“Wow,” said Bruce.
The standard of his conversation was actually deteriorating, but Brooke no longer seemed to care. She was into her own agenda. Her hands were on her thighs now, slowly massaging the exquisite creamy material of her dress, her long fingers gently clawing at the cloth, ruffling it up against her legs before letting it fall back into place. Except it did not fall quite back because she retained a little of the dress beneath the palms of her hands, pressed as they were against the splendid outline of her thighs. Bruce realized that bit by bit, a centimetre or two at a time, Brooke was drawing up the long skirt of her dress, very slowly revealing her legs. And such legs. Bruce was entranced as shapely ankle gave way to shapely calf, then delightful knees and on, up past her equally exquisite thighs. It must have taken her more than five minutes to bring the skirt up to her panty line. Somehow she contrived to collect the folds of the material about her hips in a bouquet-like cluster, and it looked for a moment as if she was wearing a ra-ra skirt, or a rather flamboyant tutu. Then in one quick movement, almost a jerk, she brought the handfuls of cloth right up high, pulling the folds of skirt to just under her breasts, revealing all of her pantyhose and some of her bare midriff besides. Her hose was, of course, of finest quality. No ladders or frayed gussets here. High-waisted, covering Brooke’s whole stomach (such as there was of it), ending a few inches below her ribs in a wide black, delicately embroidered waistband. Her whole lower body was now on show, from diaphragm, down past her navel to the shadowy half-hidden panties, her long legs and on down to the silver stilettos she wore. All encased in sheer black nylon splendour. Above all of which she held her dress in great silky folds. Not necessarily a very elegant pose, but undeniably sexy. The look on her face was slightly sullen, almost indifferent. Her legs were four-square, feet about nine inches apart. She seemed to be saying, “This is what I’ve got. Do you want it?” A bad little girl showing you hers.
Now she had her thumbs under the waistband of her hose and was pulling the material slightly away from her soft skin. Still contriving to hold up her dress, she began slowly, fold by fold, to wind her pantyhose downwards, not pulling, or tugging, but neatly peeling them floorwards, with elegant thumb and finger, one fold over another. The whiteness of her belly appeared first, followed by more black, the black of her panties, then white again as the very tops of her legs appeared, and then more perfect skin as the hose descended.
She stopped for a moment.
“Go on, please!” croaked Bruce. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anything so erotic.
Brooke raised one glorious limb and put her foot on the glass table. This caused the hose, which were now pulled down to a few inches below her crutch, to stretch out taut between her thighs, lending the tiniest suggestion of bondage and constraint to her sultry pose.
Her stiletto heel made a sharp tap on the table top. “Unbuckle it,” she instructed Bruce. Her voice was cold and firm: it was an order. Bruce leant forward, his stomach pushing down on the top of his frankly spectacular erection, and did as he was bidden. The movement brought him so close to the partly revealed tops of Brooke’s thighs, crowned as they were by the bouquet of her dress, that he wondered for a moment about kissing the exposed flesh. He resisted the urge. She was in control. She would tell him what to do. Brooke brought the unbuckled shoe back to the ground, and with equal balance and elegance raised her other leg.
“Again,” she snapped. Again he obeyed.
She kicked off her silver stilettos and stood for a moment on the rug, holding her dress and the folded top of her pantyhose before folding the latter a little bit further towards her knees. Her arms were now at full stretch, so she could lower her hose no further by this method.
She sat down. In one athletic movement, she lowered herself to the floor, simultaneously pulling her tights down to her knees. As her bottom touched the soft carpet she continued her movement, rolling over on to her back, and bringing her knees up to her chest. Keeping her thumbs in the band of the tights all the while, she released her dress, letting its folds fall back on to her and on to the floor around her. Her backside pointed straight at Bruce like the centre of a silk flower. For fully fifteen seconds she let him stare at the triangle of black panties that separated the flesh of her rear upper thighs from the flesh of the small of her back as it curled down into the folds of her dress on the carpet.
Then the endgame. Still lying on her back, and keeping her knees close to her chest, she rolled the tights down past her calves to her ankles and along her feet until they covered only her toes, which pointed seductively at Bruce above the eye magnet of her knicker-covered bottom. One final push on the tights and they fell down past her backside and lay crumpled on the carpet beneath the black triangle. In the same movement her long white legs shot upwards until they pointed straight and true towards the ceiling. Still lying on her back Brook gently parted her legs to make a glorious upright V through which, by raising her head, she could see Bruce.
She smiled, lowered her legs and, picking up the tights, got to her feet. Her toes clenched at the luxury of the carpet. She took a step towards Bruce and dropped the still-warm hose into his lap.
“So?”
Bruce did his best to say something cool and classy. “So I hope you don’t expect me to be that good with my socks.”
It was certainly better than might have been expected on the basis of his previous form.
Bruce drew Brooke towards him on to the couch and they drifted into an embrace. Within moments all the pent-up sexual tension of the evening seemed to explode. Their mouths writhed against each other. Cool seduction was replaced by hot, lustful passion.
Then Brooke broke away. “Let me get some protection.”
She reached down to her handbag and for a moment Bruce imagined himself in love. What a woman! He had just been wondering, himself, how to bring up the subject of protection, and here she was, all ready and prepared, doing it for him.
However, when her hand emerged from the chic little bag it was holding not a packet of condoms but a small hand gun.
FIFTEEN
T
ouch me again you bastard, I swear I’ll kill you.”
Bruce leapt away from Brooke as if she had pulled the trigger and it was a bullet rather than sheer shock that thrust him backwards against the arm of the couch.
She glared at him, he glared at the barrel of her gun. What the hell was going on? Had he transgressed some new pre-sex rule? Was he guilty of attempted date rape? He had heard of such things of course, horror stories of college boys who had attempted to follow a goodnight kiss with a hand up the jumper and the next morning had found themselves the subject of a poster hate campaign all over campus. But come on. The woman had just removed her pantyhose in front of him. That had to be an invitation, hadn’t it? Maybe not. Oh Christ, maybe not. If a woman hoicks up her dress and flashes her knickers at you, does it mean ‘yes’ or ‘perhaps’ or even ‘no’? Should he have waited for a formal invitation? Should he have asked her to state her sexual requirements, if any, clearly and concisely? Should he have got it in writing?
“Listen, Brooke…please, I’m sorry, but…but…what’s going on?”
“You think just because I’m a model I’m some kind of whore?”
“No! My God no! Of course I don’t. I…I…Look, if I’ve misunderstood the situation I’m very sorry. But really…I mean…I thought—”
“I know what you thought, prick-for-brains!” Brooke’s trigger knuckle whitened. “You looked at me and you saw sex, right? From the first fucking second we met I’ve been just a piece of meat as far as you’re concerned. Well, you’re going to pay, you bastard.”
She was mad, Bruce knew that. Not just angry or hysterical, not just perversely politicized in an aggressive and unpredictable manner, but stark raving
tonto
. Unbalanced like the global economy was unbalanced, or a seesaw competition between a mouse and an overweight elephant. She must be mad. It was the only explanation. Their whole evening had been one of mutual compliance, Bruce knew there was no way he could be accused of forcing the issue. He hadn’t got her drunk or used his superior body weight to coerce her or done any of the other things that were apparently unacceptable to do to a woman unless you were a lesbian. No, this woman was crackers. A mad bitch of the ‘seduction is just rape with champagne and chocolates’ variety. But what do you do when a lunatic is pointing a gun at you? What do you say?
“Please, Brooke, please, this is not necessary.”
He was trying to turn his eyes into limpid pools of calm and compassion. It didn’t seem to be working.
“Kiss my fucking feet, muthfukka!” she shouted. Screamed, in fact. Her voice cracked with forced volume so that the ‘fucker’ ended up a rasping squeak — which in no way diminished its furious power.
Kiss her feet? Bruce had to concentrate. Of course he must kiss her feet immediately, but how did she want them kissed? Hard? Soft? Should he take one gently in his hand and turn his lips into tiny butterflies fluttering all over them from toe to ankle? Should he prostrate himself before her and suck her toes like a hungry animal at its mother’s teat? If he let his tongue explore between the digits, would that make her melt and lower the gun or would it add flames to her fury and cause her to lose what was left of her fragile self-control?
“I said kiss my fucking feet!” Brooke demanded again.
Bruce dropped to his knees without any particular plan of approach in mind and nuzzled vaguely at her toes.
“I said kiss ‘em, not wipe your nose on them,” she barked.
He attempted to raise his game. He kissed her big toe, then her little toe, then he kissed them all in a row, one by one. What next? Back again? He kissed back down the row. Then maybe repeat the whole process on the other foot? He did that. Then he did the whole thing again.
That was it. He had kissed her toes. He was at a loss how to proceed. “Would you like me to lick them?” he asked tentatively.
“Don’t make me puke.”
Bruce’s neck was beginning to ache. He went through his kissing routine again but after that he did nothing. What could he do? He listened to Brooke’s breathing, trying to get a clue to her mood. Was it getting calmer? Could she be reasoned with? Could he somehow win her confidence, her trust, ingratiate himself? He had to be very calm and kind. Flattering even.
“What do you want, you mad fucking bitch?”
It wasn’t meant to come out that way. Fear had blocked up his brain. He cringed on the floor, waiting for the punishment which must be his.
“Are you scared?” he heard her say.
What a question. “Yes, I’m scared.”
“How scared?”
“Very” — pause — “fucking” — pause — “scared.”
“Good” was all she replied.
Bruce’s neck was really aching now. “Look, Brooke, please tell me what you want.”
Brooke removed her foot from under Bruce’s lips. He could sense her kneeling down in front of him. Her hand appeared under his chin and gently brought his head up until he could look her in the eye again. What now?
“I…want” — her eye was steady but he could feel her hand shaking under his chin — “a…a part in your next movie.”
It took a moment to sink in. It wasn’t until he took an extreme close-up on the nervous look in her eyes that he started to believe it.
“Put away your gun,” he said, by way of a tester.
Brooke put her gun back into her handbag. It was obvious that she really was nervous now: her hand was shaking.
Bruce was nearly speechless. Not quite, however. “You mad, crazy fucking bitch!” he shouted.
It was Brooke’s turn to be scared. Bruce’s fury was only just beginning, but clearly when it erupted fully it would be mighty indeed. She had to talk fast.
“Your pictures make people horny and scared. What did I just do to you? Come on, be honest. I did it all in half an hour, first horny, then scared.”
“Pamela Anderson makes me horny, Pat Buchanan makes me scared. I’m not going to put either of them in my movie.” Bruce couldn’t believe he was even bothering to debate with this outrageous woman. “You made me kiss your feet! At gunpoint! I ought to call the cops!”
“I’ve sent you fifty letters. Fifty! Did you see them? Did you read them?”
“Have you any idea how many actresses and models write to me? I don’t see any of that stuff. I have people.”
“Yeah, I guessed you didn’t. That’s why I decided to do what I did. I’m just a dumb model. Nobody would take me seriously as an actress.”
It dawned on Bruce that he had been playing patsy for the last five hours. “Have you been planning this all along?”
“No. It occurred to me while we were watching
Ordinary Americans
. I had seen the film before by the way, five times, but I said I hadn’t because I wanted to look cool.”
“Well you don’t, you look fucking insane. I ought to throw you out.”
“I made you horny and I made you frightened. Be fair — I did. Give me a chance.”
Bruce looked at her, barefoot, scared, breasts heaving with the tension of her own audacity. It was true. She had made him horny, she was, after all, spectacularly attractive, and she sure had frightened him.
“Supposing I said it depended on your sleeping with me?”
“No,” Brooke replied. “I don’t screw on a professional basis.”
“Pity.”
Bruce was not a dishonourable man. Having made the pass, he knew he had in a way committed himself. Besides he didn’t want to look cheap.
“OK, I’ll give you a screen test anyway. Maybe you’re half as good as you think you are. Have your agent call me next week. Believe me, there is no chance that I will forget you.”
“Thank you, Bruce, thank you very much. I promise I won’t disappoint you.”
“You can’t disappoint me any more than you already have. I’ll call you a cab.”
“What’s the rush? We still have some hours before your wife gets here.”
“But you said…”
“I said I didn’t screw on a professional basis. I already got my screen test.”
Bruce wondered for a moment if it was another trick. You don’t get over the kind of shock he’d had in a moment. If he embraced her, would he suddenly find himself with a knife at his throat? Brooke could see he was hesitating. She stepped forward, took his arms, folded them behind her and turned her face up towards his. Bruce hesitated no longer and within a moment they were welded together like an old steamboat. It was a great relief for both of them finally to reach the point towards which the whole evening had been heading. Bruce crushed his chest against hers, she crushed her thighs against his. Inevitably they lost their balance, but they didn’t care because the huge couch was ready to take their fall.
Now their lovemaking could begin in earnest. Bruce was on top of Brooke, his hands kneading her breasts through the delicate fabric of her gown. He could feel her nipples hardening and slipped his fingers beneath the silk in order to tease them further. Brooke had one hand on Bruce’s behind and one thrust down between their bodies, struggling at his fly zipper.
Close-up on Brooke’s face.
Her expression changes from passionate lust to shock mixed with horror. (She is staring upwards, past Bruce’s head, the back of which occupies the comer of the shot.)
BROOKE
: (Struggling to maintain her calm)
Bruce…Bruce…For Christ’s sake, Bruce.
Whip pan to take in Brooke’s POV. Bruce’s face is in the foreground of shot. Over his shoulder we can see Wayne standing behind him, an automatic weapon balanced casually on his shoulder. Bruce is unaware of Wayne.
BRUCE
: Listen, Brooke, I really don’t think I can handle any more of your games. Are we going to make love or do I call you a cab?
Bruce’s head drops out of shot as he leans down to kiss Brooke’s bosom. Wayne stands alone in the vacated shot which is Brooke’s POV. He smiles and gives her a little wink.
Overhead three shot. Bruce on top of Brooke, Wayne standing over them both. Bruce is the only thing moving. Brooke is staring at Wayne, Wayne is looking back. Bruce’s back and back of head writhe about a little as he nuzzles into Brooke’s cleavage. Brooke finds her voice.
BROOKE
: Bruce. For Christ’s sake. Behind you.
Bruce raises his head to address Brooke. Close-up on his face, chin and cheeks, framed by Brooke’s cleavage.
BRUCE
: Sure, honey, sure.
A voice intrudes upon his complacency. It is Wayne’s.
WAYNE
: Morning, folks.