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The Party


Felicity is the most depraved, sensuous, naive, and sophisticated product of our society. A jet-set hippie, her perfect face, stunning figure, and flaming red hair electrify the public and the performers as soon as she appears in the audience of a rock concert. She is the Supergroupie, the Modern Female, the Child Woman--excessive, insatiable, and lost in the endless erotic dream which explodes into reality after the concert--when she arrives at The Party.

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The Party

Rene Auden

This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.

chapter ONE

Slowly, taking maybe two seconds per step, Jim Morrison descended the stairs. The crowd went wild. He was wearing a black pea coat over his maroon velour shirt, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, and of course, those incredible, tight, black leather pants.

Felicity's mouth was dry. She swallowed several times as Morrison walked to the microphone, wrapped one hand around it and groped with the other for the adjustment. He placed his left foot on the base of the mike as he adjusted it to his height, moving his head slowly from side to side upon his strong neck, as if to loosen it, his prominent Adam's apple jumping in his throat.

Morrison took the mike in both hands and slowly aimed it at his lips. His head lifted up, and then he came crashing down on the mike, sending an agonized scream through the Fillmore East's sound system. A few girls in the audience shrieked. Felicity was on the edge of her seat—that scream had shot right through her.

Morrison screamed, and Krieger sent a wail of electronic terror flying from his amps. Slowly, the wail receded. Morrison began to sing.

He held the mike with both hands, as if it were a girl, rocking forward on the base with one foot, and the audience rocked with him. As he sang he created waves, magical vibrations that set up a response in the bodies and hearts of the crowd. Felicity felt herself lifted up on the waves... felt herself floating off, going into a kind of trance. The Fillmore East and the people around her disappeared... even the musicians on stage faded and grew dim. She was alone now with her idol... her god. Closer and closer she drew to the hypnotic figure, looming solitary and larger than life in the brilliant glare of the spotlight. And then she was gone, had gone over... to the other side.


... Crawling on her hands and knees across the floor toward the black, gleaming columns of his legs. Looking up she meets the dark, brooding eyes and obeys the unspoken command: Down! She flattens herself out on the dusty floor and continues to crawl toward him on her belly. Slowly, inch by inch, she slithers forward... she does not dare look up again but concentrates on the leather boot that is tapping... tapping... to the strong relentless beat of the music. The leather leg shimmers and vibrates before her eyes; the rhythmic tapping gets louder as she nears her goal, crashing and cracking in her ears. The blunt-toe boots and the leather shafts above them are now within her reach; yet she lies still, groveling in the dust, afraid to touch the sacred body of the shaman-king. He is the Lizard King. He can do anything—

At last she overcomes her hesitation... her fingers make contact with the mystic leather. A jolt of electric power shoots through her body and she draws back, her fingers tingling. She lies quietly, trying to still the violent beating of her heart.

Now she grows bolder. Her hands firmly grasp the leg that is not moving... the other is a blur before her eyes. The feel of the leather thrills her to her depths—so cool and smooth, yet so alive... throbbing with hidden promise... the animal skin outside and the animal skin within forming a magical unity. She pulls herself forward so that her snakeskin belly rubs up against the edge of the leather pant and her tightly encased cunt sits on the tip of the boot. She trembles, and groans with deep satisfaction. Her hands are traveling the length of the leather column now, stroking and squeezing the slippery pole, feeling the muscles beneath jump under her probing fingers. The smell of the leather, with an undertone of male sweat, is intoxicating; she darts out her tongue and begins to lick worshipfully. She moans, and shudders with the goodness of it... the leather is cold, yet it nearly burns her tongue. She holds on to the leg with both hands and runs her tongue up and down and around, all over the sleek taut surface... exploring the creases, sliding the tip of her long, pointed tongue between the folds, the ridges and valleys of that mysterious terrain which, for the moment, constitutes her world. She licks and sucks with complete abandon now; she has let herself go... sunk in a sensual miasma, and the rhythmic wail of the music fills her. She has wrapped herself around the leg and is clinging to it, like a drowning woman to the mast of a ship. She rocks in time to the music and humps herself on the toe of the boot that is digging into her cunt. Her lips and tongue are working frantically upward... up... up toward the top of the column and the wondrous bulge there. Her mouth fastens greedily over the bulge, marveling at the length and breadth of it. The leather covering the bulge is stretched to its limit; it feels rock-hard yet pulsingly alive, straining against its confinement. She sucks and nibbles wildly, trying to get a grip on the meaty bulge with her lips and teeth. The leather around the huge swelling is completely wet now, slick and shiny with her saliva, and hot—burning hot against her starving mouth. Sweat runs down her face and trickles from her armpits... her cunt is on fire... her inflamed clit aches as she grinds it compulsively against the boot. “Oh God,” she groans in frustration. “I can't stand it...” Muttering to herself now, totally lost in passion... “want it so much... got to take it out... wanna kiss and lick and suck... stuff it in my mouth... ah, so good—”

Her breath comes in ragged gasps; blindly, she reaches for the zipper hidden in the leather, finds it and begins to pull down. She feels the violent jerk of his body and looks up just in time to see the gleaming steel of the mike descending upon her. She ducks, covering her face, and the blow catches her on the back of the shoulders. She almost comes right then from the shock— she is that close. Frightened, she gazes up into the beautiful, sneering face, her eyes pleading to be forgiven, to be punished, for her bold presumption. Curling his sexy lips in contempt. Her demon-lover grabs her by the hair and pulls her away from him. She screams, more from loss of contact with his body than from pain; the stinging kick of his boot in her ribs is almost a relief. Oh, don't leave me yet... don't cast me aside, she begs wordlessly, trembling and twitching all over, as if in the throes of orgasm... or death. And her plea is answered. With his booted foot in the small of her back, he makes her lie on the floor, her face, breasts and belly flattened into the dirt—rides the snake to the ancient lake—Then he lies on top of her with his full weight and, still holding tight to the thick red mane of her hair, bites deep into her neck.

Blood trickles from her neck, staining the splendid feathers. The scaly legs twitch spastically, then lie still. The music rises to a climax and her released spirit soars with it to majestic heights... music her only friend until the end—her astral body a pure flame now, at last worthy of union with the divine...

The roar of a thousand waterfalls was merely applause. It went on for a long time, but now that she knew what it was, the noise didn't seem so intense. Felicity, struggling with re-entry, was grateful for the distraction of the noise; it gave her a chance to pull herself together. She was doing yoga deep-breathing to cool herself out, stop the feeling of vertigo and nausea crawling inside her. Whew! What a trip! She felt really spaced out and wondered why real sex, no matter how groovy, never made her feel anything like this. She never lost her cool, that's why—but then, how could she? The closest she ever came to letting herself go was with Clara, but even then...

“What's the matter, baby, you look a little green around the edges?” Clara had stopped applauding and was looking at her friend with concern. “Can I get you anything? A red? No? Down's are no good. An up? How about some water, they must have some in the lobby.”

Felicity shook her head. “I'll be all right in a moment. Bit too much noise and excitement. It's awfully hot in here.”

“Take off your vest,” Clara suggested. “That suede and all those feathers—must be stifling. And those pants are so tight. I mean, they look gorgeous, of course, but aren't they uncomfortable?”

“Oh, come on, stop fussing. I'm all right.” Felicity, definitely back to earth now, looked at her friend with a critical frown. That Clara was something else! She was wearing crushed velvet, for heaven's sake! Velvet had been out for almost a year, and that bit of chiffon at the neck didn't help a bit. It was just not the thing to wear to a Morrison concert, but Clara would never understand that. She was groovy-looking enough, with her black, tousled curls and large dark eyes and her luscious body. She had her make-up on okay, and the midnight blue of the velvet looked good against her creamy skin. But somehow, Clara didn't have her thing together. No real style. And nowadays, if a girl didn't have her thing together by the time she was twenty....

“I was just trying to help,” Clara said in a hurt tone. “You looked really terrible for a while there, though your color's coming back now.” She lapsed into silence and stared at the stage, where the Doors were getting ready for the next number. Clara looked adorable when she pouted, Felicity had to admit. No use being annoyed with her—she couldn't help being... well, being Clara.

Sighing deeply, happy again, Felicity ran her hands down the sides of her snake-skin pants. They were a subtle blend of red, purple and maroon, with slender ridges of black, the skins matched so well that the patchwork was not noticeable from a distance of more than a foot. She was wearing no panties underneath, because they would have ruined the line of the pants and besides, she loved the feel of the animal skins against her naked body. It felt so snug and slithery... like a second skin. Felicity flexed her long legs, and the seam of the pants bit deliciously into her cunt. The thought of her pussy juices staining and caking the new pants filled her with strange satisfaction. They were terribly expensive and could not be cleaned—neither could the vest, butter-colored suede and rare feathers already darkened and matted with her sweat. But then, she had no intention of wearing the outfit again after tonight.

Clare glanced at Felicity out of the corner of her eye. “By the way,” she said, “it helps if you keep your eyes open, you know. I noticed you had them closed a lot. I mean, don't you even want to look at him?”

Felicity grinned. “I see him more clearly in my mind's eye,” she said dramatically, putting her hand over her breasts and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

“Okay, okay.” Clara settled back in her seat with an exaggerated sigh. “I'm glad to see you're feeling yourself again, anyway.”

She paused a few moments for effect, then dropped her bomb.

“You should have kept your eyes open. Because I think he noticed you. Yes, I'm sure he did—he looked over this way several times.”

“What are you talking about?” Felicity scowled, really irritated with Clara now. What a goose!

“Well, why not?” Clara defended herself. “In that outfit, and with all that red hair, you're not exactly inconspicuous. I mean, everybody stared at you when we walked into the theater.”

She tried to say something else, but the music had started again. Felicity, eager to avoid further discussion, put her finger to her lips and pointed to the stage.

Morrison was singing Back Door Man. Very down-to-earth and kind of raunchy. Felicity had her eyes wide open this time. She was seeing the figure on stage in a totally different light. He was a god no longer. Altogether human now, and not too proud to play the stud at the back door. She noticed that the hands holding the mike were small and delicate. Seen in a certain way, his face looked soft... the sensual features were almost girlish. The way his dark hair curled around his face and neck reminded her of Clara.

Felicity smiled slowly, and sank down into her seat, spreading her legs a little. Okay, back door man, she whispered. Do your thing!


He stands before her, tall and proud, his lips curled in a cynical smile. He stands with his legs slightly apart, thumbs hooked in his leather pants. He is magnificent, but she has no intention of letting him know that she knows it. Very coolly, she looks him up and down, pursing her mouth in speculation. She takes her time looking him over, hoping to shake his confidence. He is too arrogant... he will have to be taken down a peg before he can be of use to her. At last she speaks:

“Okay, let's see what you're selling. Show me your wares.”

With a slow grin that is just a little too smug to suit her, he reaches for the zipper in his shiny black pants. He is teasingly slow about it. Tantalizing her deliberately, he runs the tip of his tongue over his full lower lip. He spreads his legs a little more, does a mocking bump-and-grind, then pulls the zipper all the way down.

Out it pops, in all its splendor. She has difficulty suppressing a gasp. It is so long— about nine inches from head to root—and so thick... her thumb and forefinger would barely close around the head.

It is beautifully shaped and tapers gracefully, from the shaft, bulging with blue veins, to the huge purplish crown. A single bead of moisture, like a pearl, gleams at the mouth of it. It's the most beautiful cock she has even seen, but she pretends she's not all that impressed.

She stands up and walks around him, studying it from all angles. His naked prick, sticking out of the black leather, looks larger than life and wondrously obscene.

“Not too bad. I've seen a lot worse. If you know how to use it, it may do nicely.”

She smiles as he acknowledges the grudging compliment with a barely perceptible nod of his head. She returns to her chair and sits down.

“First of all, let's see if it fits.”

And with that, she lifts both her legs into the air. The stud in front of her gasps with shock. Gone is the arrogant sneer... he stares at her crotch with eyes that are all black and gleaming with lust. There is a mirror on the ceiling; she is seeing what he sees, and the sight is making her hot.

From an opening that has been artfully cut and sewn in the reddish snakeskin of her pants, protrudes the red-on-red intricacy of her cunt... like an exotic, carnivorous flower... like a rare underwater mollusk. The flame-red curls of her pubic hairs frame the purple-red of her nether lips, which are swollen and glisten with moisture. They gape open just enough to show a glimpse of the pink-red inner lips and the erected clit. A stunning picture, calculated to ruffle the composure of even the coolest of back door men.

“Lick it a little,” she tells him. “It tastes as good as it looks.”

Obediently, the big stud bends down and runs his tongue around the fleshy redness. She begins to squirm at once... it feels so good... his tongue is soft and thick and knows just what it's doing. She wraps her snakeskin legs around his head and draws him in closer. His tongue darts into the dark, juicy interior, stabbing in and out with quick, short jabs; she groans and slides further down in the chair, giving herself up to the rapidly-building pleasure. But it builds too quickly... after a minute or two, she is on the verge of coming. She releases his head and pushes him away.

“Fuck me now,” she commands. He gets up off his knees and, holding himself with both hands, positions the head of his cock at her red center. He bends his knees a little for leverage, and with a single thrust of his powerful hips, slides into her buttery depths.

“Ahhhhh... Ohhhhh...” The sound is pleasure-pain and it comes from both of them as he lifts her up and forces her down upon him. She winces as her insides try to accommodate the gigantic cock. But the adjustment does not take long—her willing cunt opens, fills up with juice, and now it feels wonderful; the huge prick fills her completely, touching areas inside her body that have never been touched before. Her legs are locked around his back, her arms encircle his neck. They begin to rock together, in time to the music. Back and forth, back and forth the length of his pole she slides, riding him in slow, sweeping strokes... her head is thrown back, her red mane is hanging almost to the floor. His head is thrown back too, and his eyes are half-closed; the muscles in his neck are straining, as they do when he sings.

Her excitement is almost unendurable. She grows impatient with the slow ride and quickens her pace. Fast and furiously she gallops now, getting nearer... soon she will be home. Thrusting madly... almost there.... She is crashing up against him, groin to groin, snakeskin hitting leather with a thud. The ride goes on, her high-heeled boots are pummeling his leather ass; then they dig in, hard, and he cries out, his beautiful face contorted with pain. But he does not stop, and she digs in deeper; her nails claw at his neck, his back, his face. She has gone insane with her pent-up need. She is teetering on the very edge of orgasm—it is heavenly, it is maddening. She's been on that edge for a long time. She wants to go over the edge so badly, and she claws and strikes at the stud, goading him with her boots-she wants to hurt him now, wants to rip and tear and bite—wants to see the bright red blood staining the black inviolability of his leather pants.


“Hey, Filly, what's the matter? You feeling bad again?” It took several light-years of traveling through inner space for the voice to filter through, for the hand that was shaking her to be connected to its owner. Those waterfalls were going again; Felicity looked around at the people standing on their feet and applauding. The concert was over. The Doors were taking their bows.

She tried to get to her feet, but her legs felt like butter. “Just sit tight, don't try to get up right now.” Clara looked really worried, and Felicity felt a twinge of guilt.

“Let's just sit here and wait till most of the crowd has left, okay?”

Felicity nodded and squeezed Clara's hand, which was still resting on her shoulder. Then she joined in the applause, so as not to attract attention. Several people had turned their heads to look at her.

Morrison had taken his final bow, and was walking off the stage. “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered, smiling a little in self-mockery. “Until we meet again.”

“What's that? Were you saying something?” The applause had died down, but Clara couldn't possibly have heard anything. She must have seen her lips moving.

Felicity shook her head and sighed. “The Doors were fantastic, weren't they?

“I'm not really sick,” she admitted after a pause. “It's just that certain groups... like the Doors... well, they really move me—I sort of go off on a trip... it's hard to come back, sometimes... and it takes more out of me than I realize.”

“Yeah. You really get carried away, don't you.” Clara smiled affectionately, glad to have Felicity looking herself again and talking to her in this friendly, confidential way.

Felicity was still savoring the recent experience, her cunt still slowly twitching, only dimly aware of the movement of people around her and not listening very closely to what Clara was saying.

“... the party afterwards. There's supposed to be all kinds of groovy people there, besides the Doors, and he offered to introduce us when he got the chance.”

Felicity was paying attention now. She was also annoyed. “I told you before, I don't want to go to the party.” She frowned. “I don't want to meet Morrison. Or any of the other Doors.”

“But it wouldn't be like going backstage, or anything like that,” protested Clara. “I mean, it wouldn't be like a groupie scene. We'd be introduced properly and all, by Bill, who manages all those big groups.”

“Look,” Felicity interrupted. “You can go if you want to. No one is stopping you.”

“I don't want to go without you.” Clara sounded as if she were going to cry. “I'd like to know why, that's all. I mean, we could go for just a little while. We could leave right away, if it's boring, or if it's an up tight scene. What have you got to lose? You don't have to get introduced if you don't want to.”

Felicity sighed and closed her eyes for a moment before opening them and leveling her hard, green-eyed stare at Clara. “That's a lot of bull and you know it. The only reason for going to that party is to meet Morrison. Well, I've explained it all to you before. I'm not interested in the real Jim Morrison. It's the one on stage that turns me on. I've met enough rock stars to know that the image they project on stage is much more exciting. That's the real thing... to me. The best part is up there, all distilled and perfect.”

“Oh, come off it.” Clara too was angry now. “It gets pretty boring, this kinkier-than-thou attitude of yours. You don't get all dressed up like a peacock, and you don't get front-row seats because you don't want those guys on stage to notice you. Why don't you admit it? It's your own image you're worried about—you're afraid they'll think you're just another groupie. But don't tell me you wouldn't make it with Morrison if you got the chance.”

Oh, but I do, thought Felicity, suppressing a smile. She wasn't about to tell her friend, though. If Clara thought she was kinky now, what would she think if she knew how Felicity got her kicks?

She let the argument rest, and they sat in silence until the crowd had thinned enough so they were able to leave the theatre without a hassle.

When they mere standing outside, Felicity said “Why don't I drop you off at the party and go on home. No sense ruining your fun because I'm feeling a bit out of sorts.”

Clara shook her head, somewhat mollified by her friend's conciliatory tone. “I don't want to go without you,” she repeated. She glanced at Felicity. “You do look a lot better now.”

“I feel a lot better.” Felicity took from her purse a small silver whistle. She blew it, but no cab appeared.

“Are you absolutely sure you don't want to come—just for a little while?” Clara asked tentatively. “We could leave right away— honest.”

“No, really, I'd better not. I'm kind of done in. What I need is a good night's rest. I have to meet Daddy for lunch to-morrow, and I mustn't seem too strung-out. You know how he is, always worried about my health, telling me I'm too skinny, that I take too many drugs....”

Clara giggled. “Well, he's right about that, you know.”

Felicity grinned. “Look who's talking!”

Then she strode out into the middle of Second Avenue and gave several short, loud blasts on her whistle. A few seconds later, an empty cab rounded the corner and pulled up in front of them.

“Wow, I can't believe it. That thing really works,” Clara exclaimed admiringly.

“It's not just the whistle,” Felicity admitted as they climbed into the taxi. “It's my super special psychic powers.”

“I believe it,” said Clara, too good-natured to stay angry very long. “Maybe I will look in on that party after all—that's if you're...


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