The Gorgeous Girls by Marie Wilson

look like a prosperous old gentleman, but in reality he was nothing but rump.
    â€œEat it,” I said, and he did so with thanks. I caught Dreamboat watching. He smiled and walked away, then looked back, tilting his head to suggest I follow. How could I have resisted the invitation? This man was a prime cut. He disappeared behind the faux theatre front.
    My hunger for food suddenly forgotten, I joined him in a makeshift prop room, where we instantly tore at each other’s period threads, scarcely a thought in our heads about the movie. Through it all, I was aware that if it really had been 1939, this man would have been strung up if we’d been caught. I couldn’t shake the thought, so I backed off and told him what I was thinking, hoping I might get beyond it. Moments later he took me beyond by dropping to his knees, hoisting up my schoolmarm skirt and eating me through my Harlow knickers.
    Impatient, he tugged at the knickers till the buttons popped off. Bypassing silken nostalgia to get to silken cunt, he used his teeth like a velvet buzz saw on my clit.
    If we’d been caught, we’d have been fired and banned forever from all sets, blacklisted from the BG and probably the FG, too. We couldn’t have cared less; such is the power of sex. I ached to explode in his mouth.
    He lay on the bare floor and pulled me onto his face, and almost instantly I came in waves of cosmic glory. I felt as if I were ascending to heaven, all the while stifling my vocals with my sleeve.
    Then he put me on the floor as I grappled with his overall straps, desperate to get at his hardness, but he had quicker means and was suddenly slamming his fantastic rod inside me. My pelvis rose to meet him and he broke, convulsing with orgasmic shivers.
    I spent the rest of the shoot with a silly smile on my face, no longer wearing knickers under that sensible tweed.

WANDA
    All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.
    â€”Dorothy Parker

    His hand moves fast. I hold my breath and stand as still as the angel atop Sacré-Coeur, which I can see over his right shoulder. His intense, dark eyes focus on the furrow between my brows. “You think a lot,” he murmurs, à la Jean-Paul Belmondo in
Breathless
. His hand never stops moving.
    â€œYes. I’m a writer,” I reply.
    â€œBut they are also the lines of—how do you say? Sexual excitement . . .”
    I blush. He exudes a youthful sexuality as delicious as any sweet found along the Rue Mouffetard.
    â€œHow much do you charge?” I ask tentatively.
    â€œA million dollars!” He laughs.
    â€œNo, seriously.”
    â€œIf you don’t like it, then
rien
.”
    His hand moves ever faster and I know a culmination is imminent. Indeed, moments later, his hand performs a final flourish. He is done.
    Quickly, he rolls up the portrait and hands it to Wyatt, who is sitting nearby on a tourist-packed sidewalk patio, sipping Sancerre and watching.
    â€œCome, have a drink with us,” Wyatt says to the artist. Belmondo obliges and takes a chair at the table. I look around for another chair, but there are none.
    â€œSit here,” Belmondo calls to me, patting his lap. I raise an eyebrow and look at Wyatt, who smiles and nods.
    Questions racing through my mind, I perch on the artist’s lap.
    â€œWanda,” Wyatt says, leaning across the table to take my hand. “Remember what I said the other night?”
    â€œYou said a good many things the other night.”
    â€œI like to watch.”
    My confusion is soon overruled by arousal as I feel Belmondo’s desire growing hard against my ass. My eyes are firmly fixed on Wyatt’s. He smiles his crooked smile and I think I understand. Yet this is a learning curve I hadn’t expected, one whose trajectory I’m beginning to like.
    Suddenly, as if my lover’s smile were the switch, a bolt of electric sexual charge flashes through me. My breath quickens while the rest