work and frustration in dealing with the corporate mélange. And I knew too that snider was just a man, and no matter how loyal and tight lipped he might prove to be, I had yet to meet the man who would not talk to me ... sooner or latter, if you know what I mean.

The party was due to begin late Saturday afternoon, so Katy picked me up at noon in her cornice, putting the top down for the two hour drive to Santa Barbara, where snider lived. Santa Barbara, is one of those towns about which people are always saying that it has the highest per capita income in the country, which instantly incites arguments with aficionados of shaker heights, great neck, and Tiburon, and which is due primarily to the fact that a great many successful movie people live there in blissful semiretirement.

But to my surprise, Katy did not turn off the highway at the Montecito exit, which leads to the heart of the Santa Barbara movie colony. Instead she drove on through town and out the narrow road toward the San Morcos pass. We went up the coast range, up past Camino del Cielo with its magnificent view of the ocean, past the sprawling ranch which Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden keep as a weekend retreat, and down into the oak studded greenery of the Santa Ynez valley.

Just before we reached lake Cachuma and the little town of paradise, Katy turned off onto an unmarked but well graded dirt road, which was set off by a double stand of eucalyptus trees on either side. Black angus cattle grazed peacefully in the tall yellow grass, lifting their heads to bellow at us, as we roared past. Finally we came to a circular driveway, and parked in front of the immense one story ranch house on the other side.

Snider himself greeted us at the door; he was a tall, rangy man who reminded me a bit of an old fashioned secretary of state. He smiled at me pleasantly when Katy introduced us, looking much more like a rural gentleman than the sexual madman Katy had described.

"Come on in " he said in a relaxed baritone. "party's just getting started."

I have heard those words at least ten thousand times in my life, and they almost always conjure up the same scene, people standing around in little groups of three and fours, nibbling exotic little tidbits and smoothly swooping drinks off passing cocktail trays as they engage in a low key contest to see who can be the more quietly impressive ' undertone ' of repressed sexuality and eager anticipation.

Consequently I was not in the least prepared for the sight that hit me when I walked in the door. There were some fifteen to twenty couples in sniper's hockey ring of a living room, and another ten or so outside, gathering around and in a swimming pool that looked to be only slightly smaller than red square in Moscow. And nowhere did I see a shred of clothing; nowhere did I hear a sound that was even vaguely conversational. What I did see was a writhing, almost undifferentiated mass of naked human bodies, pushing, pumping, slithering and sliding along the freshly waxed floor like some kind of ballet gone madly horizontal, what I did hear was on odd mixture of passionate whispers, groans, and delirious screams.

In one corner of the room a man with the body of a weight lifter was standing erect, inserting his monumental cock into a woman who was at least six inches taller than he while at the same time he lifted two other women entirely off the floor by their crotches, one in each hand. In another corner the blackest woman I have ever seen -- so black as to be almost purple -- was straddling the body of a gorgeous American Indian in full war paint, while simultaneously reaching her head back to lap at the pussy of a woman who must have been the world's most magnificently preserved senior citizen. In the middle of the floor a group of eight people had formed what looked like a human train while the poor woman who was unfortunate enough to play the caboose wailed for some one to come couple her. Outside I could see two men standing on the diving board, fencing exuberantly with their monstrous cocks while the sexiest water polo game I have ever laid eyes on went on inside the pool itself.

I have to admit it, I gaped. I have been to enough orgies to know what the word 'orgy' generally means in reality -- two or more couples screwing simultaneously in two or more different rooms. I have been to private clubs in London, Hong Kong, and Lagos that make Plato's retreat look like a baby sitting cooperative. I have been to the weddings of porno kings and super bowl victory celebrations. But I have never seen anything like the passion play that was going on in that house, have never experienced a sexual circus that was so absolutely without inhibition.

All in all, it looked like something hieronymus Bosch might have drawn on commission for playboy magazine.

As I continued to try to adjust my unbelieving brain to receive and process the messages my eyes were sending it, I found that my body was responding unbidden. Unmistakable and undeniable little flutterings were beginning to bounce about in my belly, and I felt a twitching between my legs as my pussy began to dilate of its own accord. Instinctively my one hand began to climb up my rib cage, up and up until it rested enticingly on the hill of my breast, while my other hand went under my skirt and up my leg toward my already pulsating vagina.

At the same time I felt a hand on my ass, gently rubbing and kneading the creamy flesh of my buttocks. Under other circumstances I would have responded immediately -- one way or the other -- but in this setting it seemed so entirely natural and even innocent that I didn't even turn around to see who it was. Besides, I was too busy staring at the mass of humanity in front of me, sorting out sexual details as my brain began to distinguish one incredible coupling from another.

I was particularly intrigued by a tiny, perfectly proportioned and well muscled little man who I latter discovered to be one of the countries most successful jockeys, a two time winner of the Kentucky derby. He had two women lying face down on top of one another, and he was screwing them alternating in perfect rhythm, withdrawing from one and then plunging his surprisingly hearty cock into the other -- in, out, in, out, in, out up and down and back and forth while both of them squealed their delight. I was tempted to tear off my clothes and add myself to this pile, but I thought first it would be a good idea to find out what happened to Katy.

I needn't have worried. With one scan of the room I found her, already gloriously naked and on her knees, that luscious tongue of hers snaking into the creamy pussy of a woman with a diamond in her nose and a pair of lacy little tattoos around her nipples. The woman's face was vaguely familiar to me, and when she closed her eyes and threw her head back in delight at Katy's ministrations, I realized I had seen her in just that position, but with a sequined jump suit on and a microphone in front of her. It was Belinda jay, a jazz singer whose exquisite talent had made her a star in Europe while she remained virtually unknown in this country.

I was glad to see Katy well occupied, but at the same time I was curious as to what our host might be doing. I looked around until I saw snider standing near a grand piano with all his clothes still on, sucking contentedly at a pipe. I wondered for a moment if he ever actively participated in these sexual whirlwinds of his, or if he was simply the ultimate voyeur, getting his pleasure vicariously from the pleasure of others. Nor was my question answered when a slender, beautiful redhead came up to him, unzipped his pants and unceremoniously drew out his still limp pecker and stuffed it whole into her mouth. Amazingly, snider hardly moved a muscle, continuing to observe the goings on with that detached air of his, hardly taking notice as the redhead gulped and fondled him with her lush lips.

But I had no further time to indulge my curiosity vis-à-vis our host. Once again I felt that hand -- or perhaps a new one -- begin to massage the already trembling orbs of my buttocks. By this time I was well on the road to full arousal, my breasts heaving and my breath coming in ragged little gasps, and I could no longer ignore the insistent message of this anonymous touch on my eager behind. I turned around to find myself staring into the deep brown eyes of one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen -- a male model, probably, or perhaps a professional womanizer. His body was like a statue, a paragon of rippling perfection, and the smile on his face had the serenity of an angel's combined with the tantalizing sexual mischief of a servant of Beelzebub.

"Hello," I said, my breath nearly catching in my throat. "And who might this be touching me."

"Aw, shit," said the gorgeous piece of manhood. He turned on his heel and walked away.

I had inadvertently discovered one of the rules of Sniders little soirees. One was perfectly free to indulge oneself in whatever sexual activity that struck one's fancy; there was absolutely nothing verboten in the way of pleasure and satisfaction. But the one inviolable law if one was to indulge was never, never to ask anyone else's name. This form of discretion was actually quite sensible, as Snider's parties tended to attract the crème de la crème of the world's glamour elite, and of course each guest had a vested interest in his own anonymity. I only wished I had been told that rule explicitly. It would have both spared me considerable embarrassment and perhaps gained me the attentions of that lovely man.

The loss of my Adonis only served to arouse me that much further. Luckily, there were a number of people who were not about to let me wander about unattended. A friendly looking woman came up and smilingly (but silently) helped me unbutton my blouse (oh, the glorious freedom as my breasts were exposed to the warm air!), and someone else slipped my skirt and panties off from behind.

Thus liberated, I went off in search of a partner or two. I didn't have to look for long. Before I had gone three steps I felt a collection of hands reach up and grab me by the calves and ankles, and within a few seconds I had been pulled down onto the floor of warm humanity.

I got into the spirit of things instantly, twisting and writhering in that wonderful mountain of flesh, my hands reaching out to grope and finger and explore as other hands rubbed and prodded me everywhere at once. I felt breasts press against my tummy, muscular thighs rub up and down the sides of my rib cage, hardened cocks poke at the little doorway to my anus. For once in my life I could have tolerated what has always seemed to me the cruelest handicap, blindness. For in this sensual feast, this chorale of pure sensation, the one thing I could have done without for a few moments were my eyes.

I continued to swim happily about in this ocean of flesh, my aching pussy growing more and more demanding as the juices of my excitement continued to flow. To understand how thoroughly I was aroused, imagine your favorite lover, your most skilled paramour not only multiplied by ten, but a hermaphrodite as well, with the sexual equipment of both genders caressing your entire body, lodging in all the secret places of your desire at one and the same time. Imagine having one hand on a perfect, lush breast, another pumping up and down a hardened shaft of male love flesh, while your lips alternately caress a warm, creamy pussy, and the sensitive skin of a pebbled scrotum. Imagine the mingled fluids, the sweat and the juice and the drops of semen smeared all about your body so that you slide over the moving flesh like a seal on a wet rock. Imagine all that, and you'll begin to understand why this marvelous party of Snider's had me fairly dizzy with delight.

Finally my urgency overcame me. My vagina was dilated to the utmost, and my belly was heaving and throbbing with the strength of my desire. I had two orgasms in quick succession before I could reach out, grab the nearest and hardest cock, and plunge it to the hilt into my over wrought pussy. I had another orgasm as the unknown cock entered me, and still another as I felt soMeone's groin make contact with the pulsating knob of my clitoris.

Soon I cried out in disappointment as I felt that wonderful prick withdraw from me, leaving me empty and still moaning out my need into the sunlit room. But I was not left long in that condition, as soMeone rolled me over and I felt another, even plumper cock penetrate me from behind, reaming out the softened walls of my vagina as it plunged in and out. In a moment I was up on my hands and knees, bucking back and forth on that wonderful rod while soMeone else knelt down in front of me and offered me his sleek prick, which I gathered hungrily into the warm cavern of my mouth.

By now I was quite beside myself. I wanted every hole plugged, every cavity filled. I wanted to feel warm flesh all over me, feel myself being flooded, inundated until I dissolved in a stream of fiery orgasms. My pussy was firing now like a machine gun, little bullet like climaxes that grew stronger and stronger until they melded into one gigantic, cosmic orgasm that left me drained, limp, and satisfied -- a grinning, mindless heap on Snider's floor.

I don't know if I fainted or merely fell asleep, because the next thing I remember was hearing Snider's cheerful baritone saying, "all right, everybody -- game time."

I had no idea what he ment, of course, but given the uproarious time everyone had had up till then, I could only suppose that this ' game time ' was some sort of traditional grand finale to the party. We all picked ourselves off the floor, a forest of glistening naked bodies, and stood there grinning at each other like children at a birthday party while snider rounded up those guests who were still outside. I happened to catch a glimpse of Katy, who was holding hands with Belinda jay while the singer idly massaged the agent's breast. We winked at one another, and then turned our attentions back to snider, who had just returned to the room.