The Love House

"What do I wear in bed? Why, Chanel No.5 of course!"

===============================================

My name is Norma Jeane, you know me as Marilyn, and I'm living proof that fame is fickle. Or dead proof anyway, because fame is worse than fickle, it's dangerous. Oh it has its compensations, but boy-oh-boy, it cost me. It cost me my life. Not my soul though. Never my soul!

You didn't think a bottle of barbies could kill this blonde bombshell did you? All she did was trade in her body for something less perishable--a modernist house in fact. Don't ask me how. Perhaps we all bolt from our bodies and fill our favourite places when we go

My new home is little more than a glass box with a flat roof... a blown up skirt of steel, if you like, floating over a scantily clad kitchen, sunken lounge and a couple of bedrooms. Of course, I don't wear makeup anymore; I don't need to paint on that person these days. And I used to say diamonds are a girl's best friend, but I've swapped mine for the glitter of sunlight on my pool. Palm trees surround me instead of ugly reporters, and instead of their ugly stories and obsessive fans--best of all-- the unstoppable gossip of songbirds.

Don't bother looking for this place, you won't find it on any Hollywood tour or in any cash-in book or interview. It was my bat cave when I was alive, and since I died, my skin. So for the last--goodness--sixty years of my death I've filled this house like I filled my clothes. Fabulously. You could say I swapped pantieless-in-silk for bodiless-in-glass!

So Marilyn is "jello on springs" no more. I skip in the air like my swallows, light as light, light as laughter. I giggle and flit in and out of rooms and, when I have guests, I flit in and out of them too. In and out of their bodies. We're born sexual creatures, thank goodness, and it turns out we can be sexy in death too.

And thanks to the movie studio that bought this house in a last ditch attempt to own me, I have many guests. They call my house, which is really me when you think about it, Love House. The studio uses it as a retreat for their talent, their top stars, before a stressful shoot.

I hated the studios when I was alive, and still do now I'm dead, so I slip inside everyone they send me and try to change their hearts and change their minds. All who come to me (and all who come in me!) find love, with each other or with themselves. These lovelies find my embrace warmer than cold mother studio, and they contemplate my fate and they ask themselves a single question: Has the movie studio got their best interest at heart, or is it a money making machine grinding their bones to make its bread? Worse, is it abusing them?

Oh, I can't say I've made a world of difference, but many actresses who've slept in my arms have found the strength to shop their abusers, so I won't stop now. I'll never stop. I call it my death's work.

And today, dear reader, as well as us ghosts, you and I, we have four new guests crossing the stepping stones of my moatish pool, as if into a very stylish fairy castle! Here's the cast of our sexy little drama, my latest lovelies:

Deshawn Troy: A mesmeric, hugely-muscled giant of an African American man. A shooting star thanks to the "Dead Beat" blockbuster franchise. But at just twenty-five, he's worried about being typecast and wants to flex some acting muscle. The studio is happy for him to flex all his muscles.

Yoon Ji-Lim: A luminous Korean actress, model, martial arts master and international phenomenon. She's been breaking bones and hearts since she was 16. That's twenty years, and now she wants to break out of her superhero movie prison. The studio is happy for her to throw off all her chains.

Kate Brown: A bleached blonde, apple-cheeked milkmaid of an English girl. The private chef and personal assistant to Deshawn Troy. Also his number one fan. Like me at twenty-two, she thinks fear is stupid, and so are regrets, and that imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.

Ted Malloney: Yoon's driver. Thirty-six going on ancient. A busted up, American bulldog of an ex-navy SEAL. He does whatever he's told--immediately and very, very well.

There they are on my doorstep, shaded by my swooping cantilevers. They peer into my dim, but don't see me or you waiting, just acres of marble, wood, and leather. They look into me because they're avoiding each other's eyes. Can't you sense that tension while Ted-- a walking buckaroo of everybody's luggage--fiddles with the key at my slab-of-oak door? A quick dip into them reveals that the tension is due to the glorious, but indulged, Deshawn Troy. He made a bad joke at Kate's expense in the car on the way up.

It'd been going so well, too.

Ted enjoyed driving Deshawn's chromed Humvee. It was a much softer ride than the beasts he barrelled across the deserts of Iraq back in the day. He was also impressed that the bottle-blonde Kate sat up front with him, rather than riding in back with the talent like PAs normally did. He also liked that she peeled and prepped fruit as they went, ready for the talent's snack when they arrived at Love House, and that every now and then she popped a cube of pineapple or flake of orange into his mouth.

Kate, dressed in her habitual sandals, rolled-up cargo shorts and linen oxford top, felt shabby next to Ted's starched shirt and tie combo. But she enjoyed how he filled it, as well his glinty squint as he drove and the square-fisted grip he had on the wheel. She liked his aura of silent calm too--as if she was sitting in the shade of a boulder. She wanted to read all his crags and scars using her fingertip like the needle of a vinyl record player. She supposed he'd lived the life Deshawn played in his movies. So perhaps, in some ways, she was really Ted's number one fan after all.

Yoon and Deshawn were equally excited and equally anxious. Their careers were about to blast into orbit. The new project would place them in the legion of the gods alongside Brando and (blush), yours truly.

The studio had sent them to my house to "get comfortable" before filming an explicit love scene in a "full blooded rebooty" of The Bodyguard. The original story of a beautiful diva falling in love with her rugged bodyguard, had been re-imagined so the pocket doll Yoon was to guard the massive body of a rapper played by Deshawn. Apart from this delicious twist, the movie's other USP was its climax: the world's most explicit, realtime, unsimulated love scene.

Hey, you know me, anything goes (except dullness). But Yoon and Deshawn shared a knot of anxiety about their love scene and I don't blame them. What the writer imagined as an ironic, even iconic romance, the enfant terrible director and money men had beaten into a very different shape. Yoon was offered the script first, because it'd been written for her, and the studio was so keen she should do it, they offered her the pick of Hollywood for her co-star. She chose Deshawn, publicly on a talk show, remarking she'd had a crush on him since "Dead Beat 1: Hard as Hell."

This fact turned the muscle giant to jelly every time he considered it. Nearly ten years her junior, watching Yoon's teenage martial arts flicks when he was a kid had got him into acting.

So while the front seats were a picture of workful calm, nerves crackled in the back. Deshawn overcompensated, popping his pecs and pretending to inflate his bicep by puffing on his thumb. Yoon's owlish expression seemed--to him--enraptured. He didn't know this expression was her armour. It beguiled but never let on how she really felt. So he went even further when boasting about Kate's cooking.

"I gotta say, Kate built this body as sure as any gym. She's tougher than my trainer. Regular balanced meals. High protein, high vitamin, low fat, low carb. No slob out TV dinners from my girl, she always serves me at the table." That's when the dirty thought bubbled up, along with the decision that it was his job to break the ice among these tight-asses. "And man she serves me well--"

"Thank you Mr Troy!" Kate spun in her seat. "But I don't think we need to share all my secrets do we?"

Deshawn clapped and blasted laughter at the sun roof. "Don't be so British! Listen, let me put it this way, Kate serves me AT the table and UNDER it... know what I'm saying?"

Yoon blinked, startled by the unexpected, and kind of unwanted mental image. Her smile, already tight, twitched at the corners. Deshawn wished he hadn't started, but sensed no one quite got his joke so he decided to go too far in the hope of rescuing himself. "And let's just say she wolfs down half the protein she puts on my plate!"

The car interior shrank. With a silent groan, Kate screwed into a ball. Yoon watched Deshawn howl at his own outrageousness. As she feared, he was immature, but gorgeous with it, and she'd met worse. Anyway, if the kid got overexcited, she could handle herself. And she had Ted if things got really scary. Still, if she didn't go along with his bawdy humour, she'd look prim. Not a good look just before a sex scene rehearsal.

She elbowed Deshawn's ribs and, behind her hand, stage whispered. "Ted only drives my car in the polite hours. In the impolite hours he drives my body!" Then she reached into her years of experience, and screeched a dirty laugh she'd learned voicing a hooker cat in a cartoon.

From her slumped position, Kate cut a glance at Ted. He seemed unconcerned being painted as a hired cock. If anything he sat taller. But now surely he'd see Kate for what she was: a desperate groupie.

Then he caught her eye. He rolled his conspiratorially. She wanted to kiss him.

I wanted to kiss Deshawn, because as the laughter faded, he sensed Yoon had indulged him. He turned to the streets scrolling by his window and, as ever, felt the dumbest kid in class.

#

The swallows are giddy. My excitement always overstimulates them. They swoop and dive, dipping beaks in the pool, drinking on the wing. They sing without taking a breath, calling more to play. "Roll up! Roll up! The spectre's feeling sexy!"

Because my lovelies are in my kitchen now. Ted lugs luggage, while Kate darts about gathering plates and utensils. Yoon and Troy find the latest versions of the scripts waiting for them on the breakfast bar, edited to highlight their poolside finale. They flush as they scan the pages. My pool, just on the other side of the glass, taunts them by tossing ripples of sunlight all over their faces.

"It's... more than I expected." Deshawn strokes the back of his bald head, as if to calm it.

"Mm hmm" Yoon bites the inside of her cheek and twirls a lock of her boyish pixie cut.

He reads out loud: "Unsimulated. No prosthetics. No body doubles. Filmed as it happens on multiple hidden cameras."

"Mm hmm." Words catch her eye: 'She spreads dripping labia over his mouth.' Her glance flees from the page.

Deshawn claps his script shut. "Shall we call our agents?"

"My agent's read it already." She watches palm trees wave outside like adoring fans. "She said it will be very, very good for us. That it's powerful and we should think about it, maybe rehearse it even, here in private."

"You agreed to a rehearsal?"

"I said I'd talk to you."

He rests his hot head on the cool glass. To him, the waving palms outside are more alarmed than adoring. Fuck, how'd he get here, having this conversation with an icon like Yoon Ji-Lim? He finds it difficult to meet her eye anyway, she's so supernaturally perfect. And he's still drunk on the fact she chose him for this role, out of all the actors and models in the industry. The sweetest, toughest woman in the world wants to do the dirtiest scene in movie history--a scene climaxing in a "ravenous 69"--with him, the dumbass muscle brain, Deshawn Troy. The guy who boasts about his private chef's blowjobs.

Yoon tries to lighten the mood. She fakes a chuckle but it comes out like a nervous quack. She blurts a question to cover it up. "Ah... do you have a girlfriend? I mean, someone who might be hurt if we... tried this?"

Deshawn considers Kate, then shakes his head. He's paying the girl--that hardly counts as a relationship. And it ain't him she worships so much as his dick. They both like it that way, too. Yoon rests her temple beside him, as if on a glass pillow.

He turns to her. "You're single too?"

Yoon thinks of Ted, but nods. "Very."

And so the deal is done. She hides her face in her script and screams her cat hooker laugh.

I shiver in anticipation, not that anyone would notice but the birds, barnstorming and hollering outside. Don't ask me how or why they feel my horniness, but they always do and are quite addicted to it. When I orgasm they go insane. I guess swallows are just naturally lascivious creatures. I blame their name.

Yoon and Ted

============

Yoon and Deshawn agree to take (separate) showers, change into the scene's costumes, then meet by the pool "to see what happens."

Meanwhile, Ted and Kate busy themselves moving their bosses in. Kate hangs Deshawn's clothes in my guest room while he showers. She lingers, hoping to see him naked, but he takes ages and she feels creepy. LIke back before she knew him, following him around, desperate for a glimpse. So he's still scrubbing when she returns to the kitchen to finish her fruity snacks.

Ted unpacks Yoon's clothes and makes her bed. The ensuite's shower gushes as he tucks my sheets tight enough to bounce a quarter on. He's laying out Yoon's costume--a short, white muslin kaftan and gold chain belt--when she yells for him from the bathroom..

He finds her in the black marble scoop of the shower, shivering under a freezing jet, her arms wrapped about her middle. Her naked body always takes his breath away: She holds such power in her short calves and roundly muscled thighs, and such elegance in her lithe torso and long neck. She's so smooth she looks carved or poured, not jointed. But he never gawks, not unless she tells him to, so it's only his peripheral vision that clocks her newly hairless mound. She hates "Hollywood" waxes, and calls them disturbing. That she's chosen to do it for this movie, or maybe for Deshawn, twists his gut.

"Boss?"

"H-hold me, Ted."

He jumps right under the shower, suited and booted, albeit jacketless. Yoon sniggers and headbutts his chest. He wraps his arms around her firm little body, reaching behind to turn up the water temperature. Since he told her that he liked cold showers sometimes, she's showered cold all the time. She has to be the toughest.

"Boss, let me call your agent. Cancel this bullshit."

"This bullshit is my job." She cuddles him round the waist with a creaky sigh. Her hips nudge his thigh. "I just want you to warm me up."

"Whatever you need, Boss."

"I need to be wet."

He snorts. "We'll you're in the right place."

She slaps his sodden buttock. "Wash me."

He takes the soap from a shelf hollowed out in the stone and lathers her back and bottom enjoying how her breath hitches. She slithers around in his arms. A delicious sensation. (I'm curled inside my lovelies' skins, purring at every stroke and wriggle) Ted slides about her breasts and I feel Yoon's nipples stiffen against his leathery palms as if they were my own hands and my own nipples. He takes a scrumptious age going south, even as Yoon drags at his knuckles. When he finally skims her abdomen and curls underneath, she melts and I moan so loud it comes out of both their mouths. My radioactive excitement even gets the swallows hopping about my roof. Little heads pop up over the edge of the bathroom's domed rooflight.

Yoon winds her bottom at his front. "I got you this hard already?"

"You're a very attractive woman, Boss. Every man is hard in your presence."

"Sycophant. Prove it."

Juggling the soap, Ted unfastens his trousers, drops them, then yanks down his boxers. His thick cock jumps out. Lucky Yoon. Lucky me. Universe forgive me, I love an erection. Maybe that's why I devoted my life to making them. One after the other. Like a potter. I get him to run a soapy palm along himself as if his hand were mine. Men are so lucky. It's as if they are entirely made of clittoris.

Yoon peers imperiously over her shoulder, trying to look un-bothered even though her mouth waters and her heart races. She jiggles her ass for him to keep washing.

He runs his hands under her, front and back, soaping her from clit to anus. She lifts a foot onto the soap shelf to give him free reign. When she sags, hugs her raised leg and mutters, "Yes" he takes the shower hose from the wall to rinse her, top to bottom, eventually focussing the jet between her thighs. She trembles. "Lick me."

Oh yes please! Lick us!

"Is that a good idea, Boss? I mean you come real--"

"You lick my nerves away all the time, why's today any different? You don't want to?"

"More than anything Boss, but I think that's Mr Troy's job today, that's all."

"Please..." A practised mewl. "Just a little. I need to be extra wet and you always get me... drippy."

Ted takes that as an order. He drops to his knees, trousers in a puddle round his ankles, shirt plastered to chest and shoulders, and his tie limp. He kisses Yoon's yielding folds. She catches a breath. He teases her clit lightly with nipping lips.

She peeks down at his jumping manhood. God, she thinks, look at him. This was why she took on these crazy ass jobs: to earn the wealth and power it takes to have a man like Ted indulge your every whim, without consequence or complication. "You love this don't you?"

"Live for it boss." And he did. Ted was a man paid to please one of the most alluring women on the planet. I've no problem with this kind of transactional relationship, holy smokes I had a private masseur for years! A woman needs what a woman needs.

She pats his head. "So. Fucking. Hot."

But Ted senses she's about to come, her hole clenching against his lips, so he sits back. He pulls off his wet shoes and socks and chucks his soaked trousers and boxers away. He strokes her legs, one still perched high on the soap dish, and tries to calm her. She loops her raised foot around his neck and shoves her hips at his face.

He eats her vulva like a juicy exotic fruit, like some morsel Kate's offering his mouth. Kate's sunny image fills him, and then it's Kate he's eating and Kate's arousal salting his tongue. Yoon leans back against the marble and opens her lips to expose her clit more to that fabulous, adoring lick.

Her eyelids droop and she drifts away on his tongue and, oh boy, it's great for me. I can feel her gooey petals in my phantom mouth, her clitoris suckable as a nipple or a cock. Ted's erection is busting hard at Yoon's taste, thickly coating his tongue. At the same time, I share the ride of Yoon's sex on the roller coaster of his mouth-- the gasping free fall of his sucking.

It's all too hot and I don't want to come yet. My birdy audience has doubled, and they flutter and trill, all worked up. They're like a barometer of my horn. I take little breaks from my lovelies' bodies to delay my orgasm. I used to be able to come and come, especially on a good tongue, but now I have one real biggie and have to sleep an entire day. I have much more work to do before I can let myself go.

Yoon rocks her hips at Ted's face. "God I hope Deshawn is as good as you." She yanks his head closer, squashing his already broken nose flatter. "He will enjoy it, won't he?"

Ted pauses. "I can't imagine a man not loving this job Boss." He slurps along her groove. Her excitement dribbles off his tongue. There. She's ready. He quits and she growls, clawing his buzz cut. He stands and turns off the faucet.

Yoon stamps her foot. "Fucker."

"Not today, Boss." He wraps a fluffy towel around her and buffs.

She lolls in his embrace, gazing at her sweet feet, curling her toes. "They want me to come with him. Three times. For real, ideally, not faked."