Angela Dorian

Angela Dorian

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Angela Dorian, Miss September 1967 and Playmate of the Year 1968, Hollywood starlet and fodder for the tabloids.


Angela Dorian, Miss September 1967 and Playmate of the Year 1968, Hollywood starlet and fodder for the tabloids.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Angela Dorian

Author Chapter Note

Angela Dorian, Miss September 1967 and Playmate of the Year 1968, Hollywood starlet and fodder for the tabloids.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 30, 2013

Reads: 823

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 30, 2013




Angela Dorian looked her agent straight in the eye. “No,” she said coldly.


“Vicky, baby, be reasonable…”


“It’s Angela. You’re my agent,” she said with her voice dripping icicles now, “I’m using Angela when you’re representing me-- Angela Dorian.”


“Yeah, that the beauty part, you see, um Angela. You pose under the name Angela and if it doesn’t work out, you still got your career under your real name.”


“’Victoria Vetri’ is off limits for you.” Her voice was withering and firm. “We are not discussing it.”  Angela leaned back in the office chair and crossed her legs, exposing a flash of inner thigh. The chair went sqreeeee; she rocked back and forth a little, sqree, sqree, sqree went the chair.


“OK, OK,” he said, holding up both hands in surrender, “No Vicky, no Victoria, it’s Angela Dorian all the way. But please, take a look at this offer from Playboy. They’re a classy outfit.”


“No nudity, I’m not posing nude.” She leaned forward slightly in the chair--sqreeeee-- and as she shifted her body her bag slipped from her lap. When she bent to pick it up the top of her blouse fell away from her collarbone. It was unbuttoned to her sternum. She glanced up and saw where his eyes had strayed and her face showed that she did not enjoy his peeking. Caught with his eyes deep in the cookie jar, his gaze leaped up so quickly that he barely had time to register a white lace bra, a breast-- evenly tanned to a golden brown, large and plush and straining against the bra-- and a cappuccino aureole peeking out from under the lace like the muted disc of the sun in the LA smog.


She was still speaking but he had forgotten to listen. He was thinking about that breast. He had been hooked from the day she walked into an open audition, silently leaving a resume and head shot on the production assistant’s desk and sweeping out to the hall to wait to be called. Every eye in the room--straight, gay, and lesbian alike-- followed her out the door. The director and producer quickly agreed that she would get the part and he just as quickly signed her to his agency.


As he conjured up memories of the various sexy outfits she had worn in the many times she’d been to his office, Angela aka Victoria continued to babble about her career and he wished that she wouldn’t talk. He remembered a pink blouse so tight that her nipples poked out and wondered when she would wear it again. He stared at her now, watching her mouth move and not hearing anything until the metal screech of the chair got to him. She rocked in the chair- sqree- sqree- sqree- “…and I’m a serious actress now. I won’t do nudity,” she said again firmly. “It would not be good for my career.”


He leaned back in his own chair and controlled the urge to roll his eyes. Career, Jesus, all these starlets were the same. So far, Angela’s ‘career’ was a bunch of bit parts on TV. Because of her exotic looks she played either a Mexican spitfire, an Italian spitfire, or when she was stretching herself, an Indian  spitfire. Everybody in Hollywood remembered how she had turned down the chance to play the nymphet in ‘Lolita’ and that picture could have made her a star. Now she sat across from him fuming that she was ‘an actress’ with a capital A and he couldn’t even get her into a B picture. He shuffled papers on his desk and decided on a different tack.

“OK, you think it’s gonna be poison for your career to pose, but let me show you something.  Stella Steven, right.  She’s done an arty flick with that guy, whatshisname, Cassanova….”


“Cassavetes.”  Her voice was still an iceberg but she was listening anyway.


“Yeah, him. Stella gets great reviews. Does an Elvis picture.  AND right now, as we speak, at this very moment she is on the MGM lot shooting with Dean Martin and Cyd whatshername.”


“That movie is filming at Desilu Studios.” Growing up in LA Angela knew the industry inside out.


“Yeah, but it’s for MGM, right? Class all the way.”


“Columbia is producing ‘The Silencers’ and that’s beside the point; I’m not shooting with Dean Martin or Cyd Charisse or even Stella Stevens; you haven’t gotten me any film work of that caliber.” Her voice oozed condescension and distain. “So where is this conversation going?”


“That’s right, you’re not shooting with them,” he said nodding affably. “And Stella is. And guess what, she was Miss January 1960. Stripping down for Playboy only helped that girl shoot right to the top.”


Angela shrugged her shoulders but the agent could see a gleam of interest in her eyes.


He liked where this was going now and he pressed on. “Think about this. Barbara Parkins, on ‘Peyton Place’ right? She does a nude spread and now she’s signed for ‘Valley of the Dolls’ see. That’s gonna be big. Sharon Tate too; shows some nipple, gets a big contract.”


Angela leaned forward and he decided to reel in his fish. He pushed an envelope across the desk. She glanced down without touching it. “What’s this?” Her eye brows arched skeptically.


“Only a first class airline ticket --open ended I might add-- to Chicago.”


Angela’s perfectly manicured nail tapped the envelope gently; she was still reluctant to pick it up. “What’s in Chicago?”


As if she didn’t know; he smiled to himself, feeling like a fisherman with a prize catch. He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in victory. “Only Hugh Hefner, the publisher and editor of Playboy Magazine.”




“And he called me himself, a very busy man, what with the top magazine in the country, a big TV show himself, movie deals…” He knew he was stretching things slightly but the line was tight and the hook in deep so he could confidently play her until she finally caught. “Busy man, big in the industry, knows everybody who counts. And he calls me about a little girl named Angela Dorian.”


“Me?” she gulped, her hand spreading flat over the envelope. She leaned into him, giving him a nice view of her deeply tanned breasts pressing against her lily white bra.


“Who else? He saw you in that thing,” he was talking fast and searching papers on his desk, looking for her resume, “Yeah, that thing, you know, here it is.” He held up the paper proudly.  “That spy show ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’ and he thought you had possibilities.”


Angela’s eyes were becoming dreamy. “I do think I added an extra dimension to that character…” Her thoughts drifted as she began to picture herself accepting an Oscar.


The agent smiled and considered the extra dimension she had added. The tight costume stretching over her large round breasts made the TV screen look three dimensional. “He thinks you have real potential.”


“You know I was voted Look magazine’s most promising and…scintillating… young television actress…” The emphasis she put on the word ‘scintillating’ made each syllable sound like the promise of an incredible romp in bed. “I was getting a lot of attention.”


Yeah, in 1961, he smirked, and recollected that the word on the street was she also gave the best blowjob to the editors of the Look too. “He thinks you have real potential,” he repeated; he noticed her hands closing over the ticket and his smiled at her reassuringly. “He said it twice, called me himself, the very next day. Real potential he said.”


“Did he really?” She was all business now as she slipped the ticket into her bag; she had places to go. “You know, Ernie,” she said calmly, “Posing for Playboy could be very good for my career.” Scree croaked the chair one last time as she rose from the seat and her voluptuously tight body reconfigured itself into another dazzling display of curves and flesh. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully now, “very, very good.”


Ernie nodded; he was a great fisherman.

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