Author's Note: This story is an original work of fiction. Future stories starring some or all of these characters might also be forthcoming based upon response and demand. Certain characters featured herein may also be found in other works by the authors. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in my profile. Thank you for reading.
Copyright 2009 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.
This story stars: Amberly Faye and Parker Wellington.
This story contains: a teenager, a celebutante, a decent amount of story before the sex, male-female erotic coupling, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal and analingus, showering, mild voyeurism, and a girl with big dreams.
This story begins post-prologue on Tuesday, September 20th.
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The bus driver knew what was happening even before the girl opened her mouth. When you drive long-distance routes for Greyhound Lines, you learn enough about the types of people traveling to know just where they are going and what they are doing without even having to ask, and this girl was no different.
She was gorgeous, yes, that much was true: auburn hair that flowed from her head in soft rolling ringlets; light, bright, expressive brown eyes; sun-touched skin; and a fresh, wholesome face. She wore a wide smile that boasted pearly white teeth and was dressed in a conservative beige sun dress and pink sweater that hinted at an exemplary figure beneath. She was, it seemed, the proto-typical high school homecoming queen in the southern state of Tennessee: beauty, temptation, and innocence rolled into one tight little package.
Which meant only one thing: she was leaving her home and the life she knew to make it big in the world at large because everyone in her poe-dunk town told her she was too gorgeous not to find success. And her smile and the eagerness in her eyes told the bus driver she truly believed she would succeed, that she was leaving and getting on the bus to make a name for herself, and that fame and fortune lay at the end of the line.
The girl floated up the steps of the bus and handed the driver her ticket, then turned and looked down at the rows of empty seats. Few people traveled out of Somerville, Tennessee, which only had about twenty-five hundred people, much less into it. She selected a spot close to the front. She carried only one faded brown suitcase, which she set next to her; she would, she knew, find everything she needed once she got to where she was going.
Which was one of only two things the bus driver did not know for sure: her ultimate destination, though likely the west coast, and her age, which based solely on her looks would put her anywhere from sixteen to twenty-five (it was so hard to tell for sure with pretty young girls).
"Where you headed, darlin'?" the bus driver asked. He was a fifty-five year-old man with white hair and a kindly face. He loved driving busses because it gave him the opportunity to talk with people on a regular basis, and usually not the kinds of folks who were arrogant or haughty.
The girl beamed. "California!" she said cheerfully.
The bus driver nodded: he had expected as much. "That's a long way from here, darlin'," he said with a whistle. "What's in California?"
"A new life," the girl said with a dreamy sigh.
"Good for you," the driver said with a kind outward smile.
Inwardly, however, he was shaking his head: it was exactly as he thought it would be. The girl had big dreams probably harbored all of her life. He would've bet his entire salary for a month that she had just graduated high school and subsequently bypassed college to make her dreams come true.
"If I may ask, sir," the girl asked pleasantly, "how long will it take to get there?"
"What part of California, darlin'?"
The girl blushed and lowered her eyes. "Hollywood," she answered in a shy voice.
Bingo!
The driver did not long dwell on the accuracy of his prediction. He calculated roughly in his head. "Two days," he told her, "maybe more. Several stops and transfers, too. It's not the easiest ride in the world. You might as well make yourself comfortable, eh?"
The girl nodded and smiled again. She was beautiful, the driver had to give her that. Many girls had climbed on-board his bus bound for the bright lights of Los Angeles and few were as attractive as this one. Maybe she actually did stand a chance.
"What's your name, girl?" he asked. "How old are you?"
"Amberly," she told him after a moment's hesitation. "Amberly Faye. I'm almost nineteen."
The driver considered the girl a moment longer: Amberly Faye, movie star? Then he frowned and shrugged and realized the girl did not have a chance in hell of hitting the big time, not with a name like that and not with what seemed to be such an innocent and accommodating attitude. The biggest city in southern California would eat her alive.
"Good luck to you, Amberly," was all he said, however, because who was he to tell her the big dreams she had would be dashed like an old wooden ship on sharp rocks? Who was he to tell her the world was a big bad dangerous place for innocent girls? Who was he to scare her like that at the start of her journey, before the bus had even left the station?
"Thank you, sir," she replied sweetly as she settled back into her chair.
And the driver closed the doors and revved the engine, and the bus pulled away from the station, taking with it Amberly Faye, widely and quite accurately considered the most beautiful and breathtaking jewel of Somerville, Tennessee.
Part One: Dreams Big as Lights
There are several restaurants in the Los Angeles area known for their popularity among the denizens of the crowd of the young, beautiful, rich, and famous, which is why Parker Wellington never frequented such places unless his date was the kind of girl who required such attention.
Parker himself was all of those things, yes, although his fame was derived not so much from any kind of excellent talent, but rather the fact that he was young and hip and handsome, and the heir to a real estate fortune of significant size.
He was an attractive young man with jet black hair that fell about his face, deep blue eyes and a well-formed physique (he took himself and his looks very seriously), and he counted among his expansive list of friends and acquaintances such other wealthy young socialites as Allegra Widmore, Paris Hilton, Cassidy Carter, Kim Kardashian, Brandon Jeffries, Stavros Niarchos and various other celebutantes, plus an assortment of actual celebrities of varying degrees of fame.
However, he was more inclined to stay out of the limelight unless it served his purpose; it often followed and found him, but he did not go out seeking to flaunt it as some of his other friends did. The paparazzi were aggressive enough, he felt, and he didn't need to help them any, which was also why candid pictures of him were worth more than the rest – and why he remained wrapped in a shrouded sort of mystique that suited him perfectly.
On this particular night of nights, a Tuesday night as it happened to be, Parker was dining with friends at a little restaurant in Santa Monica called the Apple Dish, a popular spot with the right kinds of people but not yet very well known as it had only been open a few months.
The Apple Dish was a few blocks from the bluffs overlooking the Pacific ocean and not located on a main thoroughfare, not to mention boasted a covered valet parking drop-off, which meant it was easy to enter discreetly if discretion was desired.
And on this particular night, Parker definitely desired discretion. The paparazzi had been hounding him relentlessly of late: his four-month relationship with Katya Ivanova, a twenty-four year-old lingerie model of rising renown, had ended more than six weeks earlier and the gossip rags were still going crazy over the story.
Katya was beautiful and famous and loved to fuck (everything Parker looked for) but she was also a cold Russian bitch who required immense maintenance, which in the world of Parker Wellington meant she had a limited shelf life: just enough time for him to enjoy every delight her luscious body had to offer, as well as further his own reputation, but short enough to leave her wondering why he dumped her, angry about the whole thing and yet still wanting more, almost like she had something to prove to him, which meant he would likely have the opportunity to fuck her again at some point.
But for now he was simply content to regain his status as a single male. He was back in the party saddle and on the prowl for new fresh meat. He did not, however, expect to find such meat at the Apple Dish; truly, he was just there to take in dinner with a couple of his oft-neglected friends.
Charles Horton and Burton Ogilvie were wealthy young guys with plenty of leisure time on their hands, although their families were not nearly as well-to-do as the Wellingtons, nor as famous. Thus, Parker was the undisputed leader of their little trio; the guys followed wherever he lead and generally acquiesced to his requests. It was a very fruitful relationship, he felt.
"Dude," said Charles, who despite his wealth and decent looks had a very difficult time tapping pretty young ass, due primarily to lacking confidence and inferior intellect, "how could you give up Katya? She was hot and she'd do any dirty thing you asked her to. She was fucking perfect!"
Parker rolled his eyes. "Perfect tits, yes," he agreed. "Perfect body, yes. But she had that trashy pissed-off Euro look to her and she acted like a total bitch to pretty much everyone in the world. I'm over it. Too much shit to deal with."
The third guy at the table sighed. "Four months," he said.
Burton was a really smart guy and a genuinely good and nice guy, too, which was very surprising for someone firmly fixed in the world of high wealth and social elitism (Parker often wondered why Burton hung around with him). He was not the most attractive guy, however, and his last name was Ogilvie, which women almost universally hated, so he also did not have the best track record with girlfriends. He was a good wingman when Parker wanted to score without effort, which meant Burton himself usually scored with the semi-attractive friend of the hot slut Parker bagged, so he did alright for himself in the sex department, at least.
"Four Month Rule," Parker said with a nod. "Fucking epitome."
Charles eyes widened momentarily. "Whoa," he breathed, "do you think she would go out with me? She was always nice to me when we all went out."
Parker shook his head. "Sorry, man," he replied. "I doubt it."
"She'll probably fuck some hip emo-musician or someone like that," Burton said. "Someone who's not as famous as Parker, but who still has some status and buzz."
Parker nodded. "Artistic rebound," he agreed.
Charles looked disappointed. "I need to get laid!" he whispered vehemently. "It's been over three fucking months!"
Despite his lack of skills in the female department, that little fact was surprising. Three months was an eternity and it was not like Charles did not have money. He could've bagged almost any hot money-grubber slut he wanted. While Parker was selfish in the extreme, he was enough of a friend to want to see his boy get some ass.
