Summer Stock

It took a few minutes for both of us to regain some energy and composure. She stood up ready to leave for her dressing room. I was still too enthralled to move. Arlene didn’t dash away. She gazed at my limp pecker and grinned.

“It doesn’t look very well. I hope you can get it working again for the second act,” she said. “I think I deserve a good fuck with a healthy dick.”

“You deserve a lot more than that. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

“I think it would be fun to get totally naked. How about you?”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“See you later,” she said, and sauntered off to the back stairway.

Arlene’s final trap door exit was about twenty minutes into the second act. We seldom saw each other during the intermission, because stage hands were always too busy setting the stage for the next act. There was a gap of about thirty minutes between our third and fourth encounters beneath the stage each evening. On that sixth evening I spent the entire time obsessed with planning every detail of my seduction of Arlene Calvin. Most of all I was determined to pound her pussy with such skill that she would never forget the orgasm as long as she lived.

By the time Arlene dropped through the stage floor for the fourth time that night, I was a single minded mass of masculine sex drive, bent only on the complete satisfaction of my lover. I waited naked for her below the hatch as she had requested, and as I peered up at Arlene’s juicy scabbard above me, I gave my pecker a squeeze to check its hardness. It felt long and very stiff, and I hoped it would feel the same to her. It was difficult to tell for sure with her usual perspiration from the floodlights and athletics on stage, but it seemed to me the wetness shining on her flange was something more than simple sweat. Arlene appeared as ready for love as I was. When the smoke bomb exploded and she fell toward me, she did not grab for my shoulders as usual. She placed total trust in my ability to keep her from harm, and used the time instead to reach behind her back and begin tearing open the Velcro closures of her costume. When we landed and the trap door sprang shut above us, it took only seconds for Arlene to remove her dress and lay back naked on the bean bag. I kneeled and looked down for a moment, savouring the sight before me: the actress, Arlene Calvin, already something of a Hollywood sex symbol, and destined to become a love goddess of both the big and small screens, with a face and body that could stop traffic in any city centre, was sprawled before me like a buffet lunch, naked from her Victorian footwear to her exotic stage makeup.

“Ten minutes max,” she stated as she lifted her legs in the air, “after that I’m in danger of missing my next cue.”

I brushed my hand over her labia as I prepared to mount her. As I’d suspected her love pumps were well primed. As I pressed myself inside her she gasped once, then smiled and cooed with satisfaction. Her abdomen was in motion immediately and I quickly found her rhythm. We began in a full embrace until we had built up speed, then I pressed my fists into the bean bag, and suspended my torso above her for greater leverage. Arlene clenched my buttocks, digging her nails in a little with each thrust.

“More, more...deeper, go deeper,” she implored.

She could ask anything of me, this magnificent woman, and I would have moved mountains to fill her every desire. I used my knees to bunch the bean bag up beneath her delicious buns, raising her abdomen higher and higher for the deeper penetration she craved. Not a moment passed during our intercourse, when I allowed my mind to wander from the task of bringing her ultimate pleasure. Then the magic started to happen. A few times her anxious murmurs and dreamy expression made it clear she was experiencing minor orgasms, while I also felt the pressure building in my crotch. As we approached the big one we encouraged each other, communicating our approaching bliss. I was giving her everything I had, panting like a racehorse, and she must have been doing exactly the same, because I exploded and she imploded together, causing both of us to see the gates of Nirvana flinging themselves open for us to fly as one into physical paradise.

How we managed to stop ourselves from screaming and shouting to announce our appreciation of each other remains a mystery to me. Missiles of cum rocketed into the depths of her vagina. Arlene’s internal organ tightened in spasms around my fast shrinking penis, coaxing out the last drops of seed. With our teeth clenched we exhaled loudly but with restraint so as not to be heard by the performers on stage above us. I collapsed atop her, the job done to both our satisfaction, and her arms squeezed me so hard it was like being in the grip of a professional wrestler. She was kissing me and licking my chin and cheeks like an adoring hound. My erection was entirely spent, and I slid out of her. She moaned with disappointment at the loss of my cock.

“I’m sorry.”

Arlene laughed softly and cupped my head in her hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re an awesome hunk of a man. I’ve never had a bigger orgasm.”

I noticed her facial perspiration was obscuring some of her makeup, and I reminded her to check it before her next entrance.

“Oh no, I hadn’t thought of that,” she burst, then she struggled to her knees and grabbed her dress. “I’ve got to go.” She bent over and landed one more kiss on my lips then loped off into the darkness, with a noticeable stagger in her gait.

After the show that night Arlene and I went to a late night Italian restaurant for a pasta feast, and we discussed the relationship that had grown between us. She explained that she had almost missed her next cue after our furtive fuck beneath The Rex’s historic old boards, and she didn’t want to take that risk a second time. The theatre company had rented its leading lady a small apartment, and we agreed that I should share it with her for the rest of the show’s run.

For seven glorious weeks after that, Arlene and I filled our nights and most of our afternoons with every pleasure healthy human flesh can afford. After every performance, we’d eat a hearty meal, then head back to the apartment to frolic until we fell asleep in each other’s embrace. We’d awake around noon and start again. As I sit now, six years later in my bungalow in Fargo, North Dakota, with this journal on my knee and my pen in hand, I can still recall the taste and smell of every succulent and pungent inch of Arlene Calvin. Olga sits nearby, and we’re watching Arlene’s latest video release. Olga likes Arlene’s science fiction movies. She thinks I like them the same way, but she’s wrong. What I like most are the sex scenes, where the actresses’ perfect body unwraps for the cameras, and drives millions of men the world over wild with desire, especially those like myself who have had the privilege of sharing her bed in reality.

I was disappointed when Arlene ended our affair the day after The Magician’s Sex Life closed. I pleaded with her to give our relationship a chance, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Arlene’s sexuality is not meant for one man. It is a gift from God to all men, and must be shared among them. She was too fine a person to say that to me. I doubt whether she fully believes it herself, but as I rode home to the prairies on the Greyhound, I realised she was right to end our affair when she did. Our lives are too different to blend into one, and there isn’t a stud alive who could hold Arlene’s exclusive interest for a life time. That’s part of her incredible attraction.

Olga turned out to be a fine woman too. After my return from San Francisco she was clearly a little surprised at some of the sexual challenges I placed upon her, but she rose to the call every time, and now even surpasses me in her sexual appetite. That’s the lesson I learned as a young man from the Hollywood love goddess, Arlene Calvin. I know for certain what some men only suspect, and others can’t even imagine: that a woman’s lust is boundless, and the happiest men alive are those who devote themselves to the futile task of giving some woman all the pleasure she can take. They’ll never succeed, because a woman is a bottomless receptacle of pleasure. But men who try to fill that chasm day after day make themselves and their lover very happy indeed.

My love for my wife, Olga, goes far beyond a love for one woman. She might not understand that if I told her, so it remains a secret I share only with this journal. Olga, is my personal gateway into the mysterious world of womankind. When I make love with her, I’m fucking every glorious one of them, and I am carrying on the quest for physical Nirvana that I began six years ago with Arlene Calvin, in the dim and dusty space below the boards of an old vaudeville stage near Fisherman’s Wharf.

END