0 comments/ 7537 views/ 0 favorites Meeting an Actress By: RetMarut Winter penetrated the classroom. Cold lethargy firmly settled over Ian Abercrombie's Advanced American Literature class. Even the few good-looking coeds bound in light nipple tracing sweaters and woolen skirts short enough to reveal interesting amounts of well-turned legs failed boosting his spirit. Bad as the climate was, news preceding this hour further worsened Abercrombie's mood. The combination made him morose. Without any exertion beforehand Abercrombie's body felt sluggish, his overcoat a heavy mantle piled on his shoulders. Already regarded by faculty and students as stern, instinct told him he now showed an ogre's frown. Fortunately falling snow masked most of his harder face outside. After class' merciful end, fat snowflakes obscured the campus while he trudged back to his office. Inside the English Building, loud hissing steam pipes annoyed him as much as sniffling secretaries and snuffling colleagues. Were Abercrombie still in the newspaper racket, at least one of his desk drawers would've held a quart bottle of bourbon. That was one hoary journalistic trait he missed. Of course it was another attribute of old journalism which horrified its new corporate overseers. All of which they meant to stamp out under stinking conformity. Fairly soon the quirky personalities populating newsrooms, the ones who gave those offices individuality, would be sacrificed to homogeneity altogether. The Des Moines daily could just as soon share perspectives with San Francisco affiliates. B-school thinking applied to j-school products: rob the local and regional outlets of their distinctions, transform them into indistinguishable franchises, and lure undiscerning customers with safe sameness. After all it worked with burgers and fries. Forget nourishment. Just deliver empty calories profitably. And fast. Somehow Abercrombie always saw good news as pungent and chewy. Abercrombie's phone rang. Paul Lowery's happy voice filled his ear from Colorado. "Two more feet over the last three days!" Lowery exclaimed. "On top of a two-foot base! Shit, man, we are in high cotton! Everybody gets laid tonight!" Lowery had just returned from busting through virgin snow. Despite having his office blinds canted, the walls dazzled from the reflective glare blasting past slats. Coffee, cocoa and cinnamon waked the resort's recreational management suite. The cheeks of the paler female staff were ruddy, their smiles seemingly more vibrant. After an hour of skiing through new money, Lowery barged into his office. There he fired up his PC, his opening page the online New York Times. "Old habits are hard to break," Lowery said. "Especially when they've been browbeaten into you. Mrs. Pomfret, bless her witchy soul, would be giddy to know her constant harangues got through my thick skull. Even here in the Back Range." "You saw it?" Abercrombie asked. "The obit?" "Yeah. Sad to say." Notable as they considered the deceased, both knew the woman too high-falutin' for any Denver Post or the Rocky Mountain Times mention. In the galaxy beyond the cosmopolitan Northeast and its L.A. outpost, she had thrived unknown. "I think this is one of those signposts telling us we can start counting the days until we can't jump buildings in a single bound anymore," Abercrombie said. Lowery guffawed at his friend's morbid exaggeration. "Christ, Ian! She the first chick you've ever banged go out and die on you!?" On the other end in New York Abercrombie smiled. "Just think, Ian. If you hadn't dragged us to all those damn movies with subtitles, nobody could commiserate with you." Abercrombie scoffed. "Yours isn't a sympathy call." "Why sure it is," Lowery purred. "I'm damned sorry I'll never see her naked again in another picture. I'm just going to have to survive on muscle memories." In 1989 Paul Lowery attended business courses in London. Despite a seven-year reprieve since his last classroom attendance, he jumped at the opportunity of that graduate summer. At the end of the 80s he merely served as one more miniscule cog in corporate America. He felt himself becoming grayer than his suits. Stipends floated him, while a university-affiliated UK Realtor found him an Earls Court flat. Perhaps once the building had housed a hotel. Those glory days long gone, the structure had been converted into short-term apartments. Ideally at least. Squeezed as the rentals were, Lowery couldn't imagine anyone making that his or her address for long. The Paki managing the property promptly collected rents but lagged behind upkeep and repairs. Lowery lived on the fifth floor. Weak water pressure reduced his shower to unreliable trickles. When it operated the lift transformed those flights into Coney Island rattle rides. Inconveniences aside, Lowery's flat offered three marvelous amenities. One, it was private. Two, the view gazed over westward London slates. Three, recent issues of Tatler, Blitz, Melody Maker and NME littered the coffee table. The first meant having visitors minus regarding any roommates' sensibilities. The second helped beguile those women he eventually lured and snaked there. The third burnished his cool quotient. Desirous of news from America, Lowery of course read the International Herald Tribune. But to signal he was "going native" Lowery usually had copies of the Sun or Daily Mirror carelessly placed strategically. Nevertheless only an undergraduate could've mistaken this pit for commodious. A further detraction: that summer normally temperate London, all Europe for that matter, often sweltered under Gulf Coast sultriness. Having gotten situated, Lowery invited his now inseparable friends from college, Abercrombie and Ransome Farrell. His offer to Farrell was a courtesy. The second man toiled proudly in what portended a professional military career. However, should he be assigned a fortuitous posting, Lowery's other best friend had somewhere else to flop. From which both could exploit the city's party centrals, a la college. Except now with impressive gravitas, greater suavity and more money. Back in the late 80s Abercrombie still wrote for newspapers. Until Lowery's invitation, he never considered applying for a passport, much less travel abroad. They reverted to freshman days during Abercrombie's first week. Their accents and ready Yank cash attracted those not-so-rare shop girls and secretaries seeking amusement. Then, Americans had over a decade yet before earning the planet's enmity. Besides, the Soviet Empire still lurked menacingly and civilization required resolute ideologues for its protection. Freshman revival, though, took its toll on the now 30-year-olds. Lowery's classroom diligence became spotty, if not outright bumpy. Their stamina flagged at weeks' end. Nonetheless ... Abhorring generalizations as he did, Abercrombie quickly concluded English roses must've been an entirely different species than their North American sisters. Such distinctions bypassed Lowery. All he sought were warm, tight, wet babes in whom to bury his dick. To him the difference amounted between plonk and Chateau Lafitte. The goal remained the same. Whereas too many American women prefaced their carnal congress with arbitrary good-girl reluctance, Canadians cool almost dismissive along the horizontal route, the Latin variations unbridled while committing the acts only crippled by religious remorse afterwards, the English were sexually precocious. They were ahead of the game. Although Abercrombie sensed the difference almost from the start, years passed before he fully sorted it out to his satisfaction. Even then ... They began their evenings in pubs. Pub grub further sodden under HP sauce fortified them. Neatly drawn pints rounded a lot of edges. The barkeep's 11 o'clock "time!" bellow (the early closing hour an archaic holdover from the Great War) sent them reeling into night. There the Americans immediately learned to check right first rather than left before crossing streets. Lowery always knew of nearby cellars masquerading as dance palais. Inside them the two Yanks invariably attracted a like number of women. Abercrombie never discovered whether their accents or clothing (right down to freshly buffed shoes) baited women. Perhaps it was as simple as new meat amidst so many old cuts. Both were tall and broad shouldered, Lowery leaner than the much muscular Abercrombie. Short neat hair topped their confident demeanors. Ascertaining then synthesizing some personal particulars, and struggling not to respond in processed fashion, began that evening's quartet's binding. Were there any reserved women around these hours, Lowery and Abercrombie managed evading them altogether. The pair drew flirty and tart ones. Their eyes lively orbs below the era's bias hairstyles, rubbery painted mouths ready to elongate the syllables and vowels Americans properly bit off. Alas, nary a one compared to either Wendy James or Christine Amphlett. The dieting mania was less pernicious then. More often plump in its succulent permutations, the girls forced the Yanks, accustomed to measured and not monumental idealization, to appreciate pale bountiful bosoms jiggling atop scooped waists whose hips and flanks were dense packs beneath the foreigners' large palms. First impressions greatly influenced future resolutions, yes. However, what proceeded actually decided the matter. It wasn't the drinks the toffs stood. Or rather, plied the women with. Nor was it the men's feigned interest which further relaxed the women. Neither did it derive from them purposely mispronouncing British English or bollixing certain subject/verb agreements. No. Abercrombie and Lowery usually found themselves escorting nattering women back to the latter's Earls Court fifth-floor lair for sighing/sweating/swearing fuck sessions by strutting their stuff on the pleasure parquet. While neither man would never have guaranteed his sinuous moves foretold sensual aptitude, their undulations certainly paved the way for a lot of happy-end discovery. Unlike too many men worldwide, the Americans were two who determined dancing as the best way to initially impress women. And surely it helped both enjoyed shakin' 'em on down. Where American women would've voiced dismay at screwing with a friend so near, the English women Lowery and Abercrombie ploughed skipped unnecessary modesty. Their attitudes realistic because Lowery's flat stinted on acoustics as well as roominess. One clearly heard cushions squish, springs squeak and hot flesh meet. Far as space itself, the sofa ruled what served as sitting room. In the sleeper, dark blocky dressers and an armoire hemmed in the pallet-width bed. The Yanks made the most of such limitations. Although Abercrombie and Lowery didn't introduce foreplay to the British Isles, they certainly practiced it! Oral adroitness and manual dexterity not only compelled female subordination but reaped their sincerest gratitude. Some mornings the lads had women regarding them with near divinity. Both were proficient, Abercrombie the more "caring" of the pair. He attended women's mysteries with unhurried tenderness. His tongue tip slowly, for some wonderfully agonizing, sought out concealed lips' secrets. Thus whetted, he crept into the honeyed canals seeking merely to tickle nubs. Once found, Abercrombie lingered there, his tongue's cleverness making them crumble into waves. Seeing a woman was on her way, he'd let his fingers softly jab deep-rooted messages her instincts decoded. Abercrombie's big fingers, especially his outsized knuckles, prompted indecipherable declarations among her sharp catches of breath. Given over to tidal forces, he'd mouth and lick her nipples. Sometimes she'd grab the back of his head imploring him farther. Although a few pled for his cock, Abercrombie never rushed. His internal sense timed when he plunged. Several mornings he awoke being drowsily called "torturer" or "beast" by the previous night's partner. Naturally "torturer" or "beast" from a dreamily disposed Brit chick flattered him. As it ought have. When the moment right, the excited woman beneath him hurriedly abetted his maneuvering. More than one tugged on his cock hard enough to jerk errant pubic hairs or dislodge otherwise fast johnny bag sheathing him. Lowery learned that also like their American sisters, British women exhibited little restraint or reserve when "willy" was very good to them. From what Lowery heard happening beneath him and out of the other room, he believed he and his friend induced plenty of horizontal Tourettes. He was a much harsher master than Abercrombie. While the reporter rigged his game by ragging time before settling into fixed rhythm, his friend placed little value on thoroughly eating pussy and diligent diddling. Therefore devoting less time and effort on both, he preferred becoming a steady ramrod from the first beat. Lowery fucked violently. He often numbed women under him. Their eyes, when open, were vacant; heads lolled; his driving made arms useless; tits, big tits especially, heaved through his application of rough physics. Legs became his to support while their bodies shuddered. Afterwards, on those few times he considered past moments, Lowery wondered whether the women succumbed to his raw insistence and believed it pleasure or had repetition crossed over into surrendered enjoyment? Either man's guest usually remained overnight. In Lowery's case through exhaustion; with Abercrombie satisfied comfort. Unless it a weekend, when morning grayed the previous night's guests couldn't lounge around. They needed to clock in at work. More than once Lowery and Abercrombie stood aside or reclined while two female cyclones showered then primped, making the best of the prior night's clothing. Tiny as the bathroom was, both girls somehow fit and shared the mirror to simultaneously apply new makeup, daub fresh perfume, smoke cigarettes and gulp dodgily brewed coffee. Hurried but plaintive "byes" followed emptied cups. During those laggard intervals between rousing and rushing Abercrombie noticed how daylight accentuated their respective complexions. Perhaps like tens of thousands of Southwestern undergraduates the two men indulged themselves under the sun. Since then such carefree days of wandering around shirtless wearing only shorts and flip-flops had become precious. Work rarely lent itself to prime tanning. Nonetheless their faces and arms caught fair amounts of sunlight. Compared to the Britons, Abercrombie and Lowery could've been Torrid Zone aboriginals. On the streets, clothed, the disparity wasn't clear. Only naked did it become apparent. Except for the odd Maltese or Gibraltan, the women were powdery pale from head to toe. Most even recognized the Americans' "colour." Envy often underlined the women's comments. The two men remarked years later that England had given them greater appreciations of two rather ordinary words. The first, "love" tickled their ears as "luv." The other, "darling," left itself open to more interpretations than "really." Any itinerary Abercrombie had planned got scotched his first days in London. Many of the touristy sites he glimpsed by happenstance. However, thanks to a road-clogging tube strike, he gaped at Queen Elizabeth. HRM's motorized retinue had been solidly stuck in commoners' traffic. She looked regally unamused. A weekend in Amsterdam was Lowery's and Abercrombie's random choice. The former realized his studies and stamina suffered. The latter accepted his host's admission better than hoped. For the guest too was running down. The remedy Lowery proposed suited both. It was the sort of decision three decades of living manifested. One without remorse or recrimination. The kind 18-year-olds couldn't possibly fathom for another decade or so. Instead of burning through the gallivanting candle using a blowtorch on both ends, Lowery would properly resume his academic load leaving his friend to explore the Continent. Weekends they'd meet somewhere in order to dance that mess around again. Perfect! Mondays through late Thursdays Lowery attended his lectures fully conscious as Abercrombie did his best refuting the abstruse American stereotype. An overnight ferry from Harwich delivered them to the Hook of Holland. No gambling. No duty free. Just breakfast. At disembarkation they trained into Amsterdam. The short blue and egg yolk locomotive made all local stops. The duo chugged through polders in a sparsely peopled carriage. A single woman and two couples also enjoyed the passing countryside. The woman sat in the seat ahead, her back to them. One couple sat in the aisle beside, the other stuffed corner seats. Thanks to the woman's prompting all within earshot discovered her neighbors visited from Oklahoma. Apparently she hoped drawing them out through questions. Despite her wheedling, the Okies answered monosyllabically. 'Maybe they're just overwhelmed,' Abercrombie thought. 'Or maybe it's just being from Oklahoma.' Abercrombie deduced this train carried few passengers. The peddler trundled her cart with frequency. Unaware of the paucity of customers, Lowery bought a decent beer supply on her first swing. Unfortunately the stubby green cans held insufficient suds. Worse, the railroad charged rip-off prices for pony amounts. Obviously the vendor knew the woman sitting ahead. Every pass let them converse familiarly in Dutch. Probably gossip. Lowery suggested that at the next station they bolt on a beer run. Every station had a sundries store. He'd already checked the schedule. Ten minutes to sprint back and forth, filling a bag and paying in between. "Piece of cake," he said. "Just as long as the locals don't mistake it for a jailbreak." Though the desolate train station seemed lacking, its store offered the essentials: rolling papers, crisps, rubbers and, yes, beer. They sat in their carriage with minutes to spare. During their absence the woman ahead of them reversed her seating. She now faced them. Abercrombie hazily recognized the ginger-haired stranger but Lowery distracted him before he solidly identified her. All the carriages weren't furnished with WC's. The car behind lacked; the front of theirs had one. That restroom attracted a head-swerving promenade. By stroke of dumb luck all needing relief were female, quite tall, shapely. Red-blooded American males as Abercrombie and Lowery were, both felt obliged to eye-ball each who passed. Their antics embarrassed the Oklahomans. Yet they amused the woman facing them. Abercrombie evaluated her during a lull. His internal clock must've been slow. He stared at her long enough to unnerve himself. She, though, accepted his impertinence with aplomb. A fair-complexioned redhead, the woman appeared comfortably disposed. The lower portion of her round face inclined towards involuntary mirth. Mischief flashed behind her blue eyes. Turquoise combs kept her ginger in check. All except for a thick red flip which exaggerated the carriage's minor sway. Occasionally that flip tumbled across her forehead, swiping her nose and eyes. Delicate fingers restored the rebellious lank but never for long. When she smiled at Abercrombie slick curling lips whose ends twisted into whirlpools framed perfect teeth. Dimples put a name to her face. Forgetting they clacked through the Netherlands, and presuming she'd understand, Abercrombie said, "I know you." She answered in dulcet-toned, Dutch-accented English. "Do you?" Lowery whose mind had been elsewhere took notice of his friend's contact. Pretty women always interested him. Those bearing pert breasts -- like this honey -- especially interested him. He asked Abercrombie to introduce them. Meeting an Actress Honoria van Ruysselberghe. The actress. The Anglo-Belgian actress. As much a mouthful as her surname proved, Lowery struggled against sniggering at her given name. Honoria? A prank, no? If so, it was elaborate. But when would the conspirators have had time to plot? And where? "Honoria" sure hadn't crossed with them from Harwich. Hair brilliantly red as hers on that ferry surely would've drawn Lowery's notice. Indeed. Honoria she was. Lowery almost burst from smiling. Journalism had inured Abercrombie to the distortions of celebrity allure. Having seen to many notables at their worst, then reporting them, lessened his susceptibility to star power. Therefore, Honoria van Ruysselberghe didn't dazzle him. She possessed a modest luminosity. She consciously dampened her wattage. Light makeup. Little jewelry. No shades. Plain clothes instead of designer labels. Although she was their contemporary, her lack of adornment subtracted years. She was merely another passenger on a train. One who lived bigger than life onscreen. Or projected from stage. Or worked those TV close-ups. Abercrombie colored in Lowery's blank canvas. Honoria played featured roles. She rarely starred, but instead often served as "best friend," "confidant," or "foil." Her characters provided common sense, became sounding boards or were stabile platforms amid tumult. Usually in chick dramas derived from chick literature. Abercrombie's erudition, his film knowledge, flattered her. Lowery saw a chance to undercut his friend. He used it. "Yeah. That's all he does living so close to New York City -- go to movies. Sit in dark theaters. He leads the life of a mushroom." Abercrombie cut eyes at Lowery then back on Honoria. "You must excuse my friend. He only gets out under supervision." Honoria shook her head in mock dismay, dislodging that lank again. "So much for my quiet trip," she sighed. Lowery offered her a beer. "Here you go. This will smooth some edges." Honoria accepted his gift, letting her fingers rest on his knuckles. Her short but perceptible gesture aroused both men. Glancing between them she feigned complete innocence. And the little grin playing on her face couldn't have been misconstrued. Could it? The beer can pop top snap broke their contemplation. Practiced nonetheless, her easy sip enthralled them. Beer swallowed, Honoria inquired about the Americans. Lowery spoke first. He rambled. All three knew he rambled. Yet Honoria's composure kept what might've become acute self-consciousness at bay. By his conclusion, Lowery's "eloquence" created a verbal dossier spanning his and Abercrombie's first meeting at university to recently experimenting with lime & soda as a hangover remedy. Somewhere in there he also included this their maiden visit to the Netherlands. Honoria nodded sagely. Other than a few outstanding trivialities, there remained little for Abercrombie to add. Just as well because their journey soon ended in Amsterdam's Centraal Station. No fawning handlers, no exploding flashbulbs greeted Honoria van Ruysselberghe on the platform. She didn't bother whipping out any sunglasses to shield her nonexistent displeasure. Light as she'd packed, the men gladly helped with her luggage. Centraal Station was a great dingy barn. Pigeons loved it. Passengers hurried through its dreary enclosure. Outside under bright sunlight, Honoria eliminated all awkwardness from the next moment. She asked where they lodged. Lowery mangled an address. The hotel he'd booked was suggested by a London classmate. Honoria knew the vicinity. "Leidseplein," she said. Seeing confusion wrinkle the Americans' faces, she helpfully explained. "That's the neighborhood's name. Plenty of diversions there." They nodded dumbly. She offered escorting them to their lodging. Both recognized her gesture as awfully generous and accepted immediately. They'd exchanged pounds for guilders with the ferry purser, then cracked small bills into coins at a station news kiosk. Their uncertain steps followed Honoria's sure ones onto the correct tram. Since she led, both men gaped at the jean-straining round ass ahead. They judged her swivel and switch fine. Six stops later these three idled on the Leidseplein. The square bubbled with umbrella-covered tables. Loungers bunched under each canopy, everyone seemingly engaged in smoking, drinking and talking at the same time. The two men heard a familiar voice above Dutch chatter. Amplified by mounted speakers, Patsy Cline sliced through the mild day. "Sounds like home," Lowery said. Abercrombie smiled at the animation. It was contagious. Lowery and Honoria joined him. She motioned down a street and they strolled. The square flowed into a narrow street and tighter sidewalks. The latter forced them to walk Indian file. Given how slender-gauge residences lined and loomed above pavement, and parked cars crammed curbs, such constriction might've fostered claustrophobia. Yet the facades' cleanliness, spacious windows which invited shameless interior perusal, and bumper car autos, eased any spatial menace. Hotel located, they first needed to surmount a steep staircase before reaching the "ground floor." The lobby, such as it was, left scant maneuvering room since oversized sofas and seats pressed lounging comfort. Behind the cramped registry hunkered a mahogany brown deskman. Abercrombie guessed him Surinamese. On a TV wedged above everything "Police Woman" ran in Dutch subtitles. Two further vertiginous ascents followed signing in before the three could gaze from a tall-by-wide window. The new vantage let them enjoy a mild day's streetscape. Were that the room as expansive. Other than two beds and a basin amenities were absent. Communal WC's and showers served individual floors. There might've been a TV room around somewhere. No room phones either. "It's cozy," Honoria said. Abercrombie adapted a Yiddish theater joke to this situation: "Any cozier and any mice will be hunchbacks." "Hey!" Lowery said. "It's only for snoozing'. Not staying. Let's go." Bags dumped, they descended fast and noisily. After retrieving Honoria's luggage, they retraced steps to the tram then rode to her hotel in Dam Square. Much busier than Leidseplein, not only must the Americans contend with jostling crowds but reorient themselves to traffic. In London they'd accustomed themselves to looking right first before stepping off the curb. Amsterdam restored their normal left-first caution. Crossing Dam Square, Lowery noted the white tapering column dominating the plain. Until Honoria set him straight, he believed the Dutch renown for open-mindedness vastly downplayed. From some primitive society he might've expected an erect penis given to be public prominence. But in Holland? What he'd mistaken for swollen phallic symbolism was instead the Resistance Monument. Honoria's hotel was many rungs above theirs. Liveried doormen who tipped their hats established that immediately. An entire staff manned the front desk. Bellboys bustled among prosperous drifting guests. After accessing Honoria's information and issuing her key, the clerk leveled stinkeye on Lowery and Abercrombie. However one said "NOKD" in Dutch, they certainly fit the dismissal. She saw the friction and calmed it. In English she addressed the skeptic. "As if one wasn't enough, Fons assigned me two production assistants. Anything to get out of giving me top billing." Her jest dissipated the clerk's suspicions; he and the actress laughed. She invited the Americans to her room. A bellboy responded and relieved the men of Honoria's bags. The trio followed him upstairs. Along the way Abercrombie admired how Honoria soothed what could've become an all-around irritant. Speaking English she included the two Americans in the rectification. Using the local lingo she might've allowed the clerk license to insult. That would've mollified the clerk but backhanded them. Also by imparting crew membership Honoria raised their status in the hotel's eyes. Who knew? That might prove beneficial later. Honoria said "room." She meant suite. Lowery's London flat could've fit in her sitting room. The bedroom was merely opulent. After the bellboy left, Lowery asked, "Are ladies-in-waiting extra?" Honoria smirked at his jibe. "My usual accommodations are much more modest. But part of this visit is business. I'm promoting a film. Actually the director and I are. Fons arrives tomorrow. Our better known principals are on location in Canada and Australia. I like how the English say it. 'Flog.' We're the only ones here to flog our film. The room is for comfort, yes, obviously. But it's a better setting for the articles, no? Better than, 'she picked at a salad in so and so restaurant.' And it's easier to light and mic for TV." She excused herself and vanished behind the bedroom door. Her trail ended, the men turned attentions on themselves. "Not shabby," Lowery said, indicating Honoria and the suite. "Does this mean they think their flick's a dog?" "Paul, there's a fine art to selling, um, flogging artifice. By the way let me tell you she gets naked lots in her movies." Lowery asked if Honoria's nudity advanced the plots. "Who cares!" Abercrombie snorted. "So tell me about her getting naked." Lowery's prompt gladdened Abercrombie. Unlike numerous other actresses whose onscreen nudity discomforted them beyond distraction, Honoria frolicked in such scenes. By no means would audiences mistake her demeanor for any wholesome outgoing girl-next-door type. Too easily did her smiles become leers. She also exuded a wise archness. That portrayal might've served best as the European version of the "girl." In the American naïve sense she was one threatening feline. "One more thing," Abercrombie said. "Her body has this peculiar, uh, thing. And in her movies I've seen the directors contrive scenes to show it." Lowery asked about the contrivances. Abercrombie answered, "Somehow action manages to get her sitting backwards in a chair. You know, her chest pressed against the seat back." While the reverse position emphasized her ass' roundness, exaggerating her waist's pinch, it also displayed her back's marvelous sculpturing. What the camera loved, though, were the twin divots formed where muscles stacked above Honoria's derriere. "Are those obliques or minor gluts?" Lowery asked. "Fuck if I know," Abercrombie said. "But she's the only person I've ever seen with them. Even body-building chicks don't develop those." "Time to rent her tapes and hit 'pause' a few times," Lowery said. Honoria possessed other physical aspects deserving extolling, yes. Yet those were the usual places of common fantasy. Abercrombie judged her back worthy of special mention. The bedroom door opened. Honoria emerged transformed. She'd entered dressed in staid fashion. Now bland clothing had been replaced by a blaring patterned halter whose contents jutted, low snug faded denim cutoffs, and white open-toed clogs. Honoria's arms were firm, the cutoffs lengthened her toned legs. Below halter hem and just above bleached blue belt loops a compact belly-button baring midriff. Honoria smiled the smile of a woman aware of her affect. She sauntered among them, taking each by an arm. "Since this is your first visit to Amsterdam, and since you're now honorary crew members, let me treat you to a little tour," she said. When they returned night had overtaken the summer day. Honoria had guided her guests past the "windows," cajoled them into a canal excursion, then suggested an Indonesian restaurant where all three enjoyed sumptuous platters of savory prawns embedded in saffron rice. Their wandering concluded in a brown bar's fragrant clouds. Abercrombie and Lowery reentered her hotel lobby aloft in mellow states. A condition last experienced shortly after university graduation or weeks into their first real jobs. They plopped on the couch while she phoned the desk. Minutes or hours later -- Who knew? Who cared? -- a bellboy filled the sitting room. He pushed a cart. Rattling atop it three flutes, two bottles of Champagne, one beading in an ice-chocked bucket. Joining the brut covered silver dishes of caviar, onions, scrambled eggs. Spoons rested beside an earthenware plate holding toasted bread slices upon which to pile morsels. Following Honoria's instructions, the boy transferred his cart's contents onto the low table. Done and tipped, he wheeled out. The boy gone, Abercrombie turned to Lowery. "Paul, this is what you ate instead of cookies and milk after school, right?" Lowery leaned forward and started helping himself. "Sure did. Learning how to exploit unwashed masses at Plutocrat High left me famished by the time Jeeves dropped me back at the mansion." Honoria clambered over the couch back She wedged herself between the men. A solid girl, her elbows created grudging space. The actress equaled Lowery's voraciousness. Abercrombie grabbed the chilling bottle. He popped its cork, poured for all three, then sipped as the other two drained their glasses. "You two have nothing on the salty peanuts and beer crowd," Abercrombie said. The first bottle of Champagne washed down their snack and cleared palates. Its twin provoked bemused contemplation. Hers. With deliberate swivels of her head, Honoria fixed blue eyes on either man. Abercrombie absorbed her attention placidly; Lowery's eagerness bled into anxiety. She made a decision of sorts. One which evolved from coy into cloying. Honoria leaned into Abercrombie and kissed him. He matched her sweet curiosity. Little grins played on their faces afterwards. She turned to Lowery. His mouth was greedy and hot. Honoria needed a moment before meeting his fervor. After parting, his wolfish smile neared caricature. But still ... She turned to Abercrombie. They resumed, only deeper and longer. He lay a hand on her thigh. His palm slid up bare skin, stopping in the warm join of her legs. On Lowery's turn he planted his mouth against hers. Their kisses could've passed for passion or violence. She let him cup a breast. Good as it felt in hand, and responsive as she became under his touch, Lowery decided the covering fabric a hindrance. He untied her halter, pulled the garment over her head, then slung it somewhere. Abercrombie already knew Honoria carried ripe pert jollies. He nibbled on her neck and shoulders. When she squirmed he traced her ear with the tip of his nose until she quieted. Lowery gazed at Honoria's fine tits whose pink nipples seemed no more than shy nibs. He softly pinched one between thumb and index finger. He rubbed that nib until it hardened into a nub. Honoria sighed. She got louder when Lowery rested his head upon her chest and twisted his tongue on this receptive point. Honoria spread her legs. So much so she draped one across each man's lap. While Lowery licked and Abercrombie unfastened her denims then eased into her lace panties, Honoria stroked their cheeks or harrowed fingers through scalps. In a most direct manner Honoria insisted their play become more heated. She reached into both men's crotches, grabbed what turgid offerings she could, then squeezed. Not in spite, nor to cause pain, though certainly enough to jolt. Disentangling herself, Honoria stood. Away from the couch she kicked off her clogs. Bare feet carried her into the bedroom. The Americans exchanged glances then pursued. Inside, Honoria sat adrift upon a white sheet lake. The bits of clothing which had girded her hips now spotted the carpet. Her red hair flared. The combs that had tamed her mane clumped beside a strip of vacuum-packed rubbers and large tube of lubricant. She waited for them legs folded. Stock-straight arms braced her slight backwards tilt. Face expressionless, her tits stuck out proudly. Both Americans knew what ought come next. However, randy as they were, the pair shared hesitancy. Not from the likelihood of simple mutual nakedness. Their former college dorm had only provided communal showers. Each already knew what the other brought to the party. Another's flaccid penis disturbed neither. The unspoken problem was having someone else's boner nearby. It wasn't threatening so much as bothersome. Their delay irked Honoria. She cleared her throat then leveled impatient blue eyes on them. Attempting not to seem awkward made their disrobing all the more so. Finally they stood before her wearing nothing but sheepish grins and class rings. The actress appraised them. Clearly she liked what they presented. Honoria patted empty bed space stretching beside her thighs. As they approached from either side she scooted towards pillows bagged against the headboard and lay back. They joined her. Honoria ran hands along their trunks and clutched both cocks. She tugged just enough to quicken erections. While Abercrombie kissed and caressed her face, Lowery pawed her muff. Hers was his second-ever ginger animal. Honoria's neatly clipped red tangle reminded him of a scouring pad. Visually. By feel her patch was fluffy. The hair parted easily under his fingers. Her slit started glistening with his first touch. Several more of these thoughtful applications and she cracked her legs farther. Lowery intended introducing his tongue to those hidden lips, and in fact had started bending, when Abercrombie's dick diverted his purpose. Had he gone down on Honoria just then the closeness of the other's dick would've been unnerving. Lowery maintained his fingering but decided sucking Honoria's titties instead. He licked and kissed them each once or twice before she turned from Abercrombie onto him. Her mouth was molten. In bed her kisses swirled with greater insistence. Carried by the moment, Lowery's hand left her slit. Those moist fingers now clasped her arms for better lip leverage. Freeing their dicks, Honoria snaked hands onto Lowery's shoulder and chest. Since she concentrated on his friend, whose embrace partially flattened her chest, Abercrombie dropped kisses the length of her back. Reaching Honoria's waist, he nudged her enough to open legs away from Lowery. Unlike his friend, Abercrombie wasn't shy. He shut his eyes. Abercrombie wished he'd dreamt of this moment beforehand. That's the only way it could've been sweeter. He pressed lips into muff then let tongue wander. He slid past welcoming folds into one pliant hold. Had Abercrombie a plan upon entering he abandoned it. Rather, he shoved his tongue rudely enough to stir Honoria from below. Her moan shook Lowery. She pulled off his face and sat up. Abercrombie adjusted. Hair over her eyes, Honoria wiggled this way and that. Lowery watched as Abercrombie's burrowing pulsed from her belly through the base of her skull. More than once Honoria's head tilted back as some eyes-closed contentment dreamily rippled her lips. Mumbled words. Hers. In French or Dutch. Lowery didn't know. Clutching the back of his neck, Honoria dredged Abercrombie out of her sex. He responded slowly; she not all that demanding. Abercrombie finally crawled up her body until they roughly saw eye-to-eye. Her subtle glance at the crowded bedside table conveyed a request. He hove his bulk into a seated position on the bed edge. There, he detached then popped open one of the condoms. Several pumps reestablished his boner which he sheathed. Rolling off the edge, his cock quivering angrily, Abercrombie now loomed before Honoria. She lowered and angled herself properly for his lunges. His drives were longer than she expected. She was tighter than he thought likely. Thanks to brute force they were a good fit. He now understood her need for ready lube. Abercrombie settled into one steadily pleasing beat. One that satisfied Honoria. In Lowery's biased view it had to have been because some inner self of hers floated. The woman's face glowed so it almost appeared beatific. Meeting an Actress His friend, on the other hand, just pounded. Abercrombie lost himself in the sort of determination seen during weightlifting or dislodging a rusted nut. Envy started coloring Lowery's less-than-detached regard. He tempered that by acknowledging this was much better than watching porn. His friend and this woman, their fucking was real. Abercrombie's trance faded. Lowery filled his periphery. Amoral as Abercrombie felt, Lowery didn't deserve such selfishness. Then again sloppy seconds wouldn't be the greatest of consolations either. His interruption got Honoria's attention. Abercrombie nodded at Lowery. She considered momentarily. Slightly peeved, she let Abercrombie withdraw his dick. Premature emptiness and untimely release, respectively, disgruntled both. The woman signaled for Abercrombie to flip onto his back. This done, she straddled him. Honoria lowered herself on his cock, her precise alignment effortless. Reengaged their pique suddenly vanished. Honoria leaned forward over Abercrombie farther than the position ordinarily required. She flattened palms against his shoulders. For further support he clasped her wasp waist. Red hair fell across her eyes. She needed one hand to restrain the cascade. With the other she fisted the lube tube and gave it to Lowery. Should he have been clueless, Honoria's jerked thumb directed him towards her ass. In Abercrombie's view his friend reacted like a scrub called off the bench during the big game's crunch time. Neither Lowery nor Honoria knew what prompted his laughter. Lowery swung smoothly across Abercrombie's legs. He squared himself with Honoria's behind. Better than nice, her ass formed spheres. Just seeing how both curves merged at one perfect seam stiffened his wang. If Abercrombie's hairy balls hadn't been so close, Lowery would've rimmed her crisp divide with his tongue. While generously slathering lube on his meat, Lowery checked Honoria's back. They had resumed fucking and she leaned at an angle exhibiting the peculiarity Abercrombie mentioned. Using his dry hand, Lowery swirled fingertips in her back's deep divots. Her active flesh no problem, he felt how thinning muscle created these points. Investigation closed, Lowery thumbed Honoria's ass open and rammed his greasy pole into her shit chute. She lurched abruptly and coughed when not gasping. His grinding plunges hampered her breathing. The top man's churning disrupted Abercrombie's timing. What had been a smooth-moving machine now badly misfired. Not that Lowery would've known. Nor cared. From his topmost vantage, Lowery couldn't see Abercrombie. So single-minded was his coring of Honoria, he forgot the bottommost participant. In an urge to improve his power, he muscled up and mashed down on Honoria's shoulder blades. Abercrombie came but given Lowery's jarring doubted Honoria registered his effort. Lowery forced Honoria's upper torso low enough that her forward-falling hair curtained Abercrombie's face. He lay inches away from a slit-eyed grimacing mask. Tears splashed on his cheeks. She whimpered from distress, not any kind of gratification. Lowery exaggerated his climax through long fast strokes that smacked loudly off her ass. Strength sapped, Honoria's rear end remained upright but the rest of her slumped limply against Abercrombie. Akin to a magician yanking swords out of the box did Lowery finally withdraw his wilting tool with one heavy-breathing flourish. He clambered off the foot of the bed. Pelvis triumphantly thrust forward, Lowery surveyed those red splotches he'd tattooed onto her luscious behind. Satisfaction was short-lived. He looked down at his joint. Lube goo, his own spume and her butt gunk coated his dick. The congealing swamp disgusted him. He bitched. Abercrombie peeked around Honoria now entirely recumbent upon him. Hearing Lowery exclaim, she wiped damp strands off her flushed face and turned eyes on her loving tormentor. "Jesus!" Lowery complained. "Look at this shit!" Her indignation feeble, Honoria croaked, "What did you expect? Ice cream?" Lowery and Abercrombie howled from their present-day locations. As astounding as the actress' retort was 18 years ago, memory lent it even greater admiration. Should Lowery have borne any remorse about that night's discomforting exuberance, the "transgressor" kept it to himself. Just as well. Abercrombie wasn't the one needing addressing. While he wouldn't dispute any delayed sincerity offered by his friend, only Honoria van Ruysselberghe could've extended forgiveness. "You two kept in contact," Lowery said. "Eh," Abercrombie said. "She remembered me when movie business brought her to New York. And that stopped after I left the newspaper." "No press, no flog." "No press, no flog," Abercrombie repeated, wistfully. Lowery lightened the subject. "Say, a few days ago I got a postcard from the bottom of the world. Signed by a fellow named Rufus T. Firefly." Abercrombie warmed to the diversion. "Firefly? No. Not Firefly. But, yes, I also got a postcard. One from an Otis P. Driftwood. Seems Argentina agrees with him." Lowery chuckled. "That's not hard to understand. Those people down there, they have their priorities straight. If we were smart maybe we could learn something."