Summer Stock

I’ve written this story in my journal many times. Each time I tell this tale to myself, I remember another half forgotten detail about the wonderful woman who taught me how to make wild, passionate love. I know I will never tire of repeating this story.

Arlene Calvin was the love of my life. Yes, that’s right, Arlene Calvin; the famous actress you see on late night talk shows and the covers of supermarket tabloids. These days she’s best known for her TV appearances as a zap-gun toting, science fiction sex symbol. In each show she glides across the small screen, living fast and loving even faster. I read the other day that she gets about two million dollars per movie now and even more for her TV series, but when I met her she was doing summer stock theatre for a thousand dollars a week.

I wasn’t a virgin when Arlene Calvin took me to her bed, but I may as well have been. One fumbling fornication in the back of the family mini van on senior prom night, and that was it: the sum total of my experience with women. That girl’s name was Olga Praski, and she was no more experienced than I was. We were just two young people eager to celebrate our high school graduation. Olga and I would probably have gone immediately onto bigger things, including marriage and a family, if it hadn’t been for my summer job. Taking that job was how I met Arlene.

I’d signed up for a government subsidised employment program which provided summer jobs for college bound students. The pay was terrible, but the jobs were often interesting adventures. Eager to experience something different, I applied for a position as a stagehand at a theatre in San Francisco. I knew even less about theatre than I did about sex, but being unskilled worked in my favour. The theatre could say it was training an unemployable, which was a requirement to qualify for other federal arts grants. That’s why I left a teary eyed Olga Praski waving goodbye to me at the Greyhound depot, and headed off to meet the love of my life in California.

The Rex was an old vaudeville hall, saved from the wrecking ball and partially refurbished by a small group of influential theatre lovers. It managed to stay solvent with its annual government grants plus box office revenues from a string of silly but popular comedies. The show staged that summer was called The Sorcerer’s Sex Life. It was a corny story about a Victorian magician who couldn’t get anywhere with women, because his truly magical assistant would always get jealous and mess up his relationships. It was a bit like that old TV show, I Dream of Jeannie. Arlene Calvin played the naughty assistant, but I was the only one who knew how incredibly naughty she really was.

Each time the magician was about to accomplish a seduction, Arlene’s character would enter, invisible to the lovers, and do something wicked to extinguish the couple’s passion. Then she’d vanish in a cloud of smoke leaving the audience roaring with laughter. There were four trap doors in the floor of the old stage, and each time Arlene had to vanish, she’d drop through one of these openings. Arlene would stand over a trap door, with her feet on taped marks to the sides of the hinged panels. Her Victorian costume hid the trap door from view, so someone could open it from below as she delivered her exit lines. When the puff of smoke appeared, Arlene would spring up a few inches and snap her heels together, plunging through the floor. Growing up on a farm in North Dakota, there had always been lots of heavy chores to do, which left me with a sturdy physique, so I was chosen as the stagehand to open the spring loaded trap door, set its automatic closing device, and catch Arlene Calvin as she fell. If I had known this task was to be mine all summer long, I’d have gladly taken the job without pay.

There were only two ways to access the room below the stage. One was to enter from a door in the orchestra pit. This was impossible during a show, because there was no room to move around the musicians, and it would have been too distracting for the audience anyway. The other access was a door at the back of the stage cellar, which opened at the bottom of a winding metal staircase. The stairs led up to a landing one floor above the stage. From that landing one could take a fire access out of the building, or another door into the stairway to the dressing rooms, but there was no direct access to backstage. As a result, the stage manager didn’t expect me back in a hurry after Arlene’s exits, and there was no easy way for him to make sure I wasn’t taking advantage of the situation. Catching Arlene four times a night, therefore, meant four lengthy breaks from more mundane backstage duties. That was a bonus in itself, but it wasn’t the greatest benefit of the job.

We began with a week of intensive rehearsals. Arlene usually dressed in slacks, and a sweater or blouse for the rehearsals. Like most actresses she’s an athletic woman, but the bright floodlights would leave her partially blinded and disoriented when she fell into the darkness under the stage. She relied totally on me to catch her or help her keep her balance, before she landed on the huge bean bag under the trap door. The director was terrified Arlene would twist an ankle landing on that bean bag, so he asked me to catch her every time, and I was happy to oblige. Before the rehearsal week was over, there was scarcely an inch of Arlene Calvin’s voluptuous body that had not slid into my waiting grasp.

The last few rehearsals were performed in full dress. When she fell through in full Victorian costume, her long skirt would flare and envelope me. The tight Victorian waist of the costume was actually made of loose elastic and fastened with Velcro, so there wasn’t much chance of me getting a neck injury. I was concerned, however, that if I remained upright her skirt would become entangled with my head and shoulders, and prevent her from descending all the way to the bean bag. That would have resulted in her receiving a bang on the head from the trap door as it sprang shut. To evade that possibility we agreed that I should fall with her into the bean bag, with my head and torso still under her skirt. This wasn’t as exciting as it sounds, because underneath the costume she wore a two piece flesh coloured Spandex body leotard, and as soon as we landed she would pause briefly to retrieve her hem, recover her eyesight, then dash off to prepare for her next entry. The playwright had written the scenes so she had plenty of time after each of these difficult exits before making her next entry, but with opening night angst rising steadily, Arlene’s nerves would not allow her to relax for a moment during rehearsals.

Opening night was even more frantic. I was as jittery as the rest of the cast and crew; anxious to get everything right, and worried that I would be the one to make the blunder that would ruin the entire show. When Arlene fell into my arms that night I noticed immediately that she was drenched with perspiration. It was soaking right through the Spandex.

“Arlene you’re wringing wet. How can you act properly when you’re soaked like this?” I asked as we sat on the bean bag after her smokey exit. Naive little me was genuinely concerned that she might overheat and collapse on stage.

She stared at me, her eyes glazing as they adjusted to the darkness.

“Does my sweaty body bother you?” she quipped coldly. I was glad it was so dark under the stage, because I felt myself blushing like a ten-year-old.

“Of course not. It’s very...”

The words still in my head tied my tongue in a knot. I almost told Arlene Calvin, who had already appeared on both the Oprah Winfrey and Letterman shows, that I enjoyed the feel of her sweaty body. My stoic prairie upbringing, however, prevented me from completing the brazen sentence. Arlene obviously understood my discomfort. She smiled warmly, leaned toward me and gave me a peck on the cheek.

“You’re sweet,” she said, “and you’re right. It’s far too hot up there.”

She gathered up her hem and dashed off to her dressing room as she had during the dress rehearsals. Arlene had three more exits like that on opening night, and they all went much the same way. A saturated actress would drop into my arms, my hands sliding over the Spandex until I could grip her somewhere in the vicinity of her ribcage. Then we would fall together onto the bean bag, my face pressed against the wet fabric. Neither of us mentioned her obvious discomfort again that night. We both continued with our work like seasoned professionals.

Opening night of The Sorcerer’s Sex Life was a success. The reviewers in the next day’s papers and TV news shows all made glowing remarks about the show and Arlene’s performance. Suitably encouraged by these kudos, we all settled into a more relaxed routine, and for Arlene this meant a slight change to her costume on the second night. She still wore the top half of the Spandex body suit, but the leggings were replaced by tights of a lighter and cooler fabric. The only difference the tights made was that now my fingers caught on the finer fabric.

“Did that feel better?’ she asked mischievously as soon as I had extricated myself from beneath her dress.

I managed a polite answer. “I hope it’s cooler for you, but you’ll have to excuse my fingers getting caught in the tights,” I warned.

“Hmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, “we’ll have to work on that problem.”

On the third night, as I heard Arlene delivering the cue line for her first plunging exit, I opened the trap door and glanced up. To my surprise, and utter delight, both the Spandex and lighter nylon leotards were absent. Above her Victorian shoes and black calf length stockings Arlene’s legs were bare. With her feet spread apart, I had a clear view up her inner thighs all the way to her silk panties.

When she dropped through the trap door and my hands grabbed for her legs, the silky smoothness of her moist skin slithered through my fingers a little too quickly. I had to tighten my grip to break her fall, and even then my left hand ended up clutching her right breast. After we collapsed onto the bean bag, she waited for me to untangle herself from her costume. When I came out from beneath the hem of her dress she was sitting up and grinning at me like a naughty elf.

“That was the best yet,” she remarked, “although I hope the feel of my sweaty legs doesn’t disgust you too badly.”

I was becoming used to her game by this time. Not only did I manage to avoid blushing, but I also came up with a more appropriate answer to her suggestive comment.

“Nothing about you disgusts me, Arlene. I’m only concerned that you might melt under those hot lights.”

“It’s all for art, darling,” she said, affecting a stereotypical thespian’s manner. “That’s a risk I have to run, but it’s nice to know you’re always down here ready to catch my dehydrated remains,” she chuckled before vanishing again into the darkness.

I was sharing a room near the theatre with two other members of the crew, and I spent a difficult night in my bunk after that third performance. Arlene Calvin was consuming my mind; causing me to imagine all kinds of improbable relationships between us. It took me hours to get to sleep. My johnson remained stiff no matter how hard I tried to drive her from my mind. When I awoke in the next morning my bed sheet was sticky with cum.

As I waited for Arlene’s first exit on the fourth night, my head was filled with anticipation at what might greet me when I pulled the rope to open the trap door. As I had been in bed the night before, I was as hard as iron below my belt. Then she started the cue line, and I pulled the rope to swing the hatch open.

For a split second I thought she’d done away with her briefs entirely, because her beautiful round buttocks were as bare as her thighs. Then I noticed the deep red fabric of her g-string covering her vagina. My fascination with her backside was half torture and half rapture. I secured the automatic closing device, then reached my arms over my head and aimed my outstretched hands at her prize Hollywood heinie. Seconds later she was dropping into my arms again. Hands slid over damp legs as I pulled her tighter to me than on any previous occasion. Then her soft rump was clutched in my hands. I squeezed and pulled her tighter still, so my hands rubbed more slowly over her buttocks as we fell into the bean bag. Arlene snapped the hem of her dress back to get me out from under the fabric, only to grab my hair and plant a hard kiss on my lips.

“You’re getting very good at this,” she panted. “These exits could become my favourite part of this show.”

“They’re already my favourite part,” I assured her.

By the fifth night I was having no problem convincing myself that Arlene Calvin was taking over Olga Praski’s role in my life. As soon as she started her first exit cue line, I again opened the hatch and gazed up. Things looked exactly the same as the night before: bare legs and buns and the tiny g-string covering only her carnal chalice. Arlene dropped through the hole and I repeated my performance of the previous evening, ending with a firm grip on her plush buttocks. She giggled as we landed on the bean bag.

“I’m safe now, thank you,” she said. “You can let go of my bum if you like.”

I did let go, of course, but warned her not offer me a choice in the future, in case I decided to hang on for a while.

“Oh, you think so, do you?” Arlene admonished playfully. “You’re getting a little too naughty. I’ll have to fix that. I can’t spend the entire second act with a stagehand attached to my backside.”

Her second exit that night started out exactly the same way, when she fell into my grip she felt different, and with my head under her dress as usual, I also detected a new aroma. I’d already learned to hold my breath before she dropped, so I could inhale more deeply the sweet scent of her sizzling womanhood. This time, however, Arlene had rubbed a thin coat of baby oil over her legs and torso, so she slid through my hands like a wet bar of soap, and we landed on the bean bag in the most erotic position yet.

My arms slid all the way through the elastic waist of her costume. My head was still beneath her clouts, and had dragged the dress almost entirely above her hips, but my grip was now on her ribs and tits. I slid out from underneath the fabric, brushing my fingertips over her firm nipples as I extracted myself. Arlene didn’t move. She remained stretched out on the bean bag, her legs and abdomen uncovered except for the g-string. There was only one red light bulb shining under the stage, and it bathed her oiled flesh in it’s soft rays. Her beautiful legs shimmered like red chrome. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

Arlene lifted her left foot to my neck and ran the toe of her Victorian boot slowly down the front of my shirt, across my belt buckle to my groin, where she pressed her sole against my concrete boner. Then she uttered a very theatrical sigh, lifted herself off the bean bag and scurried away into the darkness. If all this seems like an erotic adventure in itself, it was nothing compared to night number six beneath the stage of The Rex theatre. Everything up to that point had been games; games for adults, yes, but games nevertheless. On the sixth night those games ended. Arlene Calvin and I became serious lovers.

It was her first trap door exit of the night and I had no idea what to expect. If Arlene stayed true to her established form, there would be some new and interesting little treat in store, but I could only imagine what would come next. I knew what I wanted to find. I’d even dreamed about it the night before, but this was still a game and Arlene Calvin was still in total control. There was no way to tell whether she would offer the gift I craved, but as she began her cue line and I pulled the trap door open, the sight waiting for me above was more than I had hoped for.

I looked up into the tent of her dress. It’s thin cloth was no match for the powerful floodlights. Although her hem reached almost to the stage floor, light shone through the fabric illuminating her lower body. As before her legs were bare from just below her knees upward and her heavenly hams were as naked as nature intended. This time, however, Arlene’s nudity did not end there. The g-string was gone, revealing the full length of the hedonist’s highway, stretching from the crevice of her butt to the mound of hair at her front end. My heart pounded with excitement as I stared with anticipatory glee at Arlene Calvin’s venerable vent.

Breaking her fall my arms once again forced their way beneath the elastic waist band so dropped to the bean bag fondling her breasts. Once again her hem rose to a glorious new height just above her belly-button. My face landed inches from her tuft of pussy wool. I wanted to stay there beneath her dress all night, inhaling her natural perfume, before exploring her with my fingers and tongue, but Arlene was tugging at me. Before I could get free of her costume she had her legs wrapped around me, and moments later we were embracing and kissing like a pair of sex starved wood nymphs.

I kneaded her breasts and rubbed her nipples between my fingers, as Arlene ground her privates against my pussy heater, smearing her aromatic juices onto my stagehand’s black jeans. My hand eagerly reached for my belt to unhitch myself ready for a quickie, but she pulled it back to her breast.

“Not this time. Have patience my dear. I have three more exits in this performance, just enough for oral sex both ways and a damned good fuck.”

I can vouch that the screen star, Arlene Calvin, is a woman of her word, as well as a star of outstanding talent and beauty. In her second fall from the stage she held my head down at her abdomen as she raised her dress for a clearer view. Without hesitation I gave her exactly what she wanted. My mouth covered most of her vagina as my tongue slopped happily over her labia and clitoris. Arlene rolled her weight back onto her shoulders enabling me to lift her abdomen into the air, where I could lick the full length of her business end from her pink bud to her back entrance. Musky juices overflowed from her and mixed with my profuse saliva, as she spread her legs wide in the air and moaned with pleasure. We could hear the other actors going through lines and stage blocking above, so with typical professional courtesy, Arlene kept her lips pressed tightly together as she reached her climax, breathing a sigh of orgasmic proportion only through her nostrils.

When she had regained her composure Arlene sat up and kissed me quickly.

“Next time why don’t you take your jeans off before my exit?” she suggested, “and make sure your cock is ready, because I want to suck it until you beg for mercy.”

“No problem there. I’ve had a permanent hard-on ever since you took off the Spandex.”

She laughed mischievously. One last kiss and again she darted off to her dressing room.

For her second exit I was ready as we’d planned, and I couldn’t believe her agility as she slid through my arms. Half blinded by the sudden change from light to dark, she still managed to swallow my luncheon meat even before we were collapsed on the bean bag. Olga had given me a few blow jobs back in North Dakota, but they were nothing like the Arlene Calvin version. From the moment she took my dick into her mouth, I was in a pleasant state of mild shock. I couldn’t believe that anyone’s mouth could operate like Arlene’s. It was a pleasure appliance. Palate; teeth; inner cheeks and lips, not a square millimeter of her mouth was left uninvolved in the quest to bring me pleasure. Her head bobbed up and down, sometimes taking the tip of my penis so deep inside I thought it must surely be blocking her throat.

As I began to climax she moved one hand to my face and placed her forefinger over my lips to remind me to cum quietly. As she had demonstrated earlier, I kept my lips pursed allowing grunts and moans only through my nose. I wanted to shout with delight when my hot load spurted, but Arlene was not letting up. She sucked harder and faster, taking every drop of cum should could plumb from me. The pork soldier shriveled to less than a dried up breakfast sausage, yet still she would not let go. That feminine mouth that spoke theatrical lines with such artistic excellence now fought to distinguish itself as a world class manufacturer of male rapture. My cock felt like a ripe tomatoe that had been crushed for Bolognese sauce. In desperation I grabbed for her hair and pulled her off me, and she came up laughing like a tickled schoolgirl.