Clarence Tydings - The unfaithful girlfriend

"W-What if I g-get pregnant?" she asked finally in a near whisper.

"That's the least of your worries, honey," he laughed, his breathing back to normal now. "I've had a vasectomy… years ago. So don't go getting any ideas. I've got a letter from the Doc to prove I'm as sterile as a surgeon's glove."

A few minutes passed, then she complained of the crushing bulk on top of her tiny young form, and he rolled off and walked to the door of the terrace. She wiped the sticky trail of his lewdly shining semen from her thighs with the sleeve of his crumpled shirt when he wasn't looking.

She began to pick up her scattered clothes, searching here and there under the furniture. He sat back down on the edge of the sofa, looking even paunchier and flabbier than before now somehow, his limp penis dangling in a flaccid knob from beneath the fleshy roll of his belly.

"I'd like to go home now," Jessica said quietly. She didn't even want to talk of the job he had for her now; all she wanted was the quiet sanctuary of her own room. Away from people, away from this man.

"You'll go when I say so," he said nastily. "And not a minute before."

Jessica stood there gaping at him, making no attempt now to hide her youthful nakedness, her hands casually on her hips. Her firm ripe breasts stood out defiantly, the tiny pink nipples still hard and crinkly from his vicious ravishment. Surely he couldn't mean it! What was there left for him to do to her? There was nothing left!

Ignoring his threat, she stepped into her panties, gingerly lifting her legs as bolts of pain rippled through her thighs.

"Put those panties back where you found them!" he barked. "I'm not ready to go yet."

"I'll take a cab. You needn't bother, Mr. Felder," she said bitterly.

"Take off those Goddamn panties!"

She couldn't believe it! She had been stripped like a servant girl in the market place, screwed half to death like a whore by this fat, vile man, paraded naked before his lustful eyes, fucked and filled almost to bursting with his horrible sperm until her whole body ached. And he still wanted more of her!

Phillip glanced around furtively as he stepped from the cab at Valerie Dodge's riverside address, then laughed at his needless cautiousness. Hell, there was no sense acting like some super-spy outrunning the KGB; after all, there wasn't a chance in the world of Jessica being within miles of this place. He had not seen her now for several days, something of a rarity in itself, but the odds were rather slim she'd be strolling about in this neighborhood at ten o'clock in the evening. Or in any neighborhood in New York, if she had any brains at all.

He showed the smartly-uniformed doorman his invitation, with his name neatly inked across it in flowing blue-black script, and was directed, with a courteous little bow, to the second battery of elevators, the ones marked "17-30", and told he was okayed for admittance to the twenty-fourth floor condominium the William Brantley Dodge's called home. He chuckled to himself as he checked his tie and collar in the elevator mirror – Christ, a two-bit artist like himself invited to a party at W. B. Dodge's apartment! Hobnobbing with the joint rulers of the country's biggest and most successful model and network packaging outfit, both of them millionaires a few times over. And the incredible way it all came about-hell, that was a story in itself!

It was only last week, though now it seemed months ago as Phillip recalled me events that led up to this invitation. Jessica had been in another of her moods, he remembered; and like always, she chose not to explain, just to keep it all bottled up in her lovely little self. It was the day after she was supposed to meet some agency creative director for an after-hours interview. She hadn't said much about it, just that it was less than successful, and, knowing Jessica's temper, Phillip had simply left it at that, though he was far from happy about these unusual job interviews she seemed to be constantly drawn into. Not that he would ever have suspected Jessica of any wrong-doing – Christ, she just wasn't the type for that. But those ad agency smoothies could be pretty persuasive, just the same.

Anyway, they'd argued about it for a few minutes, tossed the usual harsh words back and forth, then, like always, kissed and forgot the whole thing and headed through the evening chill for the subway ride to the W. B. Dodge Company, the source of most of network television's commercials and the "think-tank" for more award-winning television specials than anyone could count.

There wasn't any particular reason for doing it, but this days just this once, they varied their usual job-hunting procedure and Phillip accompanied his girlfriend inside for the interview, waiting as unobtrusively as possible in a lobby filled with eager young models and would-be actresses, all toting their shop-worn portfolio cases loaded with stills and press-releases and anything else they could pile together in hopes of impressing Bill or Valerie Dodge, the king and queen, without dispute, of the W. B. Dodge empire, a sprawling kingdom that covered five floors here in their mid-town location, and another couple of thousand square feet of studio space down near the Village.

Phillip had made no effort to make his presence known; on the contrary, he'd attempted most diligently to stay out of sight, even to the point of taking a seat opposite Jessica when they entered, knowing only too well how agency receptionists felt about friends accompanying the girls when the agency announced its infrequent hiring sessions, or "cattle calls" as they were known in the trade. But anonymity was just not to be his this afternoon.

Valerie Dodge nodded ever-so-slightly when she passed through the reception area the first time. Phillip had not the faintest notion who she was, though he suspected she was indeed the empress herself when the room suddenly quieted and a couple of dozen skirts were quickly adjusted, some going up and others going down. And when the former television actress turned model-agency executive had made her exit, one of the young hopefuls nearest Phillip made the identification certain.

"That was her! Valerie Dodge! Isn't she gorgeous, just like in all her films!" the young girl had shrieked, and Phillip had agreed, indeed, Valerie Dodge was a beautiful woman, blessed with genetic good looks and enough money to sustain them with daily trips to the plushest of Manhattan's glittering salons. She was tall, he guessed about five-nine that afternoon, and her Paris-styled auburn hair accented the jet-set beauties of her elegantly beautiful face. And that body of hers was in a category by itself! Her breasts were huge and full, but deliciously proud and firm, without a trace of sag to detract from her glamorous profile. He wondered even then, from that fleeting glimpse, how this magnificent celebrity would look without those Saks originals… in fact, without anything at all, just her fabled body stretched nude across a king-sized bed. Phillip remembered now that he'd quickly crossed that silly daydream from his thoughts. If only he had known what the future held for him!

He had been reading a terribly outdated copy of Women's Wear Daily, just to have something to occupy his mind, when he suddenly realized that the displaced voice he'd heard was talking to him. "You must be Phillip Wright?" it said.

He looked up, startled, from his paper. It was Valerie Dodge, standing right by his shoulder. He'd failed to notice her reenter the reception room. "Right… but how did you know that?" he asked, manfully aware that the swarm of delicious young lovelies had hushed their nervous buzzing and was intently focused on him as he courteously rose quickly to his feet.

"It's not magic, really, love," she purred, "Jessica was just mentioning you to my husband when I went in for a file." She paused and glanced him over, a quick cursory appraisal, but one obvious enough to gain the young man's attention. "Would you like to come in to my office a moment?"