Chapter 3

"Typing speed?" the pinched-faced employment-office lady snapped even before Sandi had a chance to settle herself down in the squeaking metal folding chair. "Shorthand speed? Telex experience? Dictaphone?" she continued as though reciting a litany, never even glancing at the nervous young blonde.

"I... I'm afraid I... I never worked in an office," Sandi stammered, trying to smooth her short navy blue skirt down over her ripely rounded thighs. She'd chosen the skirt, a relic from her high-school wardrobe, as being more appropriate than the vivid-hued outfits which Verne had brought her. Although she certainly preferred the new clothes, they'd seemed somehow too frivolous for a job interview, and it was only now that she realized how very short this skirt was. She felt her cheeks grow hot as she thought that this stern woman must be thinking she was trying to look seductive in a rather sluttish way.

She needn't have worried on this score, for the woman still did not deign to glance at Sandi, although she did adjust her white-plastic framed glasses to frown at the card the young blonde had filled out in the outer office.

"No office experience?" She repeated Sandi's statement as though she were accusing the girl of having a prison record. "Well, then, what can you do?"

What could she do? Perhaps because she'd been so distracted by her guilty thoughts about the depraved scene with Larry Johnson the evening before, Sandi hadn't even thought to consider this question. Getting a job and making lots of money to help her injured husband had been as far as her thoughts went as she drove into Brunrocke this morning, and she'd been very glad to have something to do that helped to alleviate the crushing burden of guilt about her wanton behavior. But what if she couldn't even get a job... ?

"Well, Mrs. Smith, what skills do you have?" the gray-haired woman asked, impatiently tapping her ballpoint against the gray metal desktop.

"I... I..." Sandi began, then paused in despair as she fished through her mind for some citable accomplishment. Verne had always praised her cooking... and she'd done a lot of babysitting during high school... and she could knit and crochet... and she'd gotten straight A's in English, though she'd failed algebra... Somehow, though, none of these attributes seemed the sort of thing that would interest this unfriendly woman.

"I... I," she tried again, "I can cook..."

"If you wanted a job as a domestic," the woman interrupted, glancing at her watch, "you ought to have gone to an agency that deals in that."

"Oh no!" Sandi exclaimed, her cheeks flushing redder than ever. "I... I don't think I want to be a maid."

Maids didn't make enough money to pay for Verne's operation, and she knew that her proud husband would be ashamed to have her cleaning someone else's home. He'd probably be resentful at the fact she was seeking any job at all, for he'd always insisted that no wife of his was going to work.

Catching the note of hysteria in the girl's voice, the frozen-faced employment bureau worker glanced up at her for the first time. The applicant didn't look a day over eighteen, though she was certainly pretty enough... somehow she just didn't look like the type to be a waitress in a nightclub, which was just about the only type of unskilled job the agency had listed at the moment.

"Unfortunately, there are no vacancies at any of the groceries or department stores here in Brunrocke," she said, riffling through a stack of file cards containing job listings. "But I do have something for a nightclub waitress at the Pioneer Bar and Steak House just out of town, down by the new expressway. It's well-paid, but naturally it involves night work..."

"Oh no, I don't think so," Sandi demurred. That certainly wouldn't please Verne either!

"Well, then," the lady was beginning to sound impatient and the nineteen year old blonde felt distinctly embarrassed. "I just don't know what we can offer you..." she shuffled through her cards again, shaking her head, and then rather doubtfully plucked one out. "How about modeling? This is a rather - uh - odd position, but maybe... ?"

Sandi licked her lips, then gulped, "Odd?" Models make lots of money, she was thinking, and people are always telling me I'm built like a model.

"Mr. Fletcher seems to be a bit particular; he never seems to like the girls we send over. I suppose its because he's a foreigner. But you could give it a try."

The woman's statement was a command rather than an offer, and Sandi rose hurriedly, aware that the woman was anxious to get on with her more lucrative clients.

Clutching the paper on which the woman had written Mr. Fletcher's address, she slowly threaded her way cross the medium- sized town toward the three-story brick building which housed the "Deja-Vu Studio". She pushed the button labeled, "Tony Fletcher, Fashion Photographer", and waited, her heart thumping against her ribs and her mouth dry with nervousness. Suddenly the headache she'd woken up with returned to throb behind her temples, and when no one answered her rather timid ring she felt a sensation of relief.

Turning so quickly that her mini-skirt caught in the current of the autumn breeze and exposed her firm-fleshed thighs and pink lace panties, she started down the three rather steep front steps, her long slender legs wobbling slightly in her chunky navy blue platform heels. I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm feeling calmer, she promised herself. And I'll wear something more conservative too. But try as she would, she couldn't block out the guilty whispers that persisted in creeping through into her consciousness.

You're just afraid - and you'll be just as much a chicken tomorrow! her conscience accused. You're too stupid to find a job to help Verne! You can't do anything without making a mess of it, just like your mother always said. Just look at what you did last night! She was right when she said you'd never be able to get along alone up north!

A sobering image of her gray-faced mother flashed across the already downhearted young wife's mind, so distracting her that she failed to hear the "Deja-Vu's" front door opening and an oddly accented man's voice calling out to her. When she felt an arm tugging at her red cardigan, she yelped and whirled around so quickly that she had to catch hold of the bannister to keep from toppling over. Then, blushing with embarrassment at her awkwardness, she turned to stare at the dark-haired, bare-chested young man in chopped-off blue jeans who had caught hold of her arm when she stumbled in her cumbersome shoes.

"Never did understand why you chicks want to wear those crazy shoes. Bloody dangerous," he remarked as casually as though they were old friends instead of complete strangers.

"I-I'm sorry... I guess y-you startled m-me," she stammered, annoyed at her own gauche behavior but feeling extremely disconcerted by the way the handsome man's eyes seemed to be undressing her right out there on the doorstep. Then, when he failed to release his hold on her arm, she mumbled, "Well, better be going. Th-thanks for c-catching me." With a self-conscious laugh she turned away from him and put one foot down on the step below, then stopped short as he tightened his grip on her sweatered arm.

"Hey, wait a minute," he smiled, "I don't get it. You come to my house and ring my doorbell, but the minute you see me you want to run away. Am I so awful as all that?"

Sandi gaped at him uncertainly, wondering just what it was about his piercing blue eyes that made her feel so exposed. "Oh no... I mean... I was... I was looking for a Mr. Fletcher," she explained, wishing again that she'd worn something that didn't reveal quite so much of her shapely legs.

The slim-hipped, long-haired youth grinned down at her, the pressure of his hand upon her arm increasing as he laughed, "Well, you found him!"

"You're... you're not... ?" Sandi was astounded. She'd certainly not expected that woman at the agency to send her out for an interview with someone who looked for all the world like a college student from nearby Notre Dame. Why, he didn't look as old as her twenty-five year old husband Verne, and what with those sideburns, boyishly waving long hair, and faded and patched cut- offs, she just couldn't picture him as a prospective employer. Of course, she'd expected a foreign photographer to look somewhat more eccentric than an ordinary business executive, but a bearded, baggy-trousered, bereted little man was more the image she'd conjured up.

"Tony W. Fletcher, Fashion Photographer," the dark-haired youth tapped his tanned, well-muscled chest, looking vastly amused at the attractive young blonde's self-conscious confusion. "And when I make the effort I actually look quite respectable enough to impress the good citizens of Brunrocke, Indiana. Come on in."

Before she knew quite what was happening, Sandi Smith found herself being led back up the cement steps and into a dimly lit, very narrow hallway. To the left was a steep flight of stairs, and at the end of the corridor was a shiny black door on which was painted in red, "knock before entering".

"Darkroom," said Tony in response to her unasked question. Then, taking the bewildered blonde's arm, he guided her up to the second story and along a corridor decorated with rather bizarre black and white fashion photos done in a very modernistic style. She'd have liked to stop and take a long look at the exotic- looking clothing and unusual lighting effects, but Tony was pulling her into a large, brightly lit room which appeared to be a sort of living room, bedroom, and kitchen all combined in an overwhelming confusion of color and clutter. Much to Sandi's consternation, there was even a shower with a see-through plastic curtain draped around it standing right beside a pile of cushions which apparently served as a sofa.

What a crazy place for a shower! she marveled to herself. Just imagine being naked in there with people sitting and watching you so close they could practically touch you! The very idea sent inexplicable prickles of excitement shooting up her spine, and Sandi immediately put an end to that lewd train of thought.

The young wife would have liked to inspect this curious room, so totally divorced from her conception of a house, but the agile, half-naked photographer was hurrying up a still steeper flight of steps and she was so busy concentrating on not stumbling on her clumsy, thick-soled shoes that she didn't dare to glance anywhere but down.

The third level of Tony Fletcher's peculiar house was his studio, and whereas his living quarters had been in wild disorder, this room was methodically neat. Sunlight flooded into the slant- ceilinged chamber through two large skylights, and the white walls were ringed with photographs and colorful posters.

"What a strange building!" Sandi forgot her shyness enough to exclaim. "It's so tall and narrow - I never saw anything like it before."

"Yeah, it's pretty weird," Tony agreed. "It's one of the oldest houses in Brunrocke - belonged to my friend Ted's grandfather before he kicked off. But I like it, 'cause it reminds me of home."

"H-home?"

"London. Sit down." The good-looking young man gestured toward a canvas folding chair, then ambled over to the far side of the large room and began doing something with his camera equipment.

Sandi seated herself rather gingerly on the low-slung chair, self-consciously tugging her miniscule navy blue skirt as far down over her flaring thighs as possible. Then she crossed her slim ankles in the prim and proper way her mother had often insisted upon, nervously ran her tongue over her dry lips, and waited for Mr. Fletcher to turn around and break the silence. Much to her embarrassment, he merely continued doing whatever it was he was doing, whistling to himself as though he'd been all alone in the studio.

Feeling more ill at ease then ever, the nineteen year old wife made a deliberate effort to stare at the pictures on the walls rather than at the rippling muscles of the photographer's golden-tanned torso, which somehow reminded her of Larry Johnson.

Don't be ridiculous! she scolded herself. They don't look the least bit alike, aside from both having dark hair, and besides I'm not going to let myself think about last night. I'm not!

The guilt-tortured young housewife had been resolving to block out the sinful, obscenely vivid memory pictures from the moment she'd woken up to find herself nakedly draped over the living room chair, her lurid apricot-lace nightgown crumpled on the floor below. Now, hours later, she couldn't hold back a shudder as she recalled how filthy she'd felt and how she'd detected a scent of Larry Johnson's masculine odor on her own body. There had been a dull pounding in the back of her temples, and a disgusting stale whiskey taste in her mouth, but as she'd hurried into the bathroom, she'd scarcely noticed her physical discomfort in her struggle to erase the shameful images that swam before her tear-swollen eyes.

As she'd scrubbed her traitorous body, carefully avoiding applying any pressure to her ultra-sensitive breasts and soaping her hair-fringed vagina over and over to destroy any trace of her husband's friend's perverted oral assault, she'd thought she'd succeeded in driving the obscene pictures from her mind. Praying that she could make herself forget the ugly incident entirely, she'd directed her thoughts toward Verne. How could she be sinful enough to think of anything else, when her beloved husband lay paralyzed in a hospital bed? He must never, never find out...

But as she'd sat drinking black coffee in the spotless little kitchen of her modern ranch house, the dreadful pictures once again rose unbidden before her eyes. There were two disturbing visions: the first, of Larry's head with its fashionably trimmed dark hair burrowing in obscene feast between her own wantonly widespread legs, his red tongue snaking out from between his teeth toward the most intimate, sacred part of her body - the pussy that belonged exclusively to her husband Verne; and the second image, of her husband's friend as she'd seen him when she opened her eyes to answer the phone, his huge, angry-red cock brandished in his hand and his black eyes burning with lustful desire.

All through the morning, as she carefully dressed and applied a touch of pink rouge to her unusually pale cheeks, then as she drove the ten miles from the subdivision of Lakeview Gardens to the larger town of Brunrocke, the disturbing images kept recurring. Now, as she sat in Tony Fletcher's studio waiting for him to interview her, Larry's flicking tongue and throbbing, swollen penis again flashed before the guilty wife's eyes. Flinching as though she'd been slapped by an invisible hand, the tortured young blonde exerted all her energy toward making the horrible visions vanish.

What's the matter with me? she agonized. Why did I keep seeing dirty pictures in my mind? I think I'm going crazy... stark raving mad!

Suddenly a flashbulb exploded in her face, breaking through her troubled reverie and dispersing the lewd, unwanted images with its burst of light.

"Scared ya, didn't I?" the good-looking man flashed a bright smile at the shy job applicant. "A model oughtn't to be camera- shy!"

"I - I'm not really a model," Sandi felt compelled to confess. "The agency lady just sent me here because... well... because I can't type and this was the only job there was. And I have to find a job - I absolutely have to!"

Tony Fletcher studied the fair-haired girl curiously, trying to guess at her story from her appearance. This was a game he often played with himself, and with his trained eye, he was usually able to make quite astute guesses about total strangers. So far he'd had eleven females come in wanting to be models, and he'd psyched out every one of them before they'd told him a thing about themselves. Not that this was much to boast about, for they'd all been pretty obvious types: seventeen year old prom queens who dreamed of ending up in Hollywood, broad-hipped mother's of three who'd won a local beauty contest ten years ago, and so forth. All of them had been pretty enough, though a little too heavy for the camera which added about ten pounds, but none of them had been right for the project he had in mind. In fact, the twenty-three year old free-lance photographer had just about given up all hope of finding a model in Brunrocke, and had been sending off letters to former girlfriends in less conservative corners of the country.

What would this honey-haired girl say when he told her just exactly what sort of a model he wanted he wondered, a sly smile flickering over his handsome face. She seemed awfully nervous and shy, but beneath her modest, old-fashioned demeanor he sensed an emotional intensity. Well, he sure as hell hoped she wasn't a prude, because she had the body and face he'd been searching for ever since he and Ted had come up with this great idea.

Once again the young photographer let his green-flecked eyes glide over the nervous blonde's young curvaceous body. She looked about nineteen, though it was always hard to be certain about age, and he saw from the ring on her slim left hand that she was married. That might just present problems, but everything else was so perfect that he determined not to let it interfere with his plans for her. Jesus, she was exactly what he'd had in mind, with that southern accent and angelic face, and lush yet slender body too! He couldn't wait to tell Ted that he'd found an absolutely unbeatable star for the film they'd been talking about all summer long. The deal might really be coming off! For a brief instant he let his mind dwell on the way things would be when this movie had made him and his friend rich and famous. His family would sure be sorry they'd called him an irresponsible college drop-out, and a good-for-nothing layabout.

Slow down, Tony, he cautioned himself. Just keep cool... you've still got to talk her into it, and you don't even know if she's photogenic yet...

Quickly peeling the top paper from the Polaroid shot he'd just taken, he peered down at it intently, then flashed a broad, triumphant grin.

Perfect! he exulted. Custom-made for us! Face like a virgin, and a bod like the hottest whore in Paris! And even high- set cheekbones, and one of those enigmatic kind of smiles. Wonder what she was thinking about when I shot that? Something she wouldn't want to tell me, I bet!

"Looks real nice," he said, sauntering over toward the young woman who sat fidgeting uncomfortably on the canvas chair. "Lots better than anyone that damn agency's sent round. Have a look..."

Sandi took the proffered photo, her smooth forehead wrinkling into a frown as she stared at it. It looked rather dreadful to her, and she couldn't imagine what Mr. Fletcher saw in it to please him so. For one thing, her shoulder-length hair was a mess; and still worse, the unguarded expression in her eyes was so different from any of the say-cheese smiling photos she'd had taken previously that she scarcely recognized herself. Planting a stiff little smile on her sensual pink lips, she handed the snapshot back to the bare-chested young man.

"Of course, I'm going to have to take lots more test shots," Tony began, "but I'd say the job's yours if you want it - uh, what's your name, anyway?"

"Mrs. Verne Smith... Sandi Smith," the astonished blonde replied, an odd little tremor running through her as it always did when she gave her married name instead of Seeburg, her maiden name. An inauspicious giggle buggled in her throat at the sheer absurdity of what was happening to her. How could this strange young man be offering her a job without knowing the first thing about her, not even her name? It just didn't make any sense at all!

"Ten bucks an hour - how does that sound?"

Ten dollars an hour? My cousin Mary-Sue's only making $1.95 an hour, and she knows shorthand and all that stuff. It's impossible - there has to be a catch somewhere. But if I'm earning that much money, I'll be able to pay all Verne's hospital bills without taking anything from that loathsome Larry Johnson. It'll make everything all right again... as if last night hadn't happened...

Tony Fletcher moved an inch closer to the gracefully contoured young blonde so that he was standing near enough to smell the fresh, unperfume-adulterated scent of her very feminine body. Inside his hip-hugging cut-off jeans, he felt his virile penis jerk to life to bulge noticeably against the much-washed denim fabric, and his smile grew even more gleeful than before. Before this afternoon was over, if things worked out the way he hoped, he'd be sinking his long thick cock into this innocent- looking blonde's sweet little pussy. It would be good and tight, he was sure of that, and she'd be whimpering beneath him and begging for more. The fact that she was another man's woman added an extra fillip of erotic anticipation to the scheming Briton's lust.

There you go again, counting your chickens before they're hatched, he cautioned himself. Talk her into getting out of her clothes before you think about getting into her cunt!

"Tax free, of course," he added smoothly. "And a cut of the profits too, naturally."

"P-profits?" Sandi stammered, not really liking the sound of "tax free"; though she knew little about such matters, it somehow sounded dishonest. Yet overriding her vague doubts was her almost desperate desire to earn money, lots of money. If she could pay for Verne's operation without asking Larry's help, she might be able to get her husband out of his disloyal friend's clutches. He could stop risking his life every day and could get a good job that didn't take him away from her for weeks at a time, and their marriage could be the way she'd dreamed it would be. Last night's wanton breakdown of her willpower would never, never recur...

"Yes, you see, we're making a movie. My partner and I, that is," Tony explained.

"A movie? But... but I c-can't act. I mean, I never tried..." Sandi broke in, her face reddening with disappointment at having lost this wonderful job so soon.

Secretly, she'd always wanted to try out for parts in high- school plays, but her father had been opposed to it, and besides she was sure she'd just get tongue-tied on stage and never be able to utter a word in the end. Still, it would have been wonderful to be up there with all those people in the audience looking up and admiring her, and a movie would have been even more exciting. If only she were a different, cleverer sort of person...

Her classic-featured young face collapsed into a mask of despair as her short-lived vision of finding a good job faded. Probably she'd end up being a waitress in a drive-in, or a maid, or nothing at all. And Verne would continue to be controlled by his selfish manager, Larry Johnson. Why was she so inept at everything? She'd hoped that marriage would change her, transform her into an accomplished, self-assured young woman: but no, she was still as stupid and useless as she'd been back at her father's vicarage back in Florida.

"Doesn't matter at all," the photographer's British-accented voice broke through her dismal thoughts. "Why do you suppose I went through a goddamn employment agency in a dump like Brunrocke if I wanted a real actress? Listen, Sandi, you're exactly the girl I'm looking for. You've got the face I need - and you can act; everything you're thinking's reflected all over you. Don't put yourself down!"

Sandi hung her head, letting her long, ash-blonde curls form a protective veil around her flushed face. This was probably the first time in her nineteen years that she'd had to make a decision of any importance entirely on her own, and she felt flustered and helpless. To make things worse, Mr. Fletcher - though he did seem very nice and friendly - persisted in eyeing her in a way that reduced her already shaky composure to shreds. She especially didn't like his remark about her thoughts showing on her face; it proved she still was out-of-control as she'd been the night before because since childhood she'd usually kept her expression smooth and guarded.

"I... I don't know..." she murmured.

"Let me tell you more about what we're planning to do," Tony said in his most persuasive voice, placing one hand on the nervous blonde's arm in a studiedly casual way. She shivered slightly at the contact, which sent his eager penis leaping into such urgent palpitations that he was afraid she would notice his arousal and be frightened away. "My mate and I got this fantastic idea for a flick - a real money-maker - but we needed a certain kind of bird. And you're the one! You've got that sort of soft, gentle looks, a kind of sweetness and innocence, and we just want you to act as though you're not in a film. You dig? You just have to be yourself!"

Sandi shook her tawny golden mane of hair away from her face to stare in bewilderment at the enthusiastic youth beside her. Although the pressure of his hand on her arm certainly wasn't in the least way suggestive, she felt her entire body vibrating with shameful excitement at his touch. All the unwanted excitation she'd felt from Larry Johnson's obscene touches of the night before came back in a dizzying rush, and though she tried her best to control herself, the two depraved images that had been plaguing her all day flickered briefly before her eyes again.

"You just have to be natural, uninhibited," Tony Fletcher's clipped-sounding voice broke through the guilty young wife's unwanted remembrance. "Come on, let's take a few more test shots and I'll try to show you what I want."

Suddenly Sandi's body seemed to make up her mind for her, and without having made a conscious decision to accept this mysterious, almost suspicious job offer, she found her head nodding in agreement. As she did so, a curious elation tingled through her bloodstream, and her posture automatically grew straight and proud.

"Okay," she said to the photographer in a voice which quavered a little although she was trying to sound self-assured and experienced. "I'll... I'll take the job, Mr. Fletcher."

"Tony, please," the young cameraman smiled, his pleasure so obvious that Sandi's self-confidence jumped up several notches. His next words, however, brought feelings of inadequacy welling up inside her once again. "But you'll have to get out of those clothes - those just won't do at all," he said firmly. "Here - you have a drink and just relax while I dig up some things, okay?"

Sandi found herself nodding again, although a drink was the very last thing she wanted after last night's whiskey-perpetuated fiasco. Up until her marriage a year ago, she'd hardly even tasted alcohol, and although she now accepted a glass of wine or beer, or even an occasional whiskey, just to keep Verne from making fun of her, she still viewed liquor with distrust. Certainly she'd never have considered drinking at one o'clock in the afternoon, but since Mr. Fletcher - Tony, rather - seemed to think it perfectly natural, she didn't want to seem gauche by protesting.

"Here you go," Tony said, offering her a glass of a thick, yellowish liquid which he'd extracted from a bottle in a well- stocked cabinet built into the wall, then diluting it with water, so that it changed color in a mysterious way. It tasted as peculiar as it looked, but after the first licorice-flavored sip Sandi decided that she liked it much better than Verne's Johnny Walker.

"Pernod," Tony replied to her unspoken question as he turned to another cabinet and began pulling out an assortment of brightly-hued garments. "Should get your head in just the right place."

Sandi didn't quite know what he meant by that, but she was too filled with inner excitement to wonder about it for very long. I'm going to be in a movie! she thought, goosepimples breaking out on her smooth flesh at the very idea. What would my father and mother say? And the kids back in Florida who always thought I was the preacher's mousy goodie-goodie daughter. What'll Verne say when he finds out?

There was no question about how her parents would react; they were opposed to movies in any way, shape, or form unless they were about bible stories and somehow she was sure that that wasn't at all what Tony had in mind. As for Verne... well, it was hard to tell. He seemed to get jealous about the silliest things, and he'd always been against her working; but, of course, now she was doing it to help him so he couldn't really mind. Certainly he'd rather have her doing something respectable that he could be proud of instead of washing other people's clothes or serving drinks in some nasty bar.

But the biggest triumph of all was the thought of the reaction of the people she'd gone to school with back in Florida. Imagine the way their mouths would drop if they knew that skinny Sandra Seeburg with her dishwater blonde hair and unfashionable clothes was now Sandi Smith, movie star!?! For the first time in her life, the green-eyed blonde began to feel as though she were an important person in her own right, not just the dowdy preacher's daughter, or a faceless, unpopular high-school student, or even the famous Verne Smith's introverted wife. It was a marvelous feeling, and as she sipped at the fresh-tasting but deceptively potent Pernod her sensation of freedom rapidly increased.