Peter hated the California oil business but he invested where the money was. He didn't mind oil per se but rigs uglified the community and he felt slightly guilty cashing in on something so environmentally unfriendly. His focus was investments and he was rarely in the field like this but a deal needed to be negotiated and so here he was looking at some truly ugly, but very valuable real estate
The unsightly oil derrick was camouflaged as a lighthouse and the area adjacent to the Venice Pavilion was landscaped but no amount of dressing up could hide the monstrosity pumping into Mother Earth. Peter looked out of place, standing in the mud with dirt streaking his Italian loafers; his clothes were casual but expensive, neat kakis with an elegant black leather belt and a navy blue blazer over a crisp white shirt. He glanced around at the filthy surroundings and scowled; he rarely scowled and he rarely lost his patience but now if he bothered to wear a watch he would be checking it. "Where's Hornby?" His voice was calm and quiet but carried enough authority to make the other man nervous.
The other man had a watch and he looked at it reluctantly. "I guess he's, um, late."
"I know he's late; I flew in from Chicago and I managed to be on time. He had to drive in from Santa Monica."
"The car has a radio; I can check with the office."
Peter's silence was command enough to make the other man stomp back to the car. While waiting Peter stared at the derricks pumping in and out of the ground. He was wasting his time here but he had already decided to check out a particular club in Santa Monica anyway so all was not lost. Peter's business was investments but his pleasure was scouting for new playmates. For almost six years he had been leading prospective models to the Playboy Mansion and arranging for their test shoots. He had excellent taste and almost every girl he found made her way into the pages of Playboy and all of them shared the pleasure of his bed. It was a pleasant hobby.
He was reviewing some of his favorite playmates so he was smiling when the other man came back. "Hornby wants us to go out to the office in Santa Monica." His feet were sinking in the mud.
Peter scowled yet again; at least he would be closer to the club. "I'll follow you," he said crisply and even more crisply headed for his car.
Things back at the office turned out worse for Peter; Hornby was there but waiting for them in the parking lot. As Peter climbed out of his car Hornby was bounding toward him with a hand out and an insurance salesman smile. Peter's instincts were to drive away but Hornby was the linchpin to a multi-million dollar deal.
"Hey man, glad you could make it." Hornby's head was moving like a bobble doll. "Look, there's a change in plan. I gotta go see someone and you should come along."
Hornby's enthusiasm could not be dampened. "My girlfriend. She's in a dance recital." He gestured toward his own car. "We'll take my Caddie."
Peter hesitated. He had been warned about Hornby's evasive negotiating methods; they must be closer to a deal than he thought so he had to stick close. But a dance recital? He glanced over at Hornby's fire engine red Cadillac, then back at his own subdued Mercedes. "I'll follow in my car," he said flatly. He needed some time to organize his thoughts.
Hornby nodded, "Yeah, fine. Hey, you're that Playboy guy too, right? Maybe there'll be a new playmate in the show; but keep your hands off my Sarah." He guffawed at his own wit.
Peter nodded grimly and started his engine.
The recital was in the Santa Monica Playhouse, a small theater near the ocean and off of Wilshire Boulevard. They were late but Hornby obviously had some pull so they were seated immediately while a group of middle school students stumbled through a ballet routine. Peter averted his eyes from the stage and began to assess how important a multi-million dollar deal could be.
The curtain came down and he leaned over in hopes of getting in at least one sentence of business but Hornby was already bobbling in enthusiasm. He waved the program under Peter's nose. "Sarah's next," he gloated. "You won't be able to keep your eyes off her, but not for Playboy, right?" He yucked and snorted at his own wit as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.
Ten girls were on stage all dressed the same: white blouses tied coquettishly tight just above the navel and open to reveal the moist cleavage of ten pairs of nubile fresh breasts and the ten girls wore the kind of black tights that seemed not quite sheer but so form fitting that they appeared painted on. The girls leaned on walking sticks and had straw skimmers on their heads and broad smiles. They grinned at the welcoming applause.
Hornby nudged Peter and gestured toward a girl in the center of the line but Peter's attention was immediately drawn to a girl on the end. She had a youthful and vivacious aura that was irresistible. Her long brown hair shimmered in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. As she leaned forward the deep velvety flesh between her breasts radiated with inviting soft warmth. All the girls smiled broadly but this girl's smile was lively and fresh and friendly but also playful and seductive, the sort of guileless seductiveness of an innocent and precocious nymphet. All the girls were curvaceously buxom but this girl's body was voluptuous and supple and sexy but also quivering with energy, an energy and excitement yearning for release and there was only one way to release it. Even over the footlights her youthful eyes signaled that she was ready for release, eager for it: her eyes sparkled as if saying "You're going to love balling me." Peter was smitten and already making plans.
The dance was full of jazz hands and high kicks; the girls were competent enough but the crowd was appreciative beyond measure. Hornby kept elbowing Peter and gesturing toward his girlfriend, who if Peter bothered to notice was one of the better dancers on stage. But Peter's eyes followed the voluptuous young beauty as she strutted and vamped in the background.
The finale came with the girlfriend doing a solo with the other girls lined up behind her; they had their backs to the audiece and they leaned on their canes with their legs straight and their feet arched, thrusting their hips and rears high into the air. They rocked their bottoms from side to side in crisp snaps in time to the music, like metronomes. The super tight leotards shook seductively and invitingly; Peter realized that his jaw had dropped in amazement. That girl's ass was better than perfect. The girls turned around in a sexy spin, arched their backs, thrusting their breasts into the air and waving their skimmers as they kicked high into the air. Peter caught one more glimpse of the girl's incredible body before the curtain dropped.
Once more Hornby jabbed with his elbow and Peter suppressed the urge to break his arm. "Nice, huh, nice?" But then the curtain came up for the bows and when the young girl who had seduced him so easily bowed she bent so low that the full valley of her luscious cleavage was his to ogle. Peter clapped appreciatively.
"Come on," Hornby shouted over the applause. We'll pick up the girl's back stage." Peter shrugged and followed along; he planned to make a point of bumping into that delectable nymphet. But he was luckier than that; it turned out that Sarah had a girlfriend and that girl friend was the nubile young thing that had caught his eye. The two of them stood in the doorway of the dressing room while introductions were made.
Hornby: This is my little Sarah. Sarah, this is the guy I was telling you about, Peter.
Sarah: Omigod! You're the one who finds all those playmates. I'd love to be in Playboy.
Hornby: Sarah, forget about it.
The other girl stood quietly, an ironic smile on her face; she had seen Sarah and her sugar daddy in action before. Peter approached her, hand held out his hand, saying softly, "I'm Peter and I was quite impressed with your dancing tonight."
The girl rolled her eyes, brushing off the compliment. "It was OK." She took his hand and Peter noted that hers was warm and moist and she held his tightly and she held it for quite a long time. "I'm Sandra Johnson; everybody calls me Sandy."
"Well, Sandy, I'd like to invite you and Sarah out for a drink by way of saying thank you for a lovely performance."
She was still holding his hand and still wearing that sly smile; she looked mighty cute in that straw skimmer. "It will take us hours to get changed; the dressing room is packed with girls getting ready for their numbers."
Peter pulled her forward and towards the door. "You know what, you two look fine just the way you are. I noticed a café next door. Just one drink." He led her out and Hornby and Sarah, still bickering followed behind them.
The café was packed but instinctively the waiters rushed to arrange a table for Peter and his company. The two girls still in their sexy outfits attracted plenty of attention, especially Sandy whose lively smile lit up the room. After a while the waiter returned. "We've found seats but it will be awfully crowded," he apologized.
"I'm sure it will be fine," Peter reassured him; a large bill passed from his hand to the waiter's. "Please have someone take our order right away."
Sandy, who missed nothing, including the firm grip he kept around her waist, noted the quiet commanding presence of the man and gave him a careful perusing look. He was easily ten or fifteen years older she decided, maybe old enough to be her father, but he was mighty attractive, even virile and powerful. Her waist was bare and his hand felt warm and strong over her belly, even comforting. She wasn't sure why she did it but she twisted in his arms to face him and without warning, stood on tip toe and kissed him, a demonstrative and eager kiss, open mouthed and daring, but playful and innocent too. Her mouth was fresh and delicious in its moist warm freshness and Peter held her close, enjoying the squeeze of her big ripe breasts against his chest. His hand slipped down over her rear, the nylon tights electric under his touch; her ass was juicy and round, better than perfect he resolved once again.
The kiss lingered long and loving and in the kiss Peter promised to take her, to possess her absolutely and Sandy knew she would surrender to him willingly. She didn't want a drink; she wanted him to take her home and tear off her clothes and love her from top to bottom, to make her a woman. All too soon though, the waiter returned to escort them to their table.
They had a booth that would have been small for just two people. Hornby and Sarah, ignoring everybody else were still bickering; it seemed that Sarah really, really wanted to be a playmate. Peter was ignoring her though. The arguing couple pushed past him and, sitting across from each other, flopped into the booth. Sarah was thin enough for her side but Hornby's overweight body took over the entire seat so the booth only had room for one more person. Peter shrugged and sat, pulling the buxom Sandy into his lap. Life was good.
Sandy snuggled down and her plump ass wriggled over his lap and caused sparks between them. She put her hands on his face and gave him another probing and hungry kiss. A promise of the sweeter treats she would surrender to him soon. The waiter coughed for attention. "May I take your order?" he asked, avoiding looking directly at the sexy Sandy.
The attention that Peter was giving Sandy was not lost on Sarah and she was almost a cliché of cartoon fury. Before anybody could order drinks she piped up in an unctuous voice. "Don't forget, Sandy, all you can have is a coke."
Peter's spine visibly stiffened. He looked at the young girl in his lap and her blush told him everything he needed to know. He made some rapid calculations in his head and concluded that maybe this oil deal wasn't meant to be. He wanted to get out of here now. He slid out from under Sandy, depositing her into the booth as he stood. She looked forlornly at the table as he tossed a couple of bills down. "Listen, I have to take care of some things, so I need to go. Have a drink on me please." He bowed slightly. "Good night ladies." Hornby's blustering objections were spoke to Peter's back as he strode out the door.
Mortified, Sandy rose herself and slowly returned to the theater for her clothes.
Until she had met Peter Sandy had not given much thought to Playboy but now she was really curious about all the fuss. She finally got the courage to peek at an issue at a newsstand. Even the cover was provocative; the cartoon rabbit figure looking suave and seductive and pictures of naked ladies in frames around him, beautiful naked ladies. The kind of women Peter must like, the young girl decided. Inside the centerfold was almost frightening in its glamour.
The stately woman in the photograph gazed out at Sandy, daring her to disapprove. Marilyn Cole was brazen in her nakedness, reveling in the glory of complete nudity and complete freedom. She was naked and vulnerable but completely in control. This was an utterly natural woman - all of her. There was nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that needed to hidden.
Sandy thought of Peter again, remembering the taste of him; she recalled his power, the way he controlled the universe around him. His world was glamorous like the woman in the photograph, this is what he liked so this is what Sandy wanted to be. She remembered his hands cupping her ass and her body tingled as if he were still touching her. She wanted him to touch her again, to touch her everywhere. She wanted to be a playmate, not for other men, but to please Peter. If he would only see her again, then she wouldn't need to pose for other men. She closed her eyes and remembered Peter's hands on her rear and she wondered what it would be like to feel his hands on her bare bottom. She swooned and, in her reverie, dropped the magazine.
A few weeks later Peter got a letter forwarded to him by his secretary back in New York; Peter was in Paris and not planning to return for at least a month but the message pleased him: "Dear Peter, I don't know if you remember me but I hope this picture reminds you of me. You were so nice at our dance recital and after. I think of you a lot (in her little girl hand she had underlined 'a lot' three times and drew little hearts around 'you' making Peter smile at her girlishness) and I wonder if you think of me. What I want you to know is that my birthday is on July seventh and I will be all grown up and ready if you know what I mean (with the phrase 'if you know what I mean' underlined in three different colors of ink.) I would love to celebrate my birthday with you" (more hearts.) The closing featured a dozen x and o characters alternating in an orgy of hugs and kisses and the signature was ornate with decorative curlicues. But the girl could not end without a postscript: "Is it true that you are the man who takes the pictures for Playboy? I saw Miss January and she made me jealous that she could be with you."
The letter made him smile and he briefly wondered how she managed his address in New York. He looked at the picture, first admiring the yearning in the eyes of the pretty young thing, then her playful smile. Her back was to the camera and her back was bare and even in black and white her skin glowed with vivacious warmth. She wore the delightful tights and if possible they revealed even more now, as though the almost sheer fabric was merely an idea more than a covering. Every delicious curve of her ass was offered up to him. She bent forward on the cane, lifting herself on her toes so her bottom was high and tight. The skimmer tilted jauntily on her head.
He gazed at her photograph for a long time and only the waiter standing over his shoulder broke his reverie. Peter could tell that he had been studying the picture too. He held it up to him. "She's very nice, isn't she?" Peter said in flawless French.
"Indeed," the waiter agreed. "You are a lucky man."
"Indeed I am." Peter slipped the letter and photograph back in the envelope and in his head began composing a telegram to his secretary back in the states. "Paris business going well. Will stop NYC before LA. Book suite at Hotel Shangri-La Santa Monica. Entire month July." He was interrupted by his date returning to the table. Peter discretely pocketed the envelope as Miss January sat down.
"Good news from home?" Marilyn Cole's brows arched in curiosity. "I could see you from across the street." She gestured toward the window of the store where she'd been shopping. "I thought you were going to devour that photograph."
"Actually it was about you," he smiled, "Seems you have a fan."
"Ooooh, " Marilyn cooed voraciously, "Let me see."
"Later, right now I feel inspired. I want to take you back to our room." He rose and tossed some bills on the table.
Marilyn practically leapt out of her seat and grabbed his arm and hustled him back to the Ritz. She knew that when Peter felt inspired that she would be enjoying a sensational time in bed. "Well," she purred, "Let's see just how inspired you can be."
Continued in the next chapter