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Dirty Secrets


Vivian was in a dirty business--writing for an expose magazine--a job that gave Vivian a choice of studs to tame her secret passions--passions that first shocked then thrilled her partners!

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Dirty Secrets

Max Nortic

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.

Chapter One


The elevator operator's grin was broader than usual that Monday morning.

“Have a nice weekend, Miss Parks?”

Vivian nodded, smiled in return, and braced herself as she entered the elevator for her morning rape. The rape was entirely visual, but it was as close to the real thing as Ed—the hungry-eyed elevator operator—could make it. His eyes didn't sweep; they raked and pierced, devouring her from head to toe, from the wealth of shimmering, dark hair that surrounded her smooth face, down to her full, ripe breasts, lingering there for three long seconds, then shooting down to her small waist and lushly curved hips, down to her stunning legs. The rape never took more than six or seven seconds, but it grew more blunt and devouring each morning.

Ed closed the doors and began the long ascent, indulging in another, more leisurely rape, this time concentrating on her thighs.

“How're things up in the mush factory?” he said.

“It's a magazine,” she said wearily, “not a mush factory. Just as I presume this is an elevator, and not a flying whorehouse.”

He snickered and brought the elevator to a jerky halt. He gestured gallantly as the doors swung open.

“Seventeen. Ladies' Chronicle, bleeding hearts department.”

She left the elevator quickly and went through the outer offices of the Chronicle, smiled at the receptionist, and turned down a corridor until she got to her own office. Her secretary, a plump, hard-eyed blonde, had an air of excitement on her face.

“Big Brother wants to see you right away,” Mary said. “Sounds important, honey.”

“He probably wants his inkstand cleaned,” Vivian said dryly. She poured a cup of black coffee and leaned against Mary's desk, glancing through the morning mail.

“When he says right away, he means now,” the blonde said. “You know what a bastard he can be, Vivian.”

Vivian murmured two words as she scanned one letter with interest.

“Here's a jewel from a reader in Omaha. She wants to know whether I wrote last month's article on The Quest For Orgasm from personal experience. She says she doesn't know whether she's capable of an orgasm or not, but she hears angels singing whenever a man balls her.”

Mary laughed, a brassy sound. “It's probably her pussy whirring with delight. I should have such luck. All I ever hear is a series of loud grunts and an occasional snarl.”

The intercom suddenly crackled:

“Is Vivian in yet, Mary?”

It was Big Brother's voice. Mary pushed down the talk button.

“She came in just this second, sir. She's standing here.”

“Can you come to my office please, Vivian? Now?” The last word was a sharp command. “Right away, sir,” Vivian said.

She gulped down her coffee and hurried down the corridor to the publisher's office. Only a matter of solemn importance could summon her, an assistant editor who wrote an occasional article for the magazine, to the inner office of B.B. Howard. In his outer office, Howard's secretary, a chic, cold faced brunette whose inability to type was as legendary as her nymphomaniacal zeal, gestured to the big mahogany door.

“He's been waiting, Parks.”

Vivian nodded and casually sauntered to the door. She knocked once and entered. Howard looked up from a thick sheaf of papers he held in his hand. He smiled and motioned her to a chair.

“How are we this morning, Vivian?” His voice was deceptively soft.

“Fine, Mr. Howard. Just fine.”

“And you look it, believe me.”

His sharp eyes swept over her lush body, but Vivian knew it was only a pretense to flatter her. B.B. Howard wasn't interested in anything that didn't accelerate circulation or produce money, or both. Again Vivian thought how ironic his nickname was: Howard was neither big nor brotherly; he was a small, dapper man with a sharp face who was rapidly becoming a legend in the publishing field at the age of thirty-five. He'd bought Ladies' Chronicle with borrowed money a year before, when it was foundering on the verge of collapse, and with a ruthless grip had shaken the organization from top to bottom, firing deadweight, revising policies, and injecting his own fiery brand of journalism into the faltering magazine. His brand, consisting of a single word, shot circulation up rapidly to the four million mark, where it was still rising. The word—which he had printed in huge bold type and framed and hung in every office—was controversy. If it was controversial, he reasoned, it would excite the average, frustrated housewife and she would rush out to buy his product.

“That was a fine article you did last month, Vivian. Provocative. Orgasm is the coming thing, of course.”

For a second Vivian thought it was a pun, and almost laughed. Howard never joked, so she kept a straight face and murmured, “Thank you.”

He got up and came around the desk, handing her the sheaf of papers he held.

“Look at these pictures and tell me what you think of them.”

She studied the large, glossy photos. They pictured a healthy, attractive American family in a variety of average pursuits—grouped in their living room watching television, playing on the beach, eating dinner and so forth.

“Nice looking family,” Vivian said. “Typical and wholesome, I'd say.”

Howard grinned, and Vivian thought of a coiled cobra.

“Too nice, Vivian. Too wholesome.”

He lit a thin black cigar and began pacing the floor. “What you're looking at is the feature article from next month's issue of Women's Home.” Howard's voice grated at the mention of his giant competitor. “Every year, as you undoubtedly know, they select a Family Of The Year. They build the whole issue around them, holding them up to millions of readers as the ideal of the American way of life—clean, virtuous, fun-loving, etcetera, etcetera. From the way they raved about them, you'd think the whole goddamn crew descended directly from heaven, complete with halos, the day the issue came out.”

When he paused, Vivian said:

“I thought Women's Home kept their big features in tight security until the last minute.”

“They do, they do,” he said softly. “They're paranoid about being sabotaged. They're afraid a rising competitor like us would actually stoop to sabotage, or even theft.” Howard stopped pacing, and swung to face her, his sharp face intense, his voice taut:

“I have my own grapevine. Tell me, Vivian—how many readers of the Home would be shocked and horrified if the typical American family chosen by their magazine wasn't at all what they were purported to be—clean, saintly and virtuous, but instead quite human, quite capable of a little depravity here and there? Not just adultery, but lesbianism, perhaps, or nymphomania—or even incest? It's a hell of a lot more common than most people suspect. What would happen, for example, if one of the Confidential-type magazines put out an issue completely discrediting their Family Of The Year—complete with verified information, facts, Vivian, names and dates. How many of their readers would be disillusioned to the point of canceling their subscriptions? And how many of these shocked readers would turn to Ladies' Chronicle, the champion of truth?”

“It sounds pretty risky,” Vivian said doubtfully. “I mean, wouldn't you let yourself in for a whopping libel or defamation suit?”

“I have a legal department to advise me,” he retorted. His eyes shone with shrewdness. “Let's say in a case like this the threat of execution is more menacing than the execution itself. In other words, suppose we approach Women's Home with some damning facts about their saintly family—what would their reaction be?”

“Blackmail?” Vivian murmured.

“Big business,” Howard said harshly, “not blackmail. We live in hard times, competitive times. Wouldn't you say they might be more receptive to a merger of our two great magazines, to become one family giant?”

Vivian saw it all then. There were rumors Howard had already proposed a merger to his rival and had been flatly turned down. Now he was going to put on the pressure. Should the merger ever take place, she hadn't the slightest doubt who would end up on top. The dapper man standing before her was seething with power.

“What makes you think this particular family has any dirt to hide?” Vivian asked.

Howard cocked his head and grinned, a thin twist to his lips.

“Who hasn't?” he said softly. “Who in this chaotic world is the essence of virtue? Look at those pictures again, Vivian. The father is damn good looking for his age—forty three but he looks five years younger. Strong, animal type, sex personified. Now look at the son—takes after his father, probably has a whole stable of girls he's servicing But one daughter interests me most of all: The older one is twenty-five, but still single. Is she a sex-maniac's dream, or isn't she?”

Vivian stared at the picture. The daughter was stunning, reeking with sex appeal; she had large blue eyes and radiant skin. Her hair was golden, thick and lustrous. Her figure, displayed in a bathing suit, was voluptuous, with ripely curved breasts and buttocks, and long, silken legs.

“She's a dream,” Vivian conceded.

“Then why hasn't someone snapped her up? There's something strange there. I want to know what.”

“I'm twenty-six and I'm single,” Vivian pointed out. “What does it prove?”

“Ah, but you're different, Vivian. You're ambitious, like myself. This girl has another reason. Find it. And the other daughter—she's only nineteen, but she's a little too wholesome to stomach, too. And look at the mother-, she even excites me, in spite of her age. The whole damn family is too beautiful to be true. What I want,” he said earnestly, putting his hands on the arms of her chair, leaning down to thrust his face close to hers, “is dirt. I want to know what they're really like, shorn of those oh-so-happy smiles. Understand?”

“You want to know who they're jogging with nights?”

“Precisely. You can't expect five luscious specimens like the Cunninghams to be immune from the quirks and fetishes we all possess. There's one hell of a lot of panting and chasing going on there. I'm especially interested in the son, too: He's engaged to a local deb. She's loaded with money but her face would stop Big Ben. Where's the son getting his kicks? The deb's mother is just the type to crawl all over him. Got it?”

Vivian pretended to hesitate. “It's a dirty assignment, Mr. Howard.”

“It's rotten, and I admit it. But because it's so special, the compensation is special, too.” He paused dramatically. “You'd look very impressive sitting in the managing editor's chair, Vivian. Right?”

She knew the promise wasn't just bait: Howard always kept his word. Vivian nodded quickly.

“When do I start?”

“Today. You've got less than two weeks to dig. We hit Women's Home after their issue is out, but just before we come out, for maximum effect.” Howard handed her more papers. “There's the whole feature they're going to use. Stop by the cashier's office—they've got an envelope waiting for you. You fly to L.A. this afternoon. You're going to Seacrest, about sixty miles up the coast from Los Angeles, where the Cunninghams live. Take a photographer with you, anyone you choose. For pictures of injured parties,” he explained impatiently. “There's always someone bitter enough to talk. Find them. You'll also need pix for our own layout of the family.”

“What'll I use for a cover story?” Vivian asked.

He cocked his head and stared at her with reproach.

“I can't do everything for you, Vivian. Use your imagination. That's what I pay you for. I've had two private investigators in Seacrest since yesterday, quietly digging. They'll report to you daily.”

He leaned forward tensely.

“Now remember, there's no limit on this one, Vivian. I want results and I don't give a damn what they cost. Clear?”

For another ten minutes, Howard spoke in his soft, rapid-fire voice as Vivian absorbed the information. Then she went back to her own office, in the grip of a rising excitement.

“Get hold of Al Sawyer in photography and tell him I want to see him,” she told Mary.

In her own office, Vivian lit a cigarette and thought: Sawyer was young and sharp, with reckless eyes that suggested he might be fantastic in bed.

Why not make a vacation out of it?

She gazed down at the pictures of the Cunningham family. The father was sexy; she couldn't resist a shiver of excitement as she studied his lean, muscled body. The bulge in his bathing suit was enormous.

It promised to be one hell of an assignment.

Chapter Two


The first thing a visitor to the small California city of Seacrest usually noticed was the remarkable cleanliness of the place; it was as if a vast ocean breeze swept into the coastal town promptly at dawn and whirled away every loose shred of litter, leaving the town sparkling and immaculate. The fifteen thousand inhabitants of Seacrest were stubbornly proud of their thriving city, and they treated the visitors that swarmed over their white beaches each weekend with the strained courtesy natives reserve for free-spending—but careless— tourists.

On this Monday morning, as the sun began its steep ascent over the city, Phil Cunningham stirred in his sleep and opened his eyes, aware at once of the sharp, demanding throb in his loins, and his immense erection. “Julie,” he murmured.

The next moment he was wide awake, looking sharply over at his wife. When she didn't stir, he lit a cigarette with quiet movements. He closed his eyes as he smoked, picturing Julie's soft, adolescent nakedness, seeing her plump young breasts and tender thighs, centered with silky pubic hairs, and the ache in his shaft grew painful. Today was Monday, and Julie had a music lesson at four, a lesson she hadn't gone to in three weeks. At three-forty five this afternoon, he would be in the cabin up the coast, pacing the floor nervously. Between four and four-ten, Julie's bicycle would come to a halt in a spurt of dust in front of his cabin.

By four-fifteen, he would be undressing her urgently, kissing each silken part of her body as he bared it, her pink nipples and soft belly, her succulent buttocks, even her tender anus, wriggling his tongue deep, and finally, the wild excitement of her moist vagina beneath his lips, and then flexing on his erection.

His wife stirred next to him, nestling her hot breasts to his shoulder, her hand grasping his rigid cock.

For a moment he was tempted, but then decided to save it for Julie.

He got out of bed and padded, naked, to the shower. He soaped his lean, muscled body under the warm spray, proud of his supple condition at forty-three. If it weren't for the grey around his temples—which he refused to touch—he knew he could pass for thirty-five. Julie liked the grey. Even her father said it looked distinguished, that it gave him an air of responsibility that was good for business. Phil never argued with his employer.

Or his employer's beautiful daughter.

As sales manager of Seacrest's biggest Ford agency, Phil had a reputation for two qualities that rarely blended—charm and honesty. It was common knowledge that he sold more new cars to women than all his salesmen combined, but none of his salesmen resented his rugged good looks or smooth charm. Phil was a born salesman, and people often remarked they couldn't dislike him if they tried. No one tried; in fact, Phil's suave handling of hungry-eyed women, his polite, flattering rejections always left them with a new car and a feeling of warm regret.

He stepped out of the shower and briskly dried himself down, thinking how easy it would be for another man in his position to succumb to the urge, to seize all the soft, eager bodies offered. But Phil had made it a stern rule years before to never mix business with pleasure. No matter how ripe or willing his female customers were, he calmly rejected them, realizing even one slip could ultimately lead to disaster. He had too much to lose—a secure job, a beautiful wife, two lovely daughters and a handsome son, a modern new home with a dazzling view of the ocean.

But because he was virile and passionate, Phil demanded constant variety in bed, so he sought the solution outside his job, and succeeded with ease in a long series of torrid affairs—with his friends' and neighbors' wives. His reasoning was simple: He chose only those wives who had as much to lose as he did, and were as reluctant to risk the loss. A single girl or a divorcee on the other hand might get involved and create a battle in an attempt to get him; or failing that, destroy his job, his reputation, and his family. With sharp instinct, he took on only those women who were seeking the same thing he was—passion and excitement, without any emotional hang-ups. As a result, the affairs were wild and brief, usually lasting three to six months, and were casually broken off by mutual consent when the risk became hazardous.

Phil reflected, as he stood before the mirror, knotting his tie, that there was hardly a wife in his own social set whom he hadn't savored at one time or another. It was a tribute to his ability to handle women that not one of them was bitter over their affair; they were, in fact, good friends now. There were a few exceptions, a few eager wives who still chased him openly and whom Phil wouldn't touch with a yardstick and gloves. These were the types searching for something better—and more permanent—than their current husbands. Phil avoided them as if they were contaminated with the plague.

But if the chain of ripe, frantic, passionate women left him contented, he found, at the age of forty-three, a desperate yearning awakening inside him. The grey at his temples reminded him daily he was growing older, and sometimes he lay awake at night, imagining he was eighteen and free again, recalling vividly what it was like to explore a young girl, to hear her moans of excitement as he thrust his huge penis deep into her tender vagina. Being a sensible man, he realized almost every man his age suffered from the same nostalgic yearnings.

But the difference was that Phil Cunningham did something about his.

For the first time in his life, he violated every stern rule he'd imposed on himself for his own safety. When his boss asked him to drive his daughter Julie home one day, Phil found himself excited by her infectious laugh and plump, curvaceous young body. The excitement quickly flared into a violent desire that obsessed him, until, prodded by the girl—who'd taken to popping up at the agency every day on the pretext of seeing her father, but secretly to flaunt herself at Phil—he'd driven her up to his cabin on the coast one afternoon, a few weeks earlier. The fact that she was a virgin added fire to his excitement, and he found her fantastically satisfying, soft and silken and deliciously tight beneath his immense cock.

But then harsh reality exploded.

Julie was wildly in love with him and had already flung caution aside, slipping him passionate notes at the agency, walking by his house at night, her plump, succulent buttocks swaying, her eyes pleading, begging him each time they met to run away with her.

He knew it was crazy, but he didn't want to break off the affair. Every instinct he possessed shrieked at him to end it now, to break it off as bluntly and quickly as possible, but he was already addicted to her tight, silken vagina like a drug. Each time he caressed and kissed her soft thighs, plunging his tongue deep, each time he lunged his cock into her fiery, moist flesh and heard her wild moans of joy, her fierce sexual grip on him became more intense.

At the age of forty-three, Phil Cunningham, the casual, experienced lover who had taken and tossed aside the endless hungry women who'd pursued him, found himself in the grip of a dangerous obsession.

Fully dressed and groomed, Cunningham went downstairs for breakfast, his smooth face concealing his turmoil. In violating his own stern rules, he hadn't merely broken them—he'd torn them to shreds with a violence:

The girl he was obsessed with was not only his employer's daughter, not only wildly and unpredictably in love with him and showing symptoms of explosive urgency, not only sweet, passionate and adorable, but all of fourteen years old.






Chapter Three


At the age of nineteen, Sandra Cunningham had had sex with—by actual recorded account—three hundred and twenty-nine boys and men.

But the thing that bothered her to the point of pure frustration was the fact that she wasn't beautiful. She knew she had more than her share of sex appeal—this had been driven home to her beginning at the age of thirteen, in the back seat of a car—but there was a major difference between sexiness and beauty. Her older sister, Leslie, for example, was stunning: There was no other word to describe a golden blonde with lustrous blue eyes, a sensual face, superb breasts and long perfect legs.

Sandra knew she was vibrant with sex appeal, but in some vague way she lacked the right combination of features and curves that Leslie possessed, that perfect assembly of face and figure that spelled beauty.

In the privacy of her own bathroom each morning, Sandra anxiously did her bust exercises in a ritual that had begun at the age of fifteen, when she first noticed boys gaped at her sister and ignored her. The obvious—that her overwhelming desire to be beautiful stemmed from a deep envy of her sister—had occurred to her long ago, and she flatly rejected it.

Sandra wanted to be beautiful just because she craved sex with men, a ruthless, constant, insatiable urge.

Standing naked before the full-length mirror this Monday morning, she clenched her hands together and raised her arms, exerting her pectoral muscles so strongly her plump breasts rose a full two inches. She repeated the exercise ten times, then relaxed. Her velvety breasts were lusciously round and firm as a result of the exercise, with large tan coronas and nipples. They suited the rest of her small, sleek body perfectly, and there were times when she was almost content with herself. Her rich chestnut hair shone with luster, her eyes were a gleaming violet, and, if her face had a tendency toward cuteness, at least it wasn't the coy, pug-nosed cuteness she detested. Her petite body lacked the statuesque grace of her sister's, but her curves were lush and sensual, and her ripe, full buttocks were a perfect match for her succulent breasts.

Dressed, Sandra Cunningham seemed almost virginal in spite of her nineteen years.

Naked, she was intensely sexy, her body glowing with animal vitality and the promise of a deliciously wild piece of ass.

She lit a cigarette before she climbed into the bath she'd drawn earlier, and lay down in the tub with a sigh. She thought about the pictures that would appear in the next issue of Women's Home. She wasn't at all satisfied with the way she'd come out—like a preacher's daughter, she thought wryly, her cherry still cute and intact—but neither could she pinpoint what was wrong with her looks. It was the old, frustrating story: Compared to her sister, she looked like a goddamned choir girl. Sandra's small, ripe lips—the lips she'd enchanted scores of happy boys with, their capacity for suction inexhaustible—tightened with bitterness, but a moment later gave way to a thin smile when she remembered the suitcase in Leslie's closet.

Three days ago she'd gone into Leslie's room to borrow a can of hairspray while her sister was gone; for a change, Leslie had left her room unlocked. Curious about her sister's obsession for privacy, Sandra snooped. Her search turned up nothing unusual. She'd glanced in the closet and started to shut the door when she noticed a large suitcase she'd never seen before; its size and the fact that it was locked aroused her curiosity. She tried probing the lock with a nail file, and when that failed, a hairpin. The lock clicked and Sandra opened the suitcase, gasping in surprise.

She'd never seen anything like it before in her life.

For five minutes she fingered the contents of the suitcase, astonished. The dozens of panties were all used and unlaundered, still fragrant with their owners' vaginal essence.

Stolen, she decided, from Leslie's friends at school and college.

Sandra glanced at the collection of sex magazines, featuring naked girls in seductive poses, their thighs parted to reveal their delicate pink pubic lips. The pages were dog-eared from heavy use.

She locked the suitcase again and went back to her own room, dazed with surprise.

Now, in her bath, she was no longer surprised, but amused and filled with contempt. It gave her a deep satisfaction to know that if her sister had the beauty, she at least had the femininity in the family. And if she ever needed proof—

She reached down next to the bathtub and opened the small towel cabinet, probing beneath the bottom towel. She brought a thick business ledger out, the kind sold in department stores, and opened it up and glanced down the page, grinning with remembrance.

She'd started the ledger when she was thirteen. It was her secret triumph over Leslie, her visible proof that being loved was more important than being beautiful. Each page listed names, with comments beneath. She often skimmed through the ledger while she took her morning bath, sometimes laughing hilariously at a childish comment written years before, at other times feeling a hot, tingling trickle in her vagina as a name prodded vivid memories.

George Schirmeyer, she read aloud. The entry was dated three years before. Lkt. Pt. Puny, clumsy and selfish. Bad breath, too. Came in five minutes. Never again! F.

Lkt. Pt. meant Lookout Point. F was the lowest grade she could give—Failure.

She glanced down the same page, a few days later, and her breath quickened at one name:

Stan Harper: Time of my life! Stan is sweet, oh so wild, and with a shamefully huge cock, not to mention an artistic tongue! Two hours and ten minutes. Left us both happy and exhausted. A plus plus.

She chuckled and put the ledger back in the towel cabinet. No one else ever touched the cabinet; she did her own laundry. Sandra lay back in the tub and closed her eyes, smiling, her face child-like in repose.

She felt warm and wonderful when she skimmed through the ledger. To be loved, to feel a different throbbing shaft lunging deep into her tingling cleft each night was everything—everything else was nothing.

Only one small annoyance marred her sense of triumph. A few days earlier, she'd noticed there were never more than two entries on any single...


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