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Naked Lady

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Author Mullin Garr, who as it turns out also made the leap from Greenleaf to Olympia US, debuted for Maurice with this book, an explicit yet tender account of a Hollywood writer and the babe he seduces. Hourly. There's also something in there about a dreadful ex-wife and murder.

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Naked Lady

Mullin Garr

This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.


The beautiful face was expressionless. “Are you asking me to live with you, Johnny?”

“That's about the size of it,” I said awkwardly. “It's all I can offer you at the moment. You understand my situation.”

“Of course.” The big dark eyes were steady. “What if—well, what if we have to wait for a long time; years perhaps—what then?”

“And we might have to, doll. We'd just go on living together. It's a risk, and I wouldn't blame you for refusing... But I had to ask you.”

She nodded. “I rather expected something of the sort, I think. It's usual in these circumstances, isn't it?”

“I don't know. I've never been in these circumstances before. I'll tell you this: no wife ever got more consideration and respect than you'd have. You'd be mine, and no ceremony could make it more binding. I'm tired of saying good-night to you; of going my way while you go yours. I want to go to bed with you every night and find you there beside me in the morning. I want you to keep my house for me, and I want to take care of you; to make your happiness and welfare my responsibility. And I'm afraid...”

“Of losing me?” The lovely eyes were very serious.

“Of that and of the waste, sweetheart.”

She sighed deeply and laid her tousled head on my shoulder. “Darling,” she murmured, “I've been racking my brain for a way to put the thought in your mind. If you hadn't asked me, soon I'd have asked you. And then you'd know how really shameless I am. You see, Johnny—”

“Are you saying you will?” I got up on my elbow, turning her onto her back so I could look down into her face. “Say it, baby.”

She smiled. Her eyes glowed when my glance went inevitably to her big, rounded, pink-tipped breasts. “It's not a question of losing me,” she said softly, taking my free hand in both of hers. “It's the waste you mentioned. I couldn't bear that either. May I move in tomorrow? I've been ready for several days, darling. Most of my things are packed...”

I kissed her then, and in the middle of the kiss she directed my hand to her left breast. Almost at once the nipple rose hard and insistent between my fingers, and the breast seemed to grow even firmer as I gently squeezed it. Soon my hand wandered down over her taut belly, over the thick brush of black hair, and came finally to the satin skin of her thighs.

The proud breast was left unattended for only a moment. Her darting tongue paused in its search of my mouth, and I transferred the kiss to the erect nipple. I drew it into my mouth; sucked in the swollen aureole too—and some smooth white flesh along with it. My tongue teased her nipple; I sucked the entire tip of her breast gently, and my hand stroked her trembling thighs. They stirred and parted, and she drew in her breath sharply when my hand slipped in between them.

She drew her knees up, the thighs spread wide in eager abandon, and her hips tilted upward to meet the caress of my stroking fingers. Her hand slipped down over my belly and grasped my turgid cock without hesitation. It was the first time she'd touched me there, and I think every muscle in my body reacted. Instantly she removed her hand.

“Shouldn't I do that?” She asked thickly. “Shouldn't I hold your—your...”

“My prick, baby?”

Her face flamed, but her hot eyes were steady. “Yes. Your sweet prick, my heart.”

“It's yours, doll. You do anything you want with it.”

“Good.” The hand against my hip urged me to give her room to maneuver. Her fingers stroked me, and her touch sent recurring shocks of pleasure through my legs and belly. The hand pushed at my hip again until I lay flat on my back; it returned to my rigid cock and she stared down at it in wide-eyed wonder.

“My God,” she whispered. “It's simply incredible! And less than an hour ago I had all that inside me. Look, dearest; my fingers won't even meet my thumb. And my hands aren't small...” Her eyes flickered to mine, and she hid her hot face against my chest.

She had turned onto her side, and the position naturally restricted my own field of operation. I pulled a smoothly muscled thigh across my legs and ran my hand over the firm fullness of her beautiful ass. She gasped when my fingers found the warm swollen lips of her cunt once more.

“I'm all gooey again,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby. It's wonderful.”

“Is it, precious?” And she moaned as my fingers slipped into the warmth of that long deep slash. Her ass squirmed in response to my teasing fingers, but when they found her clitoris—when I stroked the tiny erection with my middle finger—then she could endure it no longer. She reached back and pulled my hand away.

“That's enough,” she said breathlessly. “Honey! Your hand is all wet and—and slippery.”

“And a good thing, too.” My voice was so thick I wouldn't have recognized it.

Her hand caressed my cock. “I know,” she said fervently, and an instant later was standing on her knees astride my hips.

The gleaming eyes held mine as her hand guided me to the hot open cunt. Its distended lips were already heavy with slime, but still she lingered; teasing herself with the head of my cock until her whole body was jerking with passion. Then she drew a deep, shuddering breath and placed it in position. Her eyes closed; her mouth grew slack and heavy as she writhed and twisted, forcing the throbbing head through the portal—and then she leaned forward, bracing herself with a hand on either side of me... And when my hands went to her trembling breasts she slowly began to impale herself.

“Big Johnny,” she growled; “I'm going to drive you clear out of your mind... And myself too!”


I guess the foregoing deserves some explanation, and while I'm at it, I'll go all the way back to the beginning. It won't take long, so there's no cause for alarm. Like—don't bother to brace yourself.

I was born twenty-seven years ago in the hills near Hanna, Oklahoma—and if the name is unfamiliar it should cause no embarrassment; I never met anybody outside of McIntosh County who'd ever heard of it. I wore shoes in the winter, took my bath in the summer—using soap my aunt made in a number three wash-tub—and attended school when there was no way to avoid it.

I don't know who the head of the house was. He was a tall, lean, silent man, much given to hunting, fishing, and the white lightnin' he made in his own still. He shared my aunt's bed, but he damned sure wasn't my uncle. That uncle had been killed the day my father was, defending another still on another mountain.

I remember the blackjack trees, and the hogs running wild in the berry patches. I remember the pond where I fished, the old lever-action Marlin I learned to shoot with—and I remember the day my four-year-old brother died of typhoid. I remember that we buried him the same day—there on the mountain—and I remember that a man in an old Ford came up the mountain and had some harsh things to say about our cistern being downhill from the privy. And I remember how my aunt's man chased him off with his old black-powder shotgun.

I remember the wind whistling up through the gaps in the floor in winter, and the grass that grew there in the spring. I remember the oiled paper we stuck over the broken windows, the tin-can lids we nailed over the holes in the roof—and the one trip I made to Hanna when we needed a new cistern bucket. I'll never forget the sorry buckskin mules that pulled the rattle-trap buckboard. Their names were Kate'n'Rody—spoken as one word—and I can close my eyes and see their poor boney rumps and recall the excitement I felt at traveling all the way to Hanna, a full twelve miles from home.

But when my brother died I ran away.

I won't dwell on the hobo jungles I've known, the jails I've slept in, or later—the beds I shared. But somewhere along the way I found a desire in me to come all the way out of the hills, to leave the white-trash stink behind me—and by God I did.

I got an education of sorts, graduated from Arizona State—I'd done some traveling—and became an officer in the United States Navy. I'd done some growing, too. I was six-four, thick in the arms and shoulders, and lean everywhere else, and I was calling myself Johnny O'Brien. That was only one of the many changes I'd made.

Oh, I'm Irish, all right, with some Comanche thrown in—and it might surprise some to know that my black hair and hawk's face come from both races. My grandfather came from Connemara, and a lot of people there are as dark as their Fomorian ancestors—with a little help from the survivors of the Great Spanish Armada.

In four years I'd paid my debt to Uncle Sam, and I left the Navy with a regret that surprised me. I'd be there yet, I suppose, but I'd discovered I wanted to write—and so I did. I wrote a book; a book about all those things I remembered. It sold well. I'd had a hunch, and managed to retain for myself the right to negotiate the movie rights. The idea of paying an agent to sell my work galled me, so I went to Hollywood with the idea that I could handle it myself—and right there is where I bogged down.

It was a matter of dialogue. I found a company, a producer, and even a couple of stars who might look like Okie hillbillies to people who'd never seen one. But I couldn't convince them that people anywhere still talked like the ones in my book. I couldn't even get it across that I was a hillbilly myself and, therefore, an authority on the subject. They wanted me to do the screen play, but their way. And I wouldn't do it.

While we haggled about it, I got myself a wife. She was beautiful, passionate, rich, educated—and almost completely depraved. She blew me on our wedding night—which doesn't necessarily make her a bad bargain in my book but to her that was only kid stuff, as it turned out. I happen to be very well hung, and my cock fascinated her to the point that she made a fetish out of it. That didn't make her objectionable either, but when she was drinking— which was most of the time—she'd discuss it and our use of it with complete candor, with anybody who'd listen. She liked to refer to it as her eight-inch staff of life.

She gave me a hand job on our living room carpet one afternoon, and then laughed wildly while four of her friends—all women—came out of hiding and applauded. Once she stripped herself naked at a party, and spread herself on the floor, insisting that I service her on the spot—and was infuriated when I picked her up and took her home.

She brought a friend home one evening, and when we were all stoned, she insisted that I take on the friend, a particularly luscious blonde. The three of us turned in together, naked as jay-birds. Right up to the sticking point I thought she was bluffing. She wasn't, but by then I didn't much care.

Her fascinated gaze followed my hands as they caressed the blonde's soft body, tossing in a suggestion now and then, while the lady became incoherent with desire. She placed my cock in the blonde's gaping cunt with her own hand, and then lay beside us while I fucked the blonde into babbling idiocy. My wife offered obscene advice and brought on orgasm after orgasm with her fingers buried in her own cunt.

Two nights later she showed up with the blonde and a fairy and elaborate plans for the evening. I woke to find all three of them in the bedroom, bare-assed naked. My wife knelt over me, her trim ass in the air and my cock in her mouth. The blonde crawled onto the bed and glued her lips to my wife's cunt, and the fairy just stood there playing with his meat and waiting his turn. When my cock was so hard it ached, she raised her head and invited him to come show her how it was really done—and that's when I moved out.

Next, I discovered that she'd made tape recordings of our countless sessions in bed—and in the hallways, living room, garden—you name it—and I spent some time and money and shed some blood in rounding them up. They were quite the thing for a while; no really earthy party was complete without a couple of them. I finally had them all—I hoped— and left town.

I was gone for nearly a year. They found someone else to do the screen play, and when I came back I was about eighty-thousand dollars richer. I also had my health back. And another book.

This one was about the old Romans in the Middle East. This one brought me Gale.

There was a scene where a black-haired, white-skinned Hebrew slave girl was sold at auction. My book described her graphically. She was a bit over medium height; broad of hip and shoulder, and with long beautiful legs... With full strong thighs, a trim waist, and big solid breasts set high and well apart on a deep chest. She had an aggressively arched pubis with a wealth of thick black hair over a generous area, a deep navel in a faintly swelling belly—and the details were important to me, because in the sequence the girl was stripped naked by her owner. And maybe because I was half in love with my own creation. That happens.

The girl appeared only briefly in the story, and I guess one of the studio big-shots figured he'd pay off a debt of some kind when they got around to shooting it. They wound up with a lean, predatory-looking blonde in a long black wig, posing on the auction block like a Harper's Bazaar model.

She had a good body, I guess. She certainly enjoyed having it stripped during the several takes, and wandered around talking and smoking for some time afterwards, before some little bald-headed guy threw a toga over her and led her away. It was pretty depressing.

I had quite an argument with the producer and the casting director, and before it was over one of the associated clip-board carriers got punched in the mouth, and another one ended up in Vespasian's fountain. And then, as I turned away, I found myself staring into the most beautiful dark eyes I'd ever seen.

They were regarding me thoughtfully from behind a pair of black-rimmed harlequin glasses. The face was serene and lovely, with its high cheek-bones, wide, full-lipped mouth, regular nose, and white, flawless skin. Her throat was full and strong, the hands on the heavy shooting script were slim but capable-looking; her shoulders were broad, the thighs thrust against the material of her skirt, and her breasts—straining the front of her simple white blouse... By God, I thought, it's a miracle.

There was a frown on her face when my eyes returned to it. She turned away, but I headed her off.

“No,” she said flatly. Her voice was low and slightly husky.

“Wait. You don't know what I've got in mind.”

“Oh yes I do. I've read your book, Mr. O'Brien, and the answer is no.” Her full mouth looked very determined.

“It might be a fine opportunity,” I said lamely, but she cut me off.

“I've just seen it seven times—and no thanks.”

“But on a closed set—”


“Please, at least hear me out—”

“Mr. O'Brien, I have no desire to be an actress. I'm a script girl—and a writer, I hope—and even if I wanted to act, I wouldn't stand naked in front of all these—”

“You're a writer?”


“Come on; let me buy you a cup of coffee and you can tell me about it.”

She hesitated. “I'd really like to, Mr. O'Brien. I've read your other book too... But you'd just try to get me to do that scene, and I'd refuse again, and you'd be angry—”

“I won't even mention it.”

“Promise?” The dark eyes looked doubtful.


“I don't know. You were so anxious just now, almost desperate...”

“To hell with the nude scene. There's a lot more to it than that. It's—well, you've read my description of the girl. Surely you must have noticed the— ah—resemblance.”

“I noticed.” She was almost smiling now as the crowd thinned out around us. “It was rather—explicit, I thought. Much more so than your treatment of the heroine.”

A thought struck me. “You're not offended, are you? I mean—”

“Not at all. Actually I'm rather flattered.” And then she was smiling. “Just the same, I'm a little puzzled...”

I took her arm. “I'll explain the whole thing when we get to know each other.”

“Know each other?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Sure, know each other. Did you think this was a casual pick-up?”

“No, I realize it's not casual.”

“All right, then. Now how about that coffee?”


Over the coffee I learned that she was twenty-four, a graduate of San Diego State, and a native Californian. She wanted to be a writer, and had taken her present job for the experience she thought she'd gain from it. Over cocktails that evening, I learned more. She had been married briefly to an aspiring actor who'd left her to accompany his middle-aged “patron” to France. That had been nearly two years before. She had divorced him with considerable relief, and hadn't seen him since. I gathered that she'd survived the experience with no lasting scars. And I learned that her name was Gale Franklin.

About midnight, I learned even more about her. Outside her apartment building she gave me a sweet smile, a quick squeeze of her hand—and was gone. I was disappointed, naturally—but I was relieved too. I liked her.

I pushed her hard for a couple of weeks; an unusual period for me when the game is scoreless. And then one night it began to look like I was getting into good field position. When I got her home she held onto my hand—that was after I'd kissed her a few times—and she invited me up for coffee. Big deal? Maybe not—but by then I knew I was in love with her.

We sat on the couch for a while, making awkward small talk and sipping our coffee. She seemed nervous. I knew I was, but I figured the time was ripe for checking the standings. I rattled my cup into the saucer and turned to face her, mentally girding myself for the big seduction bit. The seriousness of her lovely face stopped me.

“Wait,” she said softly.

Wait? I hadn't made a move yet. I wondered if it was beginning to show that much. And then she nearly floored me.

“I'll do the auction scene for you... If you still want me too,” she said quietly, the big eyes on mine.

“Do the... But I thought—”

“I've changed my mind. Can you still arrange it?”

“Hell yes, I can arrange it. But I'm not so sure...”

“That I'm right for it?” Her eyes were very dark now, and her mouth was strangely tender.

“Right for it? You're perfect. If I needed convincing—which I didn't—that night at Al's pool party would have done it. Doll, when you came out in that bikini... Hell, there's no one in the business so right for it.”

“Then you still want me? For the part, I mean,” she added hastily, and her composure faltered a little.

“No, baby. Not any more.”

“No?” She stared at me.

“That's right; no. I don't want my girl standing around naked while a bunch of creeps drool over her.”

She still stared at me, but her eyes had softened. “I have a reason,” she said finally.

“So have I.”


“Unless you've decided you want to be an actress. Is that it?”

“No, that's not it and my reason is better than yours.”

“I see. You're really serious about it.”

“Very serious.”

“All right, I'll fix it. It win make the picture, but I still don't like it.”

So I fixed it.


She was absolutely breathtaking. The bearded Arab slaver stripped the tattered garment from that magnificent white body while she stared defiantly into my eyes. She'd insisted that I stand near the camera so she could go through it properly, she said—and her eyes never wavered, except when the Arab made her turn around.

They took a lot more footage than they'd planned, but that was inevitable, once they'd seen her. The big breasts jutted proudly from her deep chest, and the slim waist accentuated the breadth of her shoulders and the rounded fullness of her hips. Her legs were long and straight and beautiful, and the gleaming white skin emphasized the broad thick triangle of coal-black hair thrusting arrogantly beneath her belly. The tips of her breasts tilted slightly upward; the generous aureoles were a dark, coral pink, as were the well-defined nipples—and the lovely calm face, with its dark eyes and full-lipped mouth, was a fit companion to that glorious body.

At the Arab's order she raised her bound hands over her head and turned, slowly and gracefully, and we all had a view of her from the rear. It was— stimulating, to say the least. She had a good-sized, solid rump; beautifully curved, without a mole or a freckle, or a mark of any kind on its firm smooth surface. The muscles stirred when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and posed briefly at the Arab's insistence. Then, as the script indicated, he ran his hand down over her tapering back and lovely ass—and the smooth muscles quivered; the full cheeks tightened with a spasm of outraged reaction—partially closing the deep cleft between them.

The scene was perfect.

There was one more take—for insurance, Al said —and then he was satisfied. Me? I was sort of limp, except in one place, and I could tell from the faces around me that I wasn't the only one. A wardrobe mistress moved in with a sheet, but Gale stepped lithely to the edge of the raised block with her eyes still on my face. More than twenty people were gaping at her white perfection, but she seemed unaware of them. I saw that her nipples had become very prominent, but she wasn't alone. I had a hard-on a cat couldn't scratch.

Her eyes nickered to the front of my pants and then back to my face. “Now we'll see,” she said enigmatically, and turned away.


Four days later, she explained it to me while she led me into her bedroom. We'd been wrestling on the couch. I had her dress down around her waist; her filmy brassiere lay on the floor, and I was kissing her breasts. I got as far as the right nipple when she stopped me.

“Let's go to bed,” she said simply, and stood up.

I got awkwardly to my feet as she wriggled her hips and stepped out of her dress. She took my hand and walked toward the bedroom. In the hallway, she stopped and faced me.

“I wanted to be sure it was me, and not the picture,” she said evenly. “I thought if I did it, and you still...”

“I had that figured out, doll.” It was an effort to keep my eyes on her face. “You should have known from the beginning that it was you.”

“I think I did, really, but I wanted to be sure... And there was another reason. Wait, darling; I have to tell you.”

Her slim hands were inadequate covering for her breasts, but she tried—and that made things even worse.

“It's like this,” she said, sounding breathless now. “You're a very desirable man, Johnny. There are plenty of beautiful women in this town who'd come running if you snapped your fingers—and I wanted them all to know what the competition was like. Understand?”

Without waiting for an answer she walked into the bedroom and kicked off her shoes. Then her thumbs hooked into the band of her half-slip and she said over her shoulders: “Maybe I thought it wouldn't hurt for you to see, either.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled while I removed her stockings. She rolled from one hip to the other when I unhooked her garter belt; raised her hips unhesitatingly when my hands went to her panties, and lay back while I pulled them off over her long perfect legs. The color rose in her face as she allowed me a brief look at her snug, pink-lipped cunt, then swung her legs onto the bed and watched frankly while I undressed.

A small lamp burned on her dresser. I left it on, and her eyes were big as I approached the bed.

“Oh, darling!” she whispered, her startled gaze on my rigid cock. “Uh—yeah.”

“Wait. Let me—look at you. You're beautiful, Johnny. You have a wonderful body; just what a man is supposed to be... No, please—bear with me a moment longer. You know I love you, don't you?” It wasn't really a question.

“Yes, doll. You wouldn't —be lying there waiting for me if you didn't.”

“I wanted you to be sure—when you take me.”

“I'm sure. And I've been in love with you from the beginning. You knew that.” And by then I was lying beside her.

“Yes darling. I knew.” And then she came into my arms.

I spent as much time as I could, preparing her. I knew she was afraid at first, but her strong passion soon overcame her fear. She let me lead her, responding quickly to each caress, and before long she was breathing heavily. I spent a lot of time on her breasts, sucking their swelling tips until she was moaning softly with the pleasure it gave her. I stroked her thighs and belly until her hips were moving...

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