Breakfast at Cassandra's Ch. 03

On the set of Desert Flower,

Mojave Desert, 1952

The unpredictable gusts had just picked up, creating a big whirlwind of dust that wreaked havoc as Brittany Flowers made her way down the lot.

Dusty plains and dry desert were not her idea of a good time, but alas, it was the last day of shooting.

She was on her way to fetch one of the "actors" for the next scene, who had the reputation for being late to his shoots.

She picked up her ankle-length gown just a bit as to not let it drag in the hot sand.

This "actor" was to play a bartender, with a salty tongue. He had maybe 30 seconds of screen time and just one line: "We're out of sarsaparilla."

Brittany walked her way past several trailers and then saw one with a specific marking on the door.

Scribbled in pencil was the name, Marvin Harding.

"Huh! You have got to be kidding me," she laughed.

She wrapped lightly on the door, then knocked louder.

"Marvin? Are you in there? We're shooting your scene," she said aloud.

He answered in a muffled tone, but urged her to come in.

"Are you decent?" she asked, delaying her entry.

"Sure, come on in," he insisted.

She sighed, and opened the flimsy door.

Marvin had his back to her, then turned around.

He was wearing a gun holster, and nothing else.

"Gotcha!" he teased, playfully drawing his two guns on the beautiful, blonde-haired starlet.

Brittany, used to this kind of behavior from Marvin, simply laughed.

"Two guns and a bazooka?" she mused, alluding to the pair of pistols, and the thick, tubular hunk of flesh that hung lazily between Marvin' legs, down to his lower thighs.

He swiveled his hips, making his aforementioned soft member swing from side to side.

"Oh, brother," she laughed, taking a seat on the nearby chair, having to clear space between the various magazines and taco wrappers.

Brittany had learned to take Marvin's casual exhibitionism in stride.

In fact, she was intrigued by it. Marvin's frequent nudity seemed to be laced with a certain defineable submissiveness.

Knowing full well Brittany would never be reciprocating the nudity, Marvin nevertheless relished the chance to be nude in front of her.

This got her curious.

And then, of course, there was the unavoidable size factor.

"How big is that thing anyway?" she would often ask, and this day was no different.

"Eh, bigger than a flashlight, smaller than a duesenberg," he answered, ambiguous as ever.

"What?!" she replied in a disgusted tone, wanting a clear, definitive answer, but not getting it.

She sighed.

"Would you hurry up and get dressed, Marvin? They're waiting for you. And since when do extras get their own trailers?!" she objected.

"Eh, the boss has a soft spot for me," he answered.

Marvin, slow as could be and maybe for effect, spent the next 20 minutes getting dressed, starting with his shirt, his tie, his socks, saving his pants for last.

His long member drooped below the bottom of his button-down shirt.

"They gave me guns for this scene," Marvin said like an excited kid, a 38-year-old with a child-like mind.

"But apparantly they didn't give you pants," Brittany fired back. "Or is wardrobe busy amending a third leg in them?"

She was satisfied with her quip, having a good chuckle.

"Hey, you didn't give me the password for Aubrey's next shindig," Marvin said, as he finally, reluctantly put on a pair of tight, black slacks.

Brittany grimmaced, knowing she was going to have to relay some bad news.

"Marvin...Aubrey doesn't want you coming," she revealed.

"You gotta be kidding, how come?" the now fully-dressed Marvin said, sitting down on the sofa opposite Brittany.

"Marvin, it's your drinking, and your behavior," she went on. "You're as unpredictable as those wind storms out there, and just as chaotic..."

Sadly, Marvin didn't even bother to argue.

"You need to tone it down," she instructed, speaking mainly of his drinking. "Once you do...maybe I'll put in a good word for you."

He nodded in agreement, albeit with a bit of reluctance.

"Your husband drinks at the parties," he scoffed.

"Rod behaves himself!?" she fired back. "And he doesn't..."

She took a deep breath to defuse her frustration.

"Marvin, listen to me. This life, this Hollywood lifestyle if you wanna call it, is eating you up. Some people, it's not good for them," she lamented.

"I can handle it," he assured her.

There was quiet for some time.

"Well, we better get over there," she offered, rising to her feet, clicking her high heels together. "You have your one line memorized?"

He laughed.

"We're out of sarsaparilla," he obliged.

He stood before Brittany, requesting her opinion on his outfit.

She could't help but laugh once her eyes drifted downward, and to the unmistakable bulge that coiled its way down Marvin's left leg.

"Uh," she said with comedic effect, now pointing to what she was looking at. "It goes all the way down to your (laugh)..."

"Hey, this is the way God made me," he laughed, trying to readjust his overmatched slacks, but with no success.

"You better drape one of your guns over it," she suggested, as he put on the final piece of his wardrobe - his gun belt. "Otherwise, that trouser snake's gonna have its own line in the closing credits (laugh)..."

***

Brittany Flowers' living room

June, 1982

"How long have you had this fetish?" she asked with wide-eyed, glowing interest.

"Uh...as long as I can remember," Harold revealed.

Her mouth dropped open, with awe.

She playfully smacked her personal assistant with a T.V. guide, this one with the cast of Hill Street Blues on the cover.

"Harold, I never would have known," she admitted. "Well, that is, up until I saw you watching my home movies and getting such a kick out of them..."

"So you can understand, the last few weeks...getting to be nude for you...

"Shooting for me?" she added, in a lusty tone.

"All that," he replied. "It's been...amazing...to say the least."

She shook her head, not only finding it wonderful that Harold had this fetish, a fetish that would later be described as CFNM, but that he openly revealed it to her.

"Harold, you know, I'm sitting here, and I'm thinking...you know who else had this fetish?" she asked rhetorically. "Marvin Harding!"

The name itself, and all its implications, caused Harold to bust out laughing.

"Ha!" he replied.

"Honest to God," she answered. "He just...loved to be nude...when the situation didn't really call for nudity (laugh)..."

"You two would be like peas in a pod," she laughed.

Harold's mind lingered on one aspect though.

"Britt, I have an economy-sized unit," he laughed. "Not something worthy of the Guiness Book of World Records, like your old pal, Marv..."

She waved that off.

"Truth be told, I think the size of his dork was a major bummer for him," she revealed, "at least in later years..."

"How so?" Harold scoffed.

Brittany sighed, as if she didn't really need to explain but did so.

"Harold, imagine going through life with something...like THAT," she sympathized. "Sure, at first it brought him some notoriety and his own niche in Hollywood circles. But then it becomes ALL you're known for."

Harold shook his head.

"Going to Vegas isn't exactly the right kind of escape either," he considered.

Brittany sighed.

"Well I hope he's doing okay," she said.

A few Western bluebirds chirped on the feeders by the family room window, stealing their attention for a bit.

"Harold, you know who we'll have to go see, to talk to about your...fetish?" Brittany said with a wink.

Harold could feel his face flush a bit.

"Who's that?" he posed.

"Aubrey Chattersly," she said with gusto.

"She's still alive?" he said, surprised.

"Of course she is! And as vibrant as ever," Brittany clarified. "And...believe it or not, she still has her parties!"

"No," he said disbelievingly.

"Yes!" she answered back.

"I just haven't had time...or a reason...to go in recent years," she said. "But now I have both."

Harold was becoming a wonderful personal assistant in many ways, assisting Brittany on her way back to the spotlight.

TO BE CONTINUED...