Web could see her tightly puckered anus and the shining moistness from her cunt trickling down the deep crevice.
Web went behind his desk to the small console board, dimmed the lights, and punched a button. Still pictures suddenly appeared on the movie screen. They were shots of Nichole. She was wearing black boots that came to her knees, a flimsy black G-string, and a tight half-bra that only served to hold her big, fully rounded breasts erect; her nipples stuck out, free, taut, enticing. The G-string barely covered her sparse, pubic hair and completely exposed her nakedly white buttocks. The still pictures were in color and changed, with a 'click-click' automatically.
Nichole opened her eyes and looked up at the screen to see a montage of herself in various suggestive and obscene poses: a close-up of her with a huge glistening cock wedged between her tightly compressed breasts. Then she was on her knees in another picture with her legs spread wide apart showing a man crouched before her; his face was buried in her cuntal crevice. Another naked man knelt behind her and pressed his whitely massive cock against her young buttocks; he had reached around and cupped her breasts while she turned her head and had her little red tongue in his mouth. The pictures came one after another, quickly, seemingly endless with Nichole lewdly kneeling over a naked man, with Nichole sucking a cum-covered penis while being fucked dog fashion, with Nichole obscene and obedient, doing whatever Web wanted.
'Stop!'
The shamelessly aroused girl collapsed in the chair, her face twisted by the near orgasm that was writhing, smoky and aching, through every nerve in her young body. She lay, panting, her eyes closed.
After a moment she took a deep shuddering breath and opened her eyes to see the pictures were off the screen. Web was leaning against the desk again, his arms folded over his chest. He was tall and gray, in his middle forties and habitually wore all gray, like a trademark. Gray suit, shirt, tie. Even, sometimes, gray patent leather shoes. He was looking at her with a faint, ironic, grin on his thin lips. Nichole simply stared at him as she sprawled obscenely, her beautiful wetly firm breasts heaving, the vibrating mechanical penis buzzing forgotten in her hand.
'You know, Nichole, I'm getting bored with you.'
The words were spoken so quietly, almost casually, yet they struck terror in her heart. She looked at him showing her fear. What would he do with her? What would she do if he threw her out? Where would she go? Tears, real tears, welled like glistening slivers in her eyes. 'Why?' she asked, shaking her head. 'I try. I try to please you.'
Web became preoccupied with a mote or speck on the cuff of his expensive coat; he carefully picked it off with thumb and forefinger and let it drop into an ashtray on the desk. 'I know. I know. You'll do anything I ask, won't you?'
'Anything,' Nichole said the word carefully, feeling the lewd thrill that such an admittance gave her. She would, literally, do anything he wanted.
'That's the trouble,' he went on, going behind the desk and sitting down, joining the tips of his fingers together in front of him like a cathedral. 'That's the trouble. I know you'll do anything I want. There's no challenge left and I'm bored.' His forehead became wrinkled. 'I'm bored, Nichole.'
Still slumped obscenely in her chair, the young girl shook her head and bit her lip. 'But… I try!' was all she could think of saying.
Tapping his fingers, Web nodded, looking off. Nichole dreaded the next few minutes, dreaded hearing the words. She knew there had been other girls. Beautiful girls! She had seen then in movies that Web would run for her and his guests; beautiful girls who performed obscenities for Web just like she did. These girls she saw were no longer around, and Web would never say what had happened to them.
He had Nichole addicted in a subtle way. She was used to and keyed to a life of orgies and money. She was hooked on jetting to England for a week, then a ski weekend at Squaw Valley, then catching a new show opening on Broadway. She now needed the excitement of being near famous people and speaking with them. Once, she had met a famous comedian who liked her so much they had sex together. She was used to and, in a sense, needed the clothes and champagne that Web bought. He was more than generous, he was lavish in his style of living. So long as she had that, so long as she felt she was part of his entourage, she felt her life had some meaning. And excitement! 'Excitement' meant places, seeing people, being conscious that she was at the hub of things, that she was where the action was, that she was envied and photographed. 'Excitement' was something she had now come to need. Web Hardman being bored with her meant banishment. She would eventually have to get a job somewhere and read in the paper about the 'Jet Set' and their adventures. No, Nichole didn't want the terrible gray obscurity that would come if Web cast her off like an old unwanted item of clothing.
Web, with the timing of a master-actor, cleared his throat and said, 'Of course, there is something.'
'What?'
He concealed his smile. 'It might just work.'
Nichole slid out of the leather chair, kneeling on the floor, her dress sliding up over her nakedly exposed young loins. 'What, Web? I'll do it! You know that! I'll do anything you want me to do!'
Web cocked his head to one side. 'Would you betray a friend for me?'
'What?' Nichole looked distressed.
'Would you betray a friend? Would you bring me a new girl?'
'Yes!' Nichole leaped at the idea.
Web held up a finger. 'It can't be just anyone. It must be a good friend and she must be attractive. I don't want you hiring any prostitute.'
'I won't, I won't.'
'This little exercise is as much for you as it is for me. Think of it. A complete betrayal. I want you to seduce a friend until she's just as depraved as you are now.' He got to his feet and pointed to the chair behind her with one long thin finger. 'In a matter of weeks or days, I want a friend of yours in that chair using that vibrator the way you just did.'
Nichole jumped. The plastic vibrator was buzzing still in her hand. She shut it off. 'Yes! I'll do it!'
'And it will excite you, won't it?'
'Yes! Oh, yes!'
'You'll enjoy it, won't you?'
'Yes!'
'Very well. Who will it be?'
'Huh? What? Who?'
Web strode around the desk and looked down at her as she subserviently knelt in front of him. She was afraid of his tall figure towering over her. Her mind raced for a name. It couldn't be anyone. It had to be someone special or he wouldn't be pleased at all and, above all, she had to please him. Her hand brushed across her forehead. Who? Who? Her face suddenly lighted up. 'I know,' she cried.
'Who?'
'Kim. Kim Stewart. She lives in Carmel.' Web nodded. Kim Stewart. Fine. Kim Stewart is it.
CHAPTER TWO
Carmel. The name conjures up a particular image. It is, quite simply, a tourist town on the coast of central California. It is that, and much more. Carmel: playground for the rich and the rich-retired. A quaint little town, once a village, now grown, yet still having many attributes of a village with no sidewalks, trees growing in the middle of a street, no street addresses or street lights. There are still many board-and-bat cottages built back in the days when it was truly a village and an artist's colony.
Carmel happens to be set down on a peninsula, at the mouth of a fertile valley, at a piece of coastline that is unique in the world and breathtakingly dramatic. A melding of sky, sea, mountains, and river-mouth delta land. Carmel is like a jewel nestled in a belly-dancer's navel. The Carmel River empties into the sea, and the deep royal blue of the Pacific crashes wedding-cake white waves on hoary rocks that stand off shore like prehistoric reminders of another time. The St. Lucia mountain range seems to rush – to plunge down into the Pacific as the
