Cassandras Plan Ch 04

Lauren Oxley / October 13, 1980, 8:17 p.m.

"Hi. I'm Marge."

"I'm Lauren."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

I don't even know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.

Marge is a flaming redhead with big hair. In fact, a lot of her parts are pretty big, although she's not fat by any means. She seems a good bit older than me—maybe late thirties—but it's so hard to tell with people in this industry.

I look over to Weaver and say: "Shall we start? I don't want to stay too late."

He looks up from his clipboard and gives me a sharp glance before his face returns to utter blandness. "Yeah, sure. Get undressed. And put these on."

He hands me a pair of fishnet stockings and a garter belt. Marge, who's already practically undressed, is supposed to wear the same kind of corset—maybe the very same corset—I had on last time: one that pushes up her breasts and leaves her pussy uncovered.

I take my clothes off and put the other stuff on. I apply some K-Y jelly, then hand it to Marge. She shakes her head: "I don't need it, doll."

I look at her for a moment, then shrug.

God only knows why straight men get turned on by two pretty women getting it on. What can there be in it for them? Just voyeurism, I suppose. Two beauties for the price of one, even if it's just to watch. No doubt they dream of joining in.

The first setup seems to me pretty bizarre, but I guess Weaver knows his business. While Marge lies on some cushions with her legs splayed, I have to take one of my breasts in my hand and rub her crotch with it. I don't see any way of doing this except by placing my head under one bent knee, and even then it's not a very good fit. But I somehow manage to start rubbing my nipple against her clit. The camera clicks. I've hardly even noticed the photographer standing there. He's just a prop.

After a while Marge starts to moan. She's getting wet, too. This isn't any jelly, any oil. It's just her.

Now I get into a somewhat more orthodox position. I lie flat on my back while Marge squats over my face. The photographer seems to get directly behind Marge's asshole to take the shot. My tongue is working on her pussy, and she's actually dripping—dripping all over my chin and nose. It's clear liquid, but I suspect the photograph can pick up the shiny wetness on my face.

All of a sudden the photographer jumps up. "Fuck!" There's something wrong with his camera. "The goddamn film's jammed." While he's trying to fix his machine without ruining the pictures he's already taken, I find myself frozen in my position, my tongue pasted to Marge's crotch. Am I supposed to stay this way, like some pornographic Canova sculpture, while the guy gets his camera working, or is there going to be a break in the action? Marge's moans tell me she wants me to continue, but I don't give her the pleasure. I put my tongue back in my mouth.

The photographer picks up another camera; says he can probably salvage the earlier pictures, so at least we don't have to do that ridiculous pose again.

Marge then licks my pussy with gusto, although I don't seem to get very wet. She sticks a finger or two in my vagina every so often, something I find rather irritating although I don't suppose I can tell her that. Weaver would probably chew my head off anyway. Marge turns me over so that I'm lying on my stomach; I don't recall this as part of the sequence of shoots, but am too bored and tired to resist. At one point she forces my cheeks as wide apart as possible with her hands and fixes her tongue to my asshole, freezing so that the camera can take a good shot.

Now Weaver gives us an object about two feet long—a two-headed dildo. Circumcised rubber penis at either end. It's jet black, maybe to give our prospective viewers the titillation of fantasizing about interracial sex. But with just two women and a long dildo, that seems beyond my powers of imagination.

We stick each end of the dildo into ourselves, our knees bent and legs somewhat intertwined, our hands stretched back to support ourselves. We are in an exactly symmetrical position, like obscene bookends. Marge has stuck the dildo in a lot farther than I have.

Some sort of climax is approaching. Marge is working the dildo furiously into herself; every time she thrusts it in it comes out of me a bit, and every time she pulls it out it makes its way rather painfully into me. All of a sudden she pulls it out of both of us—it makes a weird sucking noise—and nods rather frantically to Weaver. He shouts "Now!" and I do what I've been told to do. I fling myself face down toward her crotch and lick her clit, making sure that I'm over to one side so that the photographer—whose camera is now about two inches from my nose—can have a good view.

Marge starts crying out rhythmically. Then a long drawn-out groan, almost a scream. A thick white liquid begins oozing out of her cunt. I'm stunned; I've never seen such a thing. I have some wild notion that she's hemorrhaging, or having a fit of some kind. I'm frozen, transfixed by the white pool that's collecting on one of the cushions.

Weaver almost shrieks at me: "Keep licking, Lauren! Don't stop now!"

I continue as ordered. Finally Marge's pussy stops pumping out the ooze. She seems totally spent. So is the photographer—out of film.

As we get up to put our clothes on, Marge comes over to me. She has a kind of dreamy, goofy smile on her face. "You were good, kid."

I look at her in genuine admiration and say: "Nothing to you, babe."

She just chuckles.

"By the way," I add, quietly so that the others can't hear, "I'm not a lesbian, you know."

Marge looks me right in the face and says: "Neither am I. But it's fun anyway, isn't it?"

A little later Weaver takes me over to one side. He looks me up and down—not as if he's giving me the once-over, but (incredibly) to see if I'm all right. I'm okay.

"That was good, Lauren. You're getting better all the time." He pulls the usual envelope out of his pocket—it's fatter than the previous ones.

"Thanks." I'm thanking him for the money, not for the compliment—if that's what it is.

"You think you'll be ready for men next time?"

"Weaver, if I can do this, surely I can do anything."

"It's a lot different with men." He looks genuinely concerned. "Really different."

"I know that." I'm really tired now. I just want to go home.

"Okay. As long as you know."

Lauren Oxley / October 22, 1980, 9: 31 p.m.

Times Square Station. I know it so well now that I feel like a bored commuter. But this time I'm shaking—I'm so clumsy that I almost stab myself in the groin with the turnstyle. Wouldn't that be funny? Porno actress injured on the way to work. I wonder if I would get workmen's compensation.

Another dimly numbered door, another flight of steps up, a man sitting at the top of the stairs on a stool reading the Daily News. I'm about to tell him who I am when he nods with incredible boredom and waves me in to a door. Maybe he recognizes me from some of my pictures.

Weaver is inside, with two other men, a woman, and two-count 'em, two—photographers. I'm moving up in the world.

I nod a little nervously to Weaver. He actually forces a little smile that seems somehow embarrassed. None of the others takes the least interest in me.

Weaver introduces me. The two men are Jim and John, the woman is Francine. I have some faint hope of trying to make friends with her, but she is less interested in me than the men are. Jealous? She must be well into her thirties, she looks so tired and bored.

We go over the planned shots. I'm getting more and more nervous as we do so. Weaver tells everyone to take their clothes off, but before I can do so he pulls me over.

"Lauren, you really ready for this? You can still back out if you want to."

I stare at him in confusion. "How? I signed the contract . . ."

"You signed it with me. No one else is involved. I can just tear it up." He pauses and looks at me, almost benevolently. "You look a little nervous. Are you absolutely sure?"

I look back at him, wondering what's really going through his mind. I breathe heavily and say, "Yes, I'm sure. I—I need the money."

He shrugs, still a little uncomfortable. "Okay. Then let's go."

We're naked. I get down on my knees in my usual position and take Jim's (or is it John's?) cock in my hand. One photographer squats next to me, pointing his camera directly at the guy's member. The other photographer stands as close behind me as he can without touching me; in fact, he spreads his legs so that he can get directly over me. The camera must be aimed right at the top of my head.

I put Jim's cock in my mouth.

It smells awful and doesn't taste very good either. I close my eyes so that I don't have to see what I'm doing. It gets hard pretty fast, which is a relief. Weaver tells me to lick the tip with my tongue. I do it. He tells me to take one of Jim's balls in my mouth and hold it there while the camera clicks. I do that.

I wonder crazily what would happen if I were to bite down hard. Would I get slapped around? Would they kill me? Or just kick me out without giving me my money?

Next shoot. Francine has hardened John's cock by this time. Neither she nor I are wet, but there's always K-Y jelly to the rescue. This time, lo and behold, I'm actually on top. Jim lies on the floor and I slowly place his cock in my pussy. It doesn't go. I feel pain. I'm too tight.

"Weaver, I can't do this right now. I can't." I think I'm about to cry. I get no sympathy from the others, who are all looking at me as if I'm either crazy or stupid.

Weaver says, "Okay. Okay. Jim, try to loosen her up, will you?"

I lie on my back on the floor and spread my legs. Jim lies down on his stomach, his face over my pussy. He begins licking me.

His tongue feels like sandpaper. Like a cat's. I close my eyes again. Maybe people will think I'm sighing in ecstasy. I wrap my legs around Jim's head-for a moment I want to asphyxiate him with my thighs—but Weaver says I have to keep my legs spread. Gotta have good camera shots of my cunt, I suppose.

My heart's beating faster. I actually start feeling a little wet. On Weaver's instructions, Jim sticks first one finger, then two fingers into my vagina while continuing to lick me. He moves them in and out. They're getting very wet. I'm opening up.

Weaver: "Okay. Go in her."

Jim climbs up on top of me. He keeps his arms stiff on either side of me while guiding his cock in. It's like he's going to do pushups over me. He's not even looking at my face, he's looking at his cock.

One photographer is behind my head. The other is at my feet, squatting down. He tells Jim to spread his legs a bit for a better view. As Jim does so, my legs spread even wider until I think I'm going to strain a groin muscle or a hamstring.

It's all so weird. Jim pumps me for a while, then stops to let the camera click. I guess it has a slow shutter speed. Wouldn't want to get a fuzzy image, not after all this hard work. At one point the photographer at my feet puts his camera about two inches from my cock-engorged pussy and snaps. No zoom lens, I suppose.

Jim pulls out of me wetly. There can't be any breaks, because the men will get soft. Now John rubs some K-Y jelly on his cock, squats in front of me, and goes right in. Francine is somewhat awkwardly trying to lick his balls or his asshole or something. Jim kneels down next to my head and sticks his cock in my face. It smells of my pussy. I open my mouth and he stuffs it in.

Not a word is being said this whole time. I wonder if anyone is enjoying any of this. I don't hear any sighs or moans or grunts of pleasure. I hear nothing except the cameras clicking.

Now Jim pulls his cock out of my mouth and walks away, stroking himself so that he remains hard. His work isn't over. John is still inside me, pumping away but stopping every now and then for the camera. Francine gets up and walks over to my head. She squats over it.

I lick her pussy.

Or rather, I start doing so, stopping every so often with my tongue on her clit or her lips or even deep inside her vagina so that the camera can do its work. She's actually rather wet, and it's not just the jelly. She doesn't taste as good as I do.

Looking up from behind her bottom, I notice that she and John are kissing and he is fondling her breasts. I think for a moment that poor Jim must feel left out, but I've forgotten how Weaver the choreographer has arranged things. Jim comes over now. Francine and John stop kissing, and Francine instantly takes Jim's cock in her mouth. John is still in me. We all freeze for the camera.

We uncouple. I roll over on my hands and knees. John gets on his knees and goes back in me from behind, Jim squats down in front of me as I take his cock in my mouth, and Francine—quite an acrobat—arranges herself under me and flicks her tongue at Jim's balls.

Things are heating up. John is pumping me more and more furiously, making slapping sounds as his thighs hit my bottom. He doesn't seem to stop for the camera. I hear him grunting heavily. Weaver is just standing there, looking more at the photographers than at us.

Suddenly John comes out of me—so fast that I gasp at the vacancy in my cunt. Then he does something strange. He holds his hand tight around his cock, grimacing fiercely. I think I even hear his teeth gnashing. Meanwhile one photographer, who had been behind him, goes as fast as he can to one side of us, almost stumbling over my feet. Once he is in position, John releases his hand from his cock.

It spurts. I feel warm liquid all over my bottom. John is making rough growling noises, almost screaming. Both cameras are clicking furiously. I'm so distracted by what's happening that I take Jim's cock out of my mouth and try to look around.

Weaver shouts: "Don't stop, for Christ's sake! Keep at it!"

I stick Jim's cock back in my mouth, working on it almost maniacally. Although John retreats to a corner of the room, no one bothers to wipe me up, and I feel a trickle of moisture trailing down my thigh.

Now Jim is starting to moan and grunt. He looks up to Weaver and nods. There is a flurry of bodies changing position, as Jim stands up and faces Francine and me, both of whom are on our knees in front of him. Our mouths are open. Jim is pumping himself with his hand harder and harder.

My eyes are closed tight, so I'm not prepared for the hot, salty liquid that lands right on my tongue. More liquid falls on my chin, my nose, my forehead, even my hair. A few drops dribble off my chin and land on my breasts, as if I'm a messy little girl who can't eat properly.

Finally the flow of liquid stops. But my eyes are still shut fast. I'm afraid to open them. I start shaking all over. I have to swallow the liquid that went in my mouth; it's too far in for me to spit it out.

All of a sudden I cry out and get to my feet, knocking Jim's cock—which I now see is still in front of my face, dripping a little—out of the way. I glancingly notice that there's no liquid on Francine's face or body.

I run over to Weaver. God knows I must be desperate to hope for any sympathy from him. I start sobbing and shaking, burying my face in his shoulder and actually putting my arms around him. He seems stunned, but slowly places his arms around me and strokes my head, like a father comforting a young daughter who's skinned her knee. For a while he doesn't seem to know what to say, but finally he starts crooning softly, as if he's afraid to be overheard: "It's all right, babe. Take it easy. It's all right."

I don't seem to be able to stop shaking. It's like I have epilepsy. There's not a sound coming from anyone else in the room, although I seem to hear the photographers dismantling their cameras and putting them away. Someone has lit up a cigarette.

Finally Weaver gets impatient. He takes me by the shoulders and gives me a little shake. "Snap out of it, Lauren. It's over. You were fine. Just stop now and get dressed."

I look at him. He has a stern, irritated expression on his face, but somehow I also see a little sympathy. I wonder if he has a daughter.

He gives me a towel for me to wipe myself off. There's no shower in this place—it seems like an actual set, however primitive, not somebody's apartment. I walk over to where I had dumped my clothes. The others are almost fully dressed already. Francine says to me in the most exaggerated New York accent I've ever heard, "You were good, kid. You were good." The men say nothing to me; don't look at me.

Everyone leaves except Weaver and I. He looks at me with a kind of shy hesitancy. "Are you all right now?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." I'm so tired. I just want to go home.

Weaver seems about ready to say something more when I cut him off. "No, Weaver. I'm finished. No more. I don't want to do any more. It's over. Just give me my money and I won't bother you again."

He hands me a very fat envelope, which I stuff into my purse; I don't even want to look at it. He is still hanging around indecisively, as if he's trying to work up the gumption to say something to me. Finally he does.

"Lauren, you could be a real star in this field. You're fresh, sexy, hot. You're really good. I can get you a lot more money if you want to do some videos—"

""No, Weaver! I said no!" I feel I'm about to start shaking again, but manage to control myself.

He seems to realize it's no good pressing me. He hangs his head in disappointment, as if his favorite football team has just lost a big game. Then he looks me right in the eye and says: "If you change your mind, you know where to reach me."

I walk out without a word.

David Phillips / June 25, 1981, 8:27 p.m.

I don't think I've seen this many people under one roof in my life. Nor this many white ties and tails. Nor this much food, this much liquor, this much jewelry, this much everything.

Mike Sullivan walks over to me.

"Gee, this is some bash, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

He's holding a champagne glass in his hand. "Where's the wife? You can call her that now, can't you?" He digs me in the elbow.

I push him away, smiling. "God, I don't even know if I could find her in this mass of people."

"Sure you can," says Mike. "She's just the one with the huge white dress with the twenty-foot-long train." He scans the room. "Yeah, there she is," pointing almost to the opposite corner of the hall.

"Mm." I can't think of anything more to say.

He looks at me, smiling a little tentatively, then takes another swig of his drink.

"Looks like you're really set for life now, aren't you?" he says.

"Looks like it."

He peers at me curiously. "What gives? You never have to work a day in your life, unlike us hoi polloi. You can spend all your time writing. Isn't that what you want to do, man?"

"Sure it is. Sure it is."

There is another little uncomfortable silence.

I have to fill it up somehow. "Gee, Mike, it was really good of you to come out here for the wedding. Man, I need some familiar faces right now, aside from my parents." I look at them in a kind of protective anxiety, but they're sitting as quietly as they have through the whole ceremony. I hope other people don't think they're as dowdy as I think they look.

"Hey, man, it was easy. After all, you bought the ticket."

"I didn't buy the ticket," I say quietly.

"Well, you know what I mean," he blubbers. "Your wedding-party bought the ticket. Real nice of them."

"Yes, it was." It's probably the last time they'll ever buy a round-trip ticket from Indianapolis to New York.

Another silence. Now Mike takes it into his head to fill it up by saying:

"I don't see Lauren here."

I turn to him as if he's just said he's the grandson of Jack the Ripper. "Are you crazy, man? I have a little more tact than that."