book as part of the show, so I was back in costume; but now posing rather than moving for the camera.
Dillon called on Tuesday.
“Can you do Thursday and Friday again? Sisters hit number one with a bullet and it’s all on you and Rob with that routine you worked up.”
“Talk to my boss,” I responded. “I’m under contract, remember?”
So I handed the phone to Peter. He put his hand up then pointed his thumb up and down and shrugged. I gave him a thumbs up, but I really didn’t want to. It had nothing to do with the change in schedule though. In LA, he never went down on me. In Sugarloaf, it was Tuesday and I was looking forward to number three on Wednesday. When I modeled, we’d both get so hot something just had to be done about it.
So Wednesday it was back into LA. Without a writer, I had nothing to say, so we made it through dinner with only a couple paparazzi. The news had been told; we were yesterday.
After Rob and I did our bit on a morning talk show on Thursday, Pauley called Peter.
The house across the street was for sale. The house at the end of the cul-de-sac – three bedrooms and two stories with an acre against the hill – was the one we stayed in. Next door was a five bedroom, three bath house owned by Pauley. Because the three bedroom was the biggest lot, three acres, it owned half the land up the hill to two houses that faced it on the upper road. The one that was for sale faced Pauley’s acre. It had an acre of its own, but built into a hill with a lower bedroom floor below the house, which sat on the road above.
Peter bought it. He didn’t ask me; in fact he already owned it the first time I saw it the day after Rob, Gertrude and I pulled off another variation on our routine on another talk show Friday.
“I can block the window with a wall, put in a skylight facing north. It’ll be perfect. It will allow me to paint the most beautiful woman in the world, perfectly,” he said, standing in something they called a ‘rumpus’ room and holding me tightly.
Well, he didn’t own it officially. He offered, the owners accepted, they filled out eighteen pages of absolute nonsense that neither party understood, Peter wired money into an account and he kissed me in the rumpus room. In fact, he reached between my legs, got inside me, flicked my G-spot into an orgasm. Then we were on the floor. Peter took off my panties and got inside me right in the middle of the ‘rumpus’ room, without closing the shades, so that anyone driving up Jackson Court Road in Glendale would have had a full view of the proceedings. We were damn lucky the media was watching the wrong damn house.
Since it was going to take two weeks to ‘close’ on the house, we went back up the mountain and back to work on the show.
I actually prefer posing in the nude… well, when Peter is the artist. In the fairy costumes, I just got hotter and hotter as the day wore on and there wasn’t much of a chance to let some of the pressure off of the boiler, if you know what I mean. Okay, a couple times it did get to the breaking point and he lifted my skirts, dropped my panties and relieved some of that pressure. On Friday, I always worked in the nude because that was the basic shape and he needed that reference to finish the under paintings. On those days he always went down on me before and after lunch. He’d start to work on my breasts first and lick and kiss me down to where he shared my clit with his tongue and his thumb. At the same time, he rubbed my pelvic bone and flicked his fingers across my G-spot.
The show remained on top in comedies, and word had gotten around that Jackson Court Road in Glendale was becoming a Baker family compound, so we were pretty well covered when we came to town to close on the house. It coincided with a downtime for sexual activity, but an up time for talk show appearances. Rob figured out a half dozen bits that we did together, and with Gertrude. Then, Peter appeared with me the second time
Dillon called on Tuesday.
“Can you do Thursday and Friday again? Sisters hit number one with a bullet and it’s all on you and Rob with that routine you worked up.”
“Talk to my boss,” I responded. “I’m under contract, remember?”
So I handed the phone to Peter. He put his hand up then pointed his thumb up and down and shrugged. I gave him a thumbs up, but I really didn’t want to. It had nothing to do with the change in schedule though. In LA, he never went down on me. In Sugarloaf, it was Tuesday and I was looking forward to number three on Wednesday. When I modeled, we’d both get so hot something just had to be done about it.
So Wednesday it was back into LA. Without a writer, I had nothing to say, so we made it through dinner with only a couple paparazzi. The news had been told; we were yesterday.
After Rob and I did our bit on a morning talk show on Thursday, Pauley called Peter.
The house across the street was for sale. The house at the end of the cul-de-sac – three bedrooms and two stories with an acre against the hill – was the one we stayed in. Next door was a five bedroom, three bath house owned by Pauley. Because the three bedroom was the biggest lot, three acres, it owned half the land up the hill to two houses that faced it on the upper road. The one that was for sale faced Pauley’s acre. It had an acre of its own, but built into a hill with a lower bedroom floor below the house, which sat on the road above.
Peter bought it. He didn’t ask me; in fact he already owned it the first time I saw it the day after Rob, Gertrude and I pulled off another variation on our routine on another talk show Friday.
“I can block the window with a wall, put in a skylight facing north. It’ll be perfect. It will allow me to paint the most beautiful woman in the world, perfectly,” he said, standing in something they called a ‘rumpus’ room and holding me tightly.
Well, he didn’t own it officially. He offered, the owners accepted, they filled out eighteen pages of absolute nonsense that neither party understood, Peter wired money into an account and he kissed me in the rumpus room. In fact, he reached between my legs, got inside me, flicked my G-spot into an orgasm. Then we were on the floor. Peter took off my panties and got inside me right in the middle of the ‘rumpus’ room, without closing the shades, so that anyone driving up Jackson Court Road in Glendale would have had a full view of the proceedings. We were damn lucky the media was watching the wrong damn house.
Since it was going to take two weeks to ‘close’ on the house, we went back up the mountain and back to work on the show.
I actually prefer posing in the nude… well, when Peter is the artist. In the fairy costumes, I just got hotter and hotter as the day wore on and there wasn’t much of a chance to let some of the pressure off of the boiler, if you know what I mean. Okay, a couple times it did get to the breaking point and he lifted my skirts, dropped my panties and relieved some of that pressure. On Friday, I always worked in the nude because that was the basic shape and he needed that reference to finish the under paintings. On those days he always went down on me before and after lunch. He’d start to work on my breasts first and lick and kiss me down to where he shared my clit with his tongue and his thumb. At the same time, he rubbed my pelvic bone and flicked his fingers across my G-spot.
The show remained on top in comedies, and word had gotten around that Jackson Court Road in Glendale was becoming a Baker family compound, so we were pretty well covered when we came to town to close on the house. It coincided with a downtime for sexual activity, but an up time for talk show appearances. Rob figured out a half dozen bits that we did together, and with Gertrude. Then, Peter appeared with me the second time
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