SAMPLE THE STORY BY READING CHAPTER ONE

Satyriasis West

The party had the look and feel of an ancient Roman orgy, or at least recalled the extravagant Hollywood parties of the 1920’s. It was fitting, since the mansion had been built by a flamboyant actress of the silent screen. But she had long since died or faded away, and now the house was one of four owned by the publisher, Peter Perrault.

Satyriasis West was a rambling structure built in the style of an early English castle, with a giant swimming pool and eight tennis courts. The most impressive attraction was an immense ballroom with a white marble floor imported from Italy upon which, it is said, Valentino once danced the tango.

This night the dancing was not so classical. A rock band played while the gathering of bronzed “beautiful” people gyrated over the marble tiles to the deafening music. A glittering combination of hopefuls and has-beens had come to the mansion to pay homage to their god, Peter Perrault, who in the course of fifteen years had turned a one-shot girlie magazine called Satyr into the biggest publishing phenomenon of the century.

Satyr was the first publication to uncover pubic hair, a move which boosted its circulation to roughly three million more than that of Time magazine.

“Let’s give ’em pussy,” read the memo Perrault had distributed to his editors after having been shaken by the raft of Satyr imitators flooding the market. The result made publishing history. In recent years, the Satyr empire had expanded to include everything from private clubs to key rings sporting the emblem of the satyr—a mythological god, part-man and part-goat, noted for his uncontrollable sexual urges.

Perrault was a lean, handsome man in his early forties. His tanned face was as well known as the President’s and his habits a good deal more publicized. A self-made man, he had attained what every red-blooded American male only fantasizes about—a harem of beautiful women to satisfy his every wish, and more money than he could care to count. Newsweek estimated his fortune at over one hundred million dollars, and Perrault himself estimated that he had laid five thousand of the most desirable women in the world. He had also been publicized as a confirmed bachelor. Several social commentators believed that his life-style had caused a distinct drop in campus marriages in the years since his rise to fame.

It was therefore quite a shock to everyone when Perrault proposed to a luscious young blonde from Spokane, Washington named Honey Graham. Because of his conspicuous change of heart, he decided to throw this party-to-end-all-parties at his West Coast headquarters.

Perrault was sitting on the terrace with his lovely bride-to-be and his entourage, holding court to a handful of film stars. As he was exchanging small-talk with a middle-aged actor with a noted passion for beautiful young girls, he was interrupted by a brash reporter—made brasher by the free-flowing liquor—who had pushed his way through the crowd.

“I want to meet number five thousand and one!”

The reporter’s voice boomed over the conversation. He was lacking in everything that Perrault had—good looks, wealth and the admiration of women—and his bitter envy and hostility had become stronger with every drink.

“Who’s going to be number five thousand and two?” the reporter asked drunkenly.

Perrault’s gray eyes flashed a message to a giant muscular man who was standing by. The bodyguard stepped forward and tapped the offender on the side of the neck, catching him as he went down. He threw the unconscious man over his shoulder and carried him through the ballroom and up the staircase to the second floor of the mansion. Perrault’s secretary, a woman near sixty, excused herself from the party and went to make arrangements for the reporter.

Perrault and his intended slipped back into conversation with the film star. Meanwhile, the reporter’s hurt ego was being soothed. He was offered a room and a “Mink” for the night. The Minks are the gorgeous girls who decorate the Satyr Clubs and are dressed in the briefest costumes, edged with mink fur. The reporter was angry, but the Mink offered to him looked so inviting that he forgot about his bruised pride and his sore neck. She took him by the hand and led him to the round bed. Directly overhead was a large round mirror suspended from the ceiling. The rest of the ceiling, the walls and the floors were covered with lush red carpeting. As the Mink began undressing the reporter, she purred, “I’m Suzanne. What’s your name?”

“Rory Ellis,” the reporter replied, his entire body blushing.

Suzanne switched on the black light which gave both their bodies a moon-lit glow. She ran her hands over his pudgy body. “I’m going to treat you like no one has ever treated you before.” She took his hands and guided them to her thirty-eight inch breasts.

Ellis was impressed. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine that he would be going to bed with one of the Minks. She pulled him down on the bed, took his average cock in her hand, and leaned forward to plunge it in her iridescent mouth. Suddenly there was the sound of waves breaking on the shore, and mists of amyl nitrite floated through the air from the hidden ducts in the ceiling and colored the reporter’s fantasies, making him love even his own less-than-perfect flesh.

“Perhaps,” he said aloud, “Perrault isn’t such a bad guy after all.” The girl nodded in agreement and trailed her tongue down the base of his cock to his heavy balls.

When the secretary returned to the terrace, the publisher asked, “Has everything been taken care of, Dorcas?”

The tall, gaunt woman nodded and Perrault relaxed, trusting in her usual efficiency. The woman known only as Dorcas seemed quite out of place among the beautiful people who surrounded Perrault. She was close to sixty years old, but her unlined face was youthful and she wore no makeup. She seemed more like a governess, a visiting aunt, or a head librarian, but she had been with Perrault ever since the inception of Satyr. She was everything to him—secretary, story consultant, adviser, confessor. Some said that her ruthless drive had put Perrault on the publishing throne.

Perrault had discovered his bride-to-be working as a Mink at the Satyr Club in San Francisco, and they had had only one falling-out during the time they had known each other. Honey had once remarked, “Dorcas gives me the creeps, Peter. Why do you keep her around?”

He turned on her in a sudden rage and slapped her to the floor. “You are never to criticize Dorcas again. Ever!” Honey, who was smart enough to recognize a closed issue, played the game and actually had become almost fond of the formidable older woman.

The mansion had been redecorated for the engagement party to simulate a Hawaiian luau. Thousands of orchids, gardenias, and hibiscus had been flown in from the Islands to decorate the estate both inside and out. The ballroom looked like a flower shop and scores of gardenias floated on the water of the pool.

“It’s like an old Esther Williams movie,” quipped one of the guests, hoping no one of importance had heard him. At Perrault’s parties the guests were invited to enjoy themselves and admire the surroundings, but their criticism was to be checked at the door. Occasionally a bitchy column would appear denouncing the extravagances of Peter Perrault, but the offending columnists were never asked back. Satyriasis West, like a pornographic Disneyland, was Perrault’s world. He was the law. Here, anything could be had for the asking—food, liquor, sex, marijuana, “coke,” heroin, uppers and downers, in any and all combinations.

By three o’clock most of the guests had departed. Those remaining were put up in the various bedrooms. Perrault, Honey, Dorcas, and Zorin, the bodyguard, stood in the foyer kissing off the rock stars, the comics, the starlets and all the other freeloaders who had come to worship at the shrine of the symbol of modern hedonism. The guests offered their congratulations to Perrault and his fiancee. Luscious and ripe, Honey was every man's centerfold. She possessed the perfect face and the perfect figure.

After everyone left, Zorin was dismissed and Dorcas said that she was going to “check on things,” as usual, in Peter’s master bedroom. Honey announced that she wanted to take a late, late swim.

“Come with me, Peter,” she implored in a voice that was as musical as it was mechanical.

“No, you go ahead. I want to shower before bed. But don’t be too long.”

“Good night, Honey,” said Dorcas in a flat, expressionless voice.

Dorcas and Perrault ascended the magnificent stairway to the huge master bedroom which had been made from four smaller rooms. It featured a giant bed equipped with television, tape recorder, video-tape machine, a bar and a refrigerator. While Perrault took a shower, Dorcas looked in the refrigerator to make sure that it was stocked with Perrault’s favorite snacks, in case he got hungry in the middle of the night. She checked the bed to make sure it was properly made. She opened the cigarette box to make sure it was full of Perrault’s special blend of herbal leaves and marijuana, laced with a dash of “coke.” Perrault finished his shower and Dorcas went to him. She took the towel from him and her long nimble fingers towel-dried his supple skin. He turned to her and said, “Dorcas, I want to tell you that just because I’m marrying Honey, things will never change between us.”

“Never, Peter?”

“Never. You know that.” She handed him a chocolate brown velour robe. He put it on and sat down on a stool while she massaged the back of his neck—a nightly ritual.

As Honey reached the pool a kind of euphoria overcame her. She spun around and looked at the grounds and the giant pool and suddenly thought of her mother, who had thrown her out of the house when she had gone to work at the Satyr Club. “Screw you, Mom,” she said aloud. She went to the edge of the pool, slipped out of her cocktail dress and, like a jungle goddess, dove into the water parting the flowers with her body.

Perrault got up from the stool. “I’d better go down and get Honey. She’s liable to swim until dawn.”

“Be sure to put on slippers, Peter. There’s probably a lot of broken glass about.”

Perrault stepped into a pair of brown leather slippers and walked down the staircase, through the ballroom, past several nameless servants who were quietly at work putting the place in order. He passed the tables laden with uneaten food and walked down the cobblestone walk until he arrived at the top of a broad flight of stone steps which led to the swimming pool. There were sixty-two steps down to the pool and the entire length of the stairway was lined with beautifully-shaped cypress trees.

“Honey,” he called. “Honey.”

The rosy glow of dawn was beginning to break over the California countryside. When he reached the edge of the pool, he saw her. Her eyes were wide . . . staring . . . and her features were tinged with blue, contrasting with the white gardenias which framed her face.

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