terrific—something for every taste.”
“But I couldn’t—not with the uncle, I mean, I simply couldn’t do it.”
Boris had a sudden wild notion of suggesting Sid as the uncle, but then thought better of it.
“But don’t you see, the abhorrence you would feel would be perfect—it would be exactly what we’d be trying for.”
She shook her head, not looking at him. “No, it is not possible. I would do anything for you, Boris—I’ll do it on camera with the girl, kiss her, make love to her, do anything you want . . . because I believe in it . . . I feel it . . . and because I know it is for art! But I just cannot do the other—please don’t ask me.”
“Hmm,” Boris considered it, then sighed. “Okay, we’ll use doubles on the inserts—when we cut to the closeups—erection, penetration, and so on, we’ll use somebody else’s. I’m sure you’ll be able to do the face stuff great.”
“Oh, I will,” she said, reaching out and touching him in gratitude, “I promise you I will, Boris.” She raised her great gray-green eyes to him, and smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, Boris—you know how I always try to do anything you want. I love you, you know,” she added softly, lowering her eyes.
Watching Arabella closely as she went through these various changes, and still aware of his quite serious erection, Boris suddenly found himself seeing her through Sid’s eyes, recalling the intense imagery he had used—“fantastic to make a beautiful dyke come,” and so on, and he fleetingly considered the notion of trying to actually experience it vicariously from Sid’s attitude—but, more than that, being so genuinely fond of her, and feeling such an urgent demand between his legs, he found it almost impossible to believe that she wouldn’t enjoy it. He wondered what would happen if he asked her . . . begged her . . . pleaded . . . appealed to her friendship, loyalty . . . swore it was a matter of life and death . . . or perhaps if he said she could be on top —then she wouldn’t feel dominated. His erect member had arrived at the state sometimes described (by hacks) as “pulsating tumescence,” and he realized, too, with a certain disquiet, that due to the press of events of the last two weeks—the script preparation and the pre-production work generally—he had neglected to get laid during that entire period.
“Do you know why I’m so fond of you?” asked Arabella, looking at him again, “or anyway one of the reasons I’m so fond of you? It is because you have always accepted me for what I am. Yes?”
“Hmm,” Boris murmured, no longer too certain of this, and shifted uneasily.
“And I know you like women,” she went on, “and that sometimes you may think of me that way—as a woman. Well, I do have certain feminine qualities or let us more properly say, certain Yin qualities.” And whether through a wondrous intuitive awareness, or whether she actually perceived it, she reached out and gently rested her hand on his trousers and the taut wood-hard muscle beneath, raising her beautiful face to him with a smile that was radiant and benign. “Is that for Arabella?”
Boris, who was ordinarily rather blasé in these matters, felt an unaccountable tinge of chagrin when his member throbbed and reared at her touch as though from the slightest electric shock.
“I’m beginning to think that it is,” he admitted.
“Oh Boris, you’re wonderful,” she said with a marvelous laugh, and slowly pulled down the zipper, and took it out—holding it carefully, studying it. “Just look at it—all throbbing and eager, and no place to go.”
“No place to come, you mean,” said Boris, trying to maintain a cavalier mien—he was beginning to suspect her of being one of the world’s great prick-teasers.
“Why do they have to be so big?” she said, her head to one side regarding it with a little-girl pouting expression. “Maybe if they weren’t so big I could do it.”
“Sorry,”
“But I couldn’t—not with the uncle, I mean, I simply couldn’t do it.”
Boris had a sudden wild notion of suggesting Sid as the uncle, but then thought better of it.
“But don’t you see, the abhorrence you would feel would be perfect—it would be exactly what we’d be trying for.”
She shook her head, not looking at him. “No, it is not possible. I would do anything for you, Boris—I’ll do it on camera with the girl, kiss her, make love to her, do anything you want . . . because I believe in it . . . I feel it . . . and because I know it is for art! But I just cannot do the other—please don’t ask me.”
“Hmm,” Boris considered it, then sighed. “Okay, we’ll use doubles on the inserts—when we cut to the closeups—erection, penetration, and so on, we’ll use somebody else’s. I’m sure you’ll be able to do the face stuff great.”
“Oh, I will,” she said, reaching out and touching him in gratitude, “I promise you I will, Boris.” She raised her great gray-green eyes to him, and smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, Boris—you know how I always try to do anything you want. I love you, you know,” she added softly, lowering her eyes.
Watching Arabella closely as she went through these various changes, and still aware of his quite serious erection, Boris suddenly found himself seeing her through Sid’s eyes, recalling the intense imagery he had used—“fantastic to make a beautiful dyke come,” and so on, and he fleetingly considered the notion of trying to actually experience it vicariously from Sid’s attitude—but, more than that, being so genuinely fond of her, and feeling such an urgent demand between his legs, he found it almost impossible to believe that she wouldn’t enjoy it. He wondered what would happen if he asked her . . . begged her . . . pleaded . . . appealed to her friendship, loyalty . . . swore it was a matter of life and death . . . or perhaps if he said she could be on top —then she wouldn’t feel dominated. His erect member had arrived at the state sometimes described (by hacks) as “pulsating tumescence,” and he realized, too, with a certain disquiet, that due to the press of events of the last two weeks—the script preparation and the pre-production work generally—he had neglected to get laid during that entire period.
“Do you know why I’m so fond of you?” asked Arabella, looking at him again, “or anyway one of the reasons I’m so fond of you? It is because you have always accepted me for what I am. Yes?”
“Hmm,” Boris murmured, no longer too certain of this, and shifted uneasily.
“And I know you like women,” she went on, “and that sometimes you may think of me that way—as a woman. Well, I do have certain feminine qualities or let us more properly say, certain Yin qualities.” And whether through a wondrous intuitive awareness, or whether she actually perceived it, she reached out and gently rested her hand on his trousers and the taut wood-hard muscle beneath, raising her beautiful face to him with a smile that was radiant and benign. “Is that for Arabella?”
Boris, who was ordinarily rather blasé in these matters, felt an unaccountable tinge of chagrin when his member throbbed and reared at her touch as though from the slightest electric shock.
“I’m beginning to think that it is,” he admitted.
“Oh Boris, you’re wonderful,” she said with a marvelous laugh, and slowly pulled down the zipper, and took it out—holding it carefully, studying it. “Just look at it—all throbbing and eager, and no place to go.”
“No place to come, you mean,” said Boris, trying to maintain a cavalier mien—he was beginning to suspect her of being one of the world’s great prick-teasers.
“Why do they have to be so big?” she said, her head to one side regarding it with a little-girl pouting expression. “Maybe if they weren’t so big I could do it.”
“Sorry,”
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