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Lola Lickett - Queen of Porn: Ch. 01

By: FreddieTheCamel



On the edge of the L.A. suburb Hollywood was a sprawling set of buildings surrounded by a concrete wall topped with barbed wire. Apart from the neon sign that said 'Shooting Star Studios,' it looked like a bunch of warehouses in a prisoner-of-war camp. However, enter one of those buildings and you would be transported to another place and time—the interior of an ancient Egyptian temple, for example, or a 17th century French bedchamber or, indeed, a prisoner-of-war camp. 

Studio 69 was dressed to look like a millionaire's bedroom. It contained a huge pink bed that stood like a huge marshmallow on a pink carpet surrounded by pink curtains. The bed's wooden frame was reinforced with steel brackets and dressed with seven layers of covering, the topmost being French satin and the undermost industrial-strength plastic hospital sheeting. This was a working bed, co-star of more than two thousand films such as 'Tittie Parade,' 'The Great Go-Go Girl Gangbang' and that immortal classic 'Hot Women Get Fucked By Armies of Huge Cocks.' Milling around the edge of the pink carpet were the supporting players—cameras, lights, boom microphones, cables and thousands of dollars-worth of recording equipment held together with gaffer tape. A team of operators took care of their own corners of the universe, each one of them male, pale and either overweight or skeletal.

Among this small army of technicians were three people important to our story. The first was Roger Ramrod, a man with an extraordinary body and a huge chin. He was dressed in a purple silk shirt and leather trousers and was studying his image on one of the many monitors, occasionally touching his impressive moustache and sideburns with a careful finger. The slim girl with jeans and perky tits who stood next to him was Shirley Goober. She held a script in one hand, a bottle of water in the other and was trying to drops hints to Roger that she gave world-class blow-jobs. In fact, as a fluff girl, that was her job. The third and most important figure in the room was a small man with a carefully trimmed goatee bard and blue-tinted glasses. He wore a French beret and a red polka dot scarf which didn't quite cover the loose skin of his neck. Like Shirley, he held a script, but his was rolled up and he was banging it against his thigh. This was Cyrus Bender, the director.

'God damn it! Where is she?' he bellowed.

'Where's who?' said Roger, still touching his sideburn.

'Our star! Who d'you think?'

'I thought I was the star?'

Cyrus looked at him sadly. 

'Oh, Roger,' he said. 'Do you really believe people pay to watch you fuck?'

Cyrus gave Roger a fatherly pat on the arm and then turned away to check his watch. Roger looked at Shirley with hurt confusion on his face. She gave him a sympathetic look back. She was about to suggest he might like a blow-job to make him feel better when Cyrus interrupted.

'Shirley, go and get her, would you?'

The girl went pale.

'Don't you need me to give blow-jobs?' she said.

'No. I need you to get Lola,' said Cyrus.

'But I was contracted to give blow-jobs.'

'You were contracted to do whatever the fuck you were told!'

'Yeah, but I thought that meant being gangbanged and sodomised and cum over. I didn't realise it meant ... dealing with Lola.' Shirley leaned close and lowered her voice. 'She's nuts!'

'She may be nuts,' said Cyrus, 'but her films make nearly three million a year. So do me a favour and get her.'

'Are you sure you wouldn't like a nice blow-job yourself? With all this pressure—'

'Now!'

Shirley jumped and scuttled off. She had a good figure and every man in the room watched her run out before getting back to his work. Roger went up to the director and shook his head.

'Poor old Shirley,' he said with a sigh. 'Wanted to be a star and ended up being a fluff girl.'

'Well,' said Cyrus, 'if it makes you feel better, we pay her twice what we pay you.'

'Oh good.'

Cyrus walked away leaving Roger to smile and touch his moustache. It took a while before Roger's smile faded.

Shirley zigzagged her way through the corridors that led out of the studio building, the sound of groaning coming through the sound-proofing. She reached the double doors of the nearest fire exit and slammed her hands down on the crossbar to open it. There was a shout from nearby Studio 61—'Hey! We're trying to make a movie in here!'—but Shirley let the door bang shut as she walked into the L.A. sunshine. Her sunglasses were hooked onto her belt and she now put them on as she walked.

There was a line of warehouse buildings with signs that said 'Studio 60-69,' 'Studio 70-71' and so on and beyond them a bunch of parked trailers of varying sizes and colours. One trailer stood out amongst them. It was huge, silver and had a couple of metres of faded red carpet laid out before the doorway. On both sides of the red carpet were enough potted plants to constitute a small garden and there was a man watering them with a spluttering hosepipe. He was old—at least forty—and he wore a Panama hat and yellow flip-flops. Shirley walked up to him.

'You're Juan, right?' she said.

'Felipe,' said the man, tipping his hat.

'Felipe, right.' Shirley put her script under her arm so she would look more official. 'Well, Felipe, I need you to go knock on Lola's door.'

There was a sudden burst of Spanish cursing from within the trailer. It was followed by rat-a-tat shouting and the crash of something breakable. Felipe pointed his hose at another plant.

'I need to finish this,' he said. 'But you may knock if you wish.'

Shirley glared at him and then looked back to the trailer. One foot began to tap nervously on the grey tarmac. It was possible to hear a woman's voice having a one sided conversation that was clearly disagreeable to her.

'How long will she be on the phone?' asked Shirley.

'I don't think she is,' said Felipe.

'What makes you say that?'

'Because she threw her phone out the car window this morning and it was run over by a truck.'

Shirley blinked.

'You mean, someone is actually in there with her?'

'No, no.' Felipe seemed to find the idea amusing. 'If I know Lola, she is talking with her pussy.'

'She has a cat?'

'No, no. Her pussy. You know ... her secret garden. Her tunnel of love. Her rose petals of pleasure.'

'Her vagina?'

'Yes.'

Shirley blinked twice more. Her foot was tapping double speed.

'Lola talks ... to her vagina?' she said.

'Yes.' 

There was another crash of crockery.

'And I don't think the conversation is going too well,' sighed Felipe.

Roger was trying to engage Cyrus in a conversation about which side of his face looked better when Shirley came in alone. As she walked over to them, Cyrus put his hands over his face and swore. Shirley stopped, folded her arms and looked at Cyrus, her foot tapping. Roger frowned.

'What's going on?' he said.

'It appears our leading lady is reluctant to join us,' said Cyrus.

'Why?'

'Because she's busy talking to her vagina,' said Shirley.

Cyrus gave her an angry glare, but Roger looked astonished.

'Her vagina can talk?' he said.

'No, of course not!' said Cyrus. 'But she does has imaginary conversations with it.'

Shirley stared at him.

'You know about this?' she said.

'Of course,' said Cyrus. 'Most artistes talk to their private parts.'

'Get out of here!'

Shirley looked at Roger to confirm the craziness of this notion, but Roger had taken a sudden interest in the ceiling, one hand unconsciously stroking the front of his trousers. Shirley blinked and looked back at Cyrus in confusion.

'Look, Shirley,' said Cyrus. 'Unless you're a textbook nymphomaniac, constant sex with multiple partners screws with your brain. Most actors need a coping mechanism and treating their genitalia like a work tool is one way of doing it. You know, the way a plumber might have his 'lucky' wrench. And at the end of the working day, that lucky wrench goes back into the toolbox and the plumber can be a regular person again.'

'I like that anal... um?' began Roger.

'Analogy,' said Cyrus.

'Yeah, that. So a porn actor is like a plumber?'

'In more ways than one,' said Cyrus. 'But what we have with Lola is a plumber whose lucky wrench talks back.'

'What do you think it says?'

'Who the fuck knows? The story I heard was that Lola went to some bullshit self-help seminar to deal with her issues.'

'A lifetime project,' muttered Shirley.

'What sort of seminar?' asked Roger.

'Something about "The Wisdom of the Body",' said Cyrus. 'One exercise was to give each body part a voice and imagine what it would say. People with heart problems would get 'advice' from their heart, people with asthma would talk to their lungs and so on. Lola, being a porn actress, imagined her pussy with a voice and apparently when it started talking, it wouldn't shut up.'

'I can relate to that,' said Roger, peering into his trousers.

'Anyway, after this seminar, Lola fired her manager and started renegotiating her contract based on the "wisdom" of her vagina.'

'You're kidding me?' said Shirley, staring. 'How did she not get committed?'

'Oh, she didn't present it like that,' said Cyrus. 'Lola may be nuts, but she's not stupid. She claimed to have a new manager called Carlos U.N. Tiburon. He would never show up in person, but during meetings Lola would leave the room to phone him. He was a tough cookie and he knew things about the studios that...'

Cyrus caught himself. He paused and took a breath.

'Well, let's just say he was a strong negotiator,' he said. 'Devlin even hired a private detective to find out more about him. Turned out that C.U.N. Tiburon didn't exist.'

'You didn't guess from the name?' said Shirley.

Cyrus shrugged.

'Most managers are cunts,' he said. 'And in an industry where people call themselves "Lola Lickett" and "Roger Ramrod," it didn't seem so odd.'

Shirley nodded thoughtfully and Cyrus rubbed his face with a handkerchief. Roger looked troubled.

'What's so odd about—?' he began and was interrupted by a loud bang. The door to the studio had been thrown open and everyone turned to look.

'Hola, boys!' said Lola as she walked into the room, hips swinging, tossing her raven black hair from over one shoulder to the other. She stepped over cables and tripod legs without seeming to notice them, blew a kiss towards the boom-mike guy, then stopped, aimed her chest at a cameraman and pulled open her red silk blouse.

'Hey, Frankie! How do they look?' she said.

'Mighty fine, Miss Lola,' said the cameraman, staring at an impressive pair of breasts barely held in by a black lace brassiere.

Still holding open the blouse, Lola turned to a lighting technician.

'Stan?'

'Beautiful.'

'James?'

'Lovely.'

Shirley watched this performance with an unpleasant mixture of disbelief and envy. This woman had wasted everybody's time and yet the men were smiling at her, falling over themselves to get her attention. Shirley looked at Cyrus to see if he was going to say anything, but the director had the expression of a man who had got so used to taking it up the arse that he'd decided to live with it. Roger, on the other hand, had gone over to one of the monitors to check that his mullet haircut looked okay on camera.

'H'okay, boys!' said Lola. 'Enough monkeys around. We have work to do!' And she clapped her hands: Chop! Chop!

Shirley wanted to kill her.

'Of all the n—' she began.

'Shirley,' said Cyrus quietly. 'It's not worth it. Let's be just grateful she's here.'

Shirley opened her mouth and then shut it again. Lola was walking up to them. Cyrus coughed and stepped forwards.

'Good of you to join us, Lola,' he said.

'First things first,' she responded and walked right past without even looking at him. Cyrus stared at her.

'Yeah, being grateful really helps,' said Shirley. 'I can see how—'

'Shut up, Shirley.'

Lola stalked over to Roger who was waving at the camera. He smiled when he saw Roger-on-the-Monitor also wave.

'Hey, Bryan!' said Lola.

Roger looked at her, looked around and looked back at her.

'Yes, you,' she said.

'I'm not Bryan,' he said.

'Dick, George, whatever your name is. Where are your papers?'

'My what?'

Lola put her hands on her hips and turned to scream.

'Zee-rus!'

'Cyrus,' muttered Cyrus as he walked up to them. 

'What is it?'

'I want to see his papers!' said Lola. 'Why he no have them?'

'I've got my driver's licence,' said Roger.

'No, you imbecile! Your papers from the doctor to say you no have venerable disease!'

'I haven't got a venerable disease,' said Roger.

'She means "venereal",' said Cyrus.

'But I haven't got that either.'

'So why you no have papers to proof it?' said Lola.

'Lola,' said Cyrus, 'you know damn well that all the paperwork is kept at the office, including the compulsory monthly check-ups. And if Roger had tested positive, we would have been informed.'

'Pah! You think I trust the bitches in that office? I want to see for myself.'

'To be fair,' said Roger. 'I haven't actually tested for a venerable disease.'

'It's not "venerable",' said Cyrus. 'It's "venereal." Venereal!'

'What's venereal?' said Shirley, walking up to them.

'My disease,' said Roger.

'You've got venereal disease?' said Shirley, shocked.

'No, he hasn't,' said Cyrus.

'But he might have venerable disease,' said Lola.

'No, he doesn't!'

'How you know? Roger just say he no test for it.'

'There is no test! You can't test for a disease that doesn't exist!'

'Wow,' said Roger. 'That sounds pretty deadly. You know, I saw this film 'Contagion' and—'

'Shut up, Roger! Just shut up!' Cyrus had his beret in his fist and his balding head was bright red. 'We're supposed to be making a sex film, not arguing over non-existent diseases!'

'How you know it's non-existent if there is no test for it?' said Lola.

'Enough!'

Cyrus turned to face Lola. He was breathing hard, but there was something about his manner that suggested a man making a decision.

'Lola, you have a choice,' he said in a voice of forced calm. 'You can take off your clothes and fuck this man—or I will call Devlin and personally tell him that I've had to abandon today's filming.'

Lola stretched up to her full height, folded her arms and looked down at the little man with the blue-lens glasses and neat goatee.

'He'll fire you,' she said.

'If this film doesn't get made, he'll fire me anyway,' said Cyrus. 'But at least this way I'll go down fighting. However, it's your call.'

Lola continued to look down at him, but Shirley saw that her sneer had been replaced with a frown. Eventually, she nodded.

'H'okay, you win,' said Lola. She looked over at Roger. 'But I still want to see his papers.'

'Lola!' said Cyrus. 'We're already two hours behind schedule!'

'So we film the scenes where he plays with my tits and eats out my pussy,' said Lola. She jerked her head towards Shirley. 'Meantime, you get the little girl here to fetch his papers from the office. When I've seen them, we can do the penetration scenes. Okay?'

Cyrus considered, then gave a sigh. He turned to Shirley, trying not to notice that her face was purple with rage.

'Shirley, would you be a darling and fetch Roger's monthly check-up results?'

'Of course, Cyrus,' she said.

'But don't take too long. We need our fluff girl.'

'Not with me around,' snorted Lola and she walked away fiddling with her silk blouse. Cyrus gave Shirley a pat on the arm and went over to the cameraman to discuss the first shot. Shirley walked out, stumbling over a cable and nearly toppling a spotlight. Lola was adjusting her stockings and none of the men were even looking in Shirley's direction. She went to the door, ripped it open and slammed it behind her.

'This was not the kind of humiliation I signed up for!' she stormed as she marched down the corridors in the direction of the office.

Lola Lickett - Queen of Porn: Ch. 02



Devlin Carter knew how to talk. When he was a skinny door-to-door household products salesman, people would buy toilet cleaner they never used just to shut him up. A random suitcase filled with dildos and X-rated VHS videos crossed his path and, after selling the lot in one day, Devlin knew that his future lay in the sex industry. Years later the VHS video had gone the way of the dinosaur, but Devlin was now the official owner of Shooting Star Studios and the unofficial owner of so many sex-related websites, products and services that he had trouble keeping track of them. Fortunately, he had three very able staff members who did that for him. All three were overweight, middle-aged women who were in denial about being overweight, middle-aged women, but they also had wide experience in legal and financial matters—abilities which had served Devlin well for years. He liked to call them his Three Merry Wenches. Everyone else called them the Three Fat Cunts.

It hadn't started that way. When Devlin founded Shooting Star Studios he had hired women as receptionists, but men for the more responsible positions in administration. This was partly because of his innate sexism towards women doing 'men's work,' but he also worried about split loyalties. He knew full well that most of his actresses were being underpaid and he thought women in the office would act against him on behalf of their fellow-women.

Experience taught him the opposite. The men he hired, almost without exception, proved susceptible to 'persuasion' from young, attractive women in a way that other women were not. And as for women's loyalty towards other women, he discovered that envy trumped loyalty every single time—especially the envy overweight, middle-aged women felt towards slimmer, younger women. In the end, Devlin only hired overweight, middle-aged women as his top administrators and they rewarded him with profitability beyond his wildest hopes. Moreover, they were so invested in sticking it to their fellow women every chance they got, that Devlin got to play the hero and rescue the juicier girls from their clutches. Safe in his office, they could then demonstrate just how grateful they were.

But, at present, Devlin sat in his office alone. On his huge desk were three flat-screens, his gaze on the large central screen, wearing his glasses so he could see the photos of wannabe actresses who had written to him asking for work. Devlin was an old man who endeavoured to look younger. He still had a full head of dyed yellow-blond hair, his clipped eyebrows were dark and his tanned face hid the lines pretty well. The flowered shirt and a yellow jacket also distracted the attention. He wore more rings and bracelets than a gypsy fortune teller and they clanked slightly as he clicked his mouse, going through the images of pretty young girls, one after the other after the other.

A movement on the second screen caught his attention and he looked up. It was the security camera's view of his personal assistant's office just on the other side of his own office door. At the desk was Dolores Burrito—one of the Three Merry Wenches—a large woman wearing a floral dress two sizes too small and with hair that looked dyed even in black and white. She made Devlin think of a circus clown's cruel mother. Across from the desk, the door had opened—the movement which had caught his attention—and a girl entered, slim with perky tits; probably one of the fluff girls. It was clear by her body language that she was there under duress. The girl looked around, clearly staring at the movie posters that decorated the office wall. Dolores lifted her head with the look of a bloated hyena interrupted while feeding. She said something. The girl jumped, took a breath and then stepped up to the P.A.'s desk like there was a trap door in front of it. Devlin put on his headphones, clicked on the sound of his hidden microphone and sat back, making himself comfortable.



'Hi, Ms. Burrito,' said Shirley, trying to smile. 'I'm Shirley. I work in the—'

'I know who you are, sweetheart,' said Dolores. 'What do you want?'

'I, um ... I need a copy of something.'

'Of what?'

'There's an actor who works here—Roger Ramrod. Well, that's what he calls himself, I don't know his real name...'

Dolores leaned back, her chair creaking like a dragon's neck.

'Anyway,' said Shirley hurriedly. 'I need his latest check-up results. You know, from the doctor.'

'You want me to commit a felony?' said Dolores.

'No,' said Shirley. 'God, no.'

'Well, medical records are confidential and to hand over confidential records to a third party without authorisation is a felony and you were asking me to give you Roger's confidential medical records, so it does sound a teensy bit like you were asking me to commit a felony, wouldn't you say?'

'I didn't know it was a felony.'

Dolores looked at the girl with dead fish eyes.

'Well, now you do,' said Dolores and she went back to studying her computer screen, her podgy fingers clicking the mouse with a surprisingly light touch. Shirley stood awkwardly before the desk, hair in front of her face like an insecure schoolgirl.

'Listen, Ms. Burrito,' she said. 'We have a bit of a situation in Studio 69.'

The mouse clicking stopped.

'Lola?' said Dolores.

'Yeah. She wants to see Roger's O.K. from the doctor or she's not going to let him fuck her.'

Dolores leaned back again. The chair creaked and there was a loud 'Ping!' which made Shirley jump. When Dolores looked back at her, Shirley was shocked at the hatred she saw in the glittering eyes. It was so intense that it took the girl a moment to realise it was not aimed at her.

'You tell Her Pornographic Majesty this,' said Dolores. 'If she wants to know whether a man is safe to fuck, she comes here in person and—'

There was a crack of wood and both women jumped. The door to Devlin's office had opened and the man himself was walking in, hands waving as he talked.

'Dolores. I'm wondering about this lesbian website we're thinking of—why, hello,' he said to Shirley as though just noticing she was there. 'And what's your name?'

'Shirley, sir.'

'Call me Devlin. Everyone else does. Right, Dolores?'

'Yes, Mr. Carter.'

'Ha-ha! You see?'

Shirley smiled awkwardly. Devlin smiled back and ran his hand up and down her arm.

'Everything all right, Shirley?' he asked.

'More or less, um ... Devlin.'

'More or less?'

'Well.' Shirley looked at her feet and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. 'I was asked to fetch a document, but Ms. Burrito here said it was a felony.'

'A felony?'

Devlin looked at Dolores with raised eyebrows. The look he got back was deadpan, but the fat woman swallowed in discomfort. Shirley bit her lip to hide her smile.

'She asked for Roger's monthly medical report,' said Dolores. 'And I can't go handing out confidential papers without authorisation.'

'You can if I authorise it,' said Devlin.

The two oldies stared at each other—Devlin with a smile and Dolores without. Then Dolores struggled to her feet, the chair springing backwards and bumping against the wall.

'I'll go fetch the necessary paperwork, Mr. Carter,' she said.

'Thank you, Dolores.'

Shirley stared at the floor as Dolores left the room. Only when the door clicked shut did she look up. She saw Devlin smiling at her. Standing so close to him, she also saw the grey roots at the base of the dyed yellow hair, the groomed and darkened eyebrows and the loose skin around his eyes. But if she let him go a little out of focus, he might be a man of (maybe) fifty. She smiled back.

'Thank you, sir,' she said.

'I told you ... Devlin.'

'I like calling you "sir." Makes me feel like I have to do what I'm told.'

'Really?'

Devlin looked her up and down, then gently ran his finger down her arm.

'Shirley, the fluff girl,' he said.

'That's me. Best blow-jobs in town.'

'That's quite a claim.'

'I can prove it.'

'Oh?'

There was a leather couch in the office for people waiting to see Devlin. Shirley tossed her script and her water bottle onto that couch, then removed all her clothes and threw them on top. She stood, hands on hips, her face flushed red and perky nipples pointing towards Devlin. Textbook exhibitionist, he thought as his cock protested the sudden lack of space in his pants. He had to clear his throat before speaking.

'Shall we step into my office?' he said.



A grey car drove up to the studio gate and stopped at the barrier. Dave Batterham, the security guard, looked up from his copy of Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' and peered out through the window of his small air-conditioned office. He saw a short man in a cheap suit step out of the car and make his way towards the office, wiping sweat off his balding head with a handkerchief.

'Shit!'

Dave dropped his book and was out of the office in two seconds. He knew the man and didn't want him busting his Airco unit again.

'Hey, Mr. Harrison!' said Dave as he approached. 'How you doing?'

'Roasting,' said the man called Harrison.

'Yeah, it's a hot one today.'

'Dave, right?'

'That's right, sir.' He gave the man a clap on the shoulder. 'You're on my appointments list, Mr. Harrison. No need for you to get out of your car.'

'Don't I have to sign in and get a visitor's pass?' said Harrison.

'I'll bring it out to you. You can wait in your vehicle.'

Harrison looked back at his car. Dave noticed that all the windows were rolled down, even in the back.

'The air conditioning is bust,' said Harrison. 'I don't know what it is with me and Airco. Every time I get it fixed it just breaks down again. It works for my wife, but the moment I get in the car it commits suicide. She says I'm cursed.'

'Ha! What an idea,' said Dave, backing away. 'Well, you just wait there and I'll bring out the necessaries.'

Ten minutes later, the grey car was parked on the lot and Harrison was walking towards the studio office building, a plastic tag with the word 'Visitor' clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt and a briefcase held under his arm. He went through the swing doors and up to the chest-high reception desk in the foyer where a skinny young man with acne and white ear-phones sat staring at his computer screen. He was watching something with goggle eyes and, although his hands were under the desk, Harrison could guess where at least one of them was.

Harrison coughed. No response. He tried coughing louder. Finally, he slammed his hand down on the desk. The boy jumped, pulled the ear-plugs out and the tinny sound of screaming orgasms was suddenly audible. The boy lunged for the mouse on his computer, did some frantic clicking and finally the sound stopped. Straightening his tie, he leaned back and fell on the floor, the swivel chair rolling away behind him. Harrison pretended to look at his fingernails as the boy scrambled back up, pulled his chair to the desk and sat behind it in his official position. He cleared his throat.

'Can I help you?' said the young man.

'I have an appointment to see Mr. Carter,' said Harrison.

The boy looked around, saw a clipboard with a list of names and grabbed it, knocking over a tub of pencils. Harrison stared back at his fingernails as the boy tidied up the pencils, then checked the list and saw it was for something else. He was still hunting for the list when Dolores came through a doorway and headed for the stairs. For the first time in his experience, Harrison felt glad to see her.

'Harrington?' she said.

'Harrison,' he said. 'Humphrey Harrison.'

'Yeah, whatever. What are you doing here?'

The glad feeling had now disappeared.

'I have an appointment with Devlin,' said Harrison.

'Is that true, Richie?' she said to the young man.

'Um ... it could be,' said the young man, rifling through papers and knocking the pencil tub over again. Dolores groaned. She was already carrying a number of files under her arm and she seemed reluctant to walk the extra few feet to the desk. Understandable, thought Harrison, as he tried to ignore the part of his brain wondering how someone that fat managed to walk at all. Finally, her patience gave out and she rolled her bulk over to the desk, giving Richie a look that would have made Harrison quit on the spot. Reaching over the desk, she took immediate hold of the roster and checked the names.

'Yup, here he is,' she said and tossed the file back over the desk. She gave Richie one more dirty look and then walked across to the stairs and started to climb them. Harrison wondered whether he ought to follow her. He looked at Richie who shrugged. Harrison wiped sweat off his forehead, took a deep breath and went up the stairs after Dolores. Richie sat back down in his chair. Behind him, the hum of the air conditioning unit slowly died away.

Harrison and Dolores climbed the stairs and walked to the office without a word being said. Harrison could hear her laboured breathing and the squeak of her shoes as she walked. When they got to the door, he stepped forwards to open it and would have tipped his hat if he'd been wearing one. Dolores simply went past him, dumped her papers on her desk and navigated around it to her chair. Harrison closed the door, looked around and saw movie posters lining the wall with images of sexy women with long legs and impossible breasts in various poses and outfits. Then he heard a girl's voice, faint but distinct, all moans and coos and loud sighs. It was coming from the other side of the blue door to Devlin's office.

'Mr. Carter will be with you in a minute,' said Dolores as she clicked her mouse. 'Maybe even less.'

Harrison went to sit on the leather couch and saw discarded jeans and a woman's top lying on it. He placed them carefully in a pile on one side and sat down on the other. The girl's voice was now saying 'Mmm!' and 'Oh yeah...' and Harrison found he was sweating.

'Is it me or is it stuffy in here?' he said, wiping his head.

'It's stuffy,' said Dolores. 'I turned off the air conditioning half an hour ago.'

'You could turn it back on?'

'Oh, I will.'

Dolores continued to click her mouse. There was a definite male grunt from the other room.

'Any chance of a coffee?' asked Harrison.

'Do I look like a waitress?'

Dolores turned her attention to the files she had brought in. There was quiet from the next room. Then Harrison jumped as the blue door opened and a naked girl walked out. Her cheeks and Venus mound were flushed pink and she bounced as she walked.

'Hi,' she said to Harrison.

'Hello,' he said back.

'These are mine,' she said, pointing down to the clothes.

'I sort of guessed that.'

'Why, are you a detective?'

Harrison laughed uncomfortably. He actually was a private detective, but now didn't seem the time to advertise it. The girl bent over to gather up her clothes. Harrison looked away.

'Don't do that,' said the girl. 'I like it when men look.'

'Oh. Okay.'

The girl didn't get dressed. Instead, she tucked the bunch of clothes under one arm and went up to the desk. She had a slim, tight body and lovely round butt cheeks—far prettier than the big breasted grotesques on the surrounding posters, thought Harrison. Dolores seemed to think so too and this was clearly not a happy thought. Despite her deadpan expression, something in her boiled at the sight of the girl's delicious youth and the girl seemed to know it.

'I believe you have something for me?' said the girl.

Dolores held up a sheet of paper. The girl took it from her and looked over the document.

'Yes, this seems to be in order,' she said. 'Thank you, Dolores.'

She turned, showing her lovely naked butt to the woman behind her and giving Harrison a big smile that was not entirely free of malice. Then she turned on her heel and bounced out of the room.

Dolores seemed at a loss. She stared at the pile of folders as if not knowing what they were. Then she saw Harrison trying not to look at her, feeling his pity for her, and she roughly moved her chair so that she was hidden behind her flat-screen.

'Go knock on the door, Harrington,' she said. 'The boss should be tucked in by now.'

'The name's Harrison.'

'Whatever.'

Harrison knocked on the blue door and entered. The office had fake wooden panelling and like the other office was also covered in movie posters, albeit in frames under glass. There was an enormous couch facing a massive flat-screen on the wall and on the huge desk were three more screens. In the deluxe leather swivel chair sat Devlin and he was indeed tucked in. He leapt up and went across to Harrison with his hand out.

'Humphrey, old man! Good to see you!' he said, shaking his hand with vigour.

Devlin was fifteen years older, but Harrison knew better than to say anything. His client liked to play the jovial uncle who still had it and Harrison made it his business to give his clients what they wanted. He suspected one of the reasons he got the first assignment was because he wasn't taller than Devlin.

'How's the wife?' said Devlin.

'She's fine,' said Harrison. 'And how's yours?'

'Which one? Ha ha! You want a coffee?'

'Love one.'

'Black, one sugar?'

'Well remembered.'

Devlin gave Harrison a clap on the shoulder and went to open the door.

'Hey, Dolores!' he called. 'Could you bring two thirsty men some coffee?' Harrison didn't catch what she said back, but when Devlin replied, his voice was hard and cold: 'Well, if you treated the secretaries a little better, maybe they wouldn't have quit and then you could have got them to make the coffee. Now go get it and bring some water as well.'

Devlin closed the door with a decisive whap. He turned, a smile back on his face, and he went over to join Harrison who was looking at the posters. Every single one of them featured Lola in various costumes and poses.

'Ah yes,' said Devlin. 'Lola Lickett—the star in my firmament. The pain in my ass.'

'She is a good looking woman,' said Harrison.

'L.A. is full of good looking women. But yes, she does have something special.'

'She makes a lot of money.'

'For herself. Not for me.'

Harrison looked at Devlin and, for a moment, under the tan and dyed eyebrows, he saw a bitter old man. Devlin dumped himself in his deluxe leather chair and waved for Harrison to take a seat himself. There were two identical chairs available for visitors, both leather, both comfortable looking—but not luxurious. The king must have a throne, thought Harrison as he took his seat.

'I thought she was your top star?' said Harrison.

'Not in terms of turnover,' said Devlin. 'That honour goes to Candy Luscious. Her DVD sales have overtaken Lola's and her films get almost twice as many downloads.'

'So why not put Candy posters on your wall?'

'Because I want her to think Lola is still Number One. Ever since Lola started acting the prima donna every woman in this studio has grown to hate her and the more they hate her, the better it is for me.'

'How so?'

'Because instead of bugging me for pay increases and better working conditions, all the women are obsessed with knocking Lola off her perch. They worker harder, work longer and for less money—all in the hope that they can topple the queen from her throne.'

'Really?'

'You sound surprised.'

'Well...' Harrison wiped sweat off his bald head. 'I thought these days, women were feministic?'

'You must be kidding!' said Devlin. 'Humphrey, the women who come here want to be stars, not feminists! There's not a single woman who wouldn't stab Lola in the back in order to take her place.'

'But I thought women wanted equality?'

'With men, not with each other! And most women I know don't really want equality at all—they just hate being at the bottom end of a hierarchy. Who doesn't? But when a woman is at the top of a hierarchy, she loves it! You just have to look at a bride on her wedding day to see that!'




Lola Lickett - Queen of Porn: Ch. 02



The door opened and Dolores came in carrying a tray with a coffee pot, cups and saucers. She dumped the tray on Devlin's huge desk with a clatter and turned to stomp out.

'You forgot the water,' said Devlin.

'There wasn't room on the tray,' said Dolores and she closed the door behind her. The two men exchanged a look and then Devlin poured coffee for the two of them.

'Anyway, to business,' he said, handing Harrison a black coffee. 'You must be wondering why I asked you here.'

'Kind of,' said Harrison, putting a spoonful of sugar into his cup. He lowered his voice. 'Is everything okay with the, um ... surveillance equipment?'

Devlin frowned. Then he brightened.

'Oh, you mean the bugs in the office?' he said. 'Yeah, they're great. Very entertaining. And it's useful to know what my staff are saying about me.'

'I'll bet. So it's all functioning properly?'

'Oh, yes. But that's not why you're here.' Devlin sipped his own coffee and sat back in his chair. 'Do you remember, Humphrey, when I hired you to find out who Lola's manager was?'

'Yes. Wasn't quite expecting the outcome.'

'No. Who would? Well, basically I need you to do more of the same. You see, Lola's behaviour is getting more and more demanding and it's becoming difficult to keep her in check. I need some kind of leverage.'

'What kind?'

'I don't know. I mean, you're the private detective, Humphrey, so just ... detect. Find something in Lola's background or past that I can use if she starts to get out of hand. She must have skeletons in her cupboard—everybody does. So find one. And then tell me what it is. Knowledge is power, Humphrey. Knowledge is power.'



At that same moment, in the office on the other side of the door, Dolores sat at her desk and went through the files she'd brought with her. One by one, she opened them and scanned the papers within, separating them with her stubby yet nimble fingers. Finally, she found one that caught her attention. Reading through the paper, a malicious smile began to grow on her face. Dolores put the paper to one side and picked up a thin brown folder with a few papers in it. Her smile went from malicious to the sort of smile Dracula might have worn when he saw Van Helsing sneak to the coffin, not realising that the vampire was hiding behind the door.

The words on the folder said: 'Shirley Goober – Fluff girl.'



Lola Lickett - Queen of Porn: Ch. 03



There was a conference room in the office building where every week Devlin would meet with his senior staff, the so-called Three Merry Wenches. That was the theory. In practice, Devlin hated meetings and, as a consequence, the furniture was as cheap as he could get away with—a plywood conference table in three sections and the kind of mass-produced chairs you find in state school staff rooms. The three women would show up, one of them usually driving in specially, only to have some skinny fluff girl pop her head round the door to say that Devlin couldn't come because 'something had come up.' 'Now I wonder what that could be?' said Phyllis dryly and the other two had laughed. By the third time Devlin cancelled, it stopped being funny. Sitting round a cheap table on crappy chairs which threatened to collapse under them was no one's idea of a good time and Phyllis and Dolores had suggested they scrap staff meetings.

Gladys thought otherwise. She saw to it that three sturdy conference chairs were brought in and she took the lead that Devlin wasn't there to give. Phyllis and Dolores both resented this, but they couldn't say that the meetings weren't productive and sometimes even fun. To call the three women kindred spirits would be inaccurate, but being fat in a world which worshipped Thin did give them a sense of shared suffering. All three knew what it was like to be subtly mocked and passed over for people dumber than themselves. All of them had difficulty in relationships, mixed feelings of longing and contempt towards men and an intimate knowledge of loneliness which they hid under a hard-boiled exterior. They also shared a sense of irony at how satisfying work in the porn industry sometimes was. Phyllis once said: 'The last thing I wanted was to work in a place full of thin women, but being in charge of their paychecks is sweeeeet!'

It wasn't only paychecks that were affected. Under the Three Merry Wenches, contracts had been nipped and tucked until actresses needed the equivalent of a royal decree from Devlin to get anything. Pregnancy was virtually abolished and any loopholes which may have resulted in actresses being given any kind of consideration for motherhood were closed. 'Get an abortion or get fired,' said Gladys who had organised champagne for that particular meeting and the Three Merry Wenches had clinked glasses to toast the new regime. Having never had children themselves, they all found it deeply satisfying moment.

But on this day, there was no champagne on the table. Gladys was sipping a black coffee, Phyllis swigged from a bottle of diet coke and Dolores bottled water poured into a glass.

'Why don't you drink from the bottle?' said Phyllis.

'Like you do?' said Dolores in her flat monotone.

Phyllis glared and was about to say something when Gladys spoke.

'Ladies, we have a problem,' she said. 'I heard there's a rumour going round the studio that one of the fluff girls has tested positive for HIV.'

Phyllis snorted in disgust. Dolores kept her expression neutral and took a drink of water to cool the warm satisfaction she felt inside. Her plan to get back at Shirley 'Let-me-show-you-my-ass' Goober had worked after all.

It was a simple enough plan. 

A couple of days earlier, Dolores had put a doctor's old report of a girl with HIV into Shirley's file and left it on a chair in the studio café for someone to find, preferably one of the male actors. If she was lucky, they would see the letters HIV and panic without seeing that the names and dates on the papers were different. By the time it could be explained as a clerical error, the damage would be done—Shirley's name would be associated with HIV and no one would want her around, especially Devlin. However, after leaving the folder in the café at lunchtime, Dolores spent an agonising afternoon in suspense, waiting in her office for an angry porn actor to storm in at any minute who never came. At the end of the working day, Dolores went back to the studio café and found the file pretty much where she left it. She put the paperwork back where it belonged and drove home feeling a gnawing resentment towards God for protecting that skinny cock-sucking slut.

But someone had seen it. 

Indeed, as Dolores drank her glass of water, it occurred to her that this was going to work out even better than planned. With all the paperwork in its proper place, there was nothing connecting Dolores with the rumour. That dumb little fluff girl was going to get what was coming to her and Dolores didn't even have to take the heat for a clerical error. She sent up a silent apology to the Almighty for having ever doubted His wisdom.

'Well, it's hardly surprising, is it?' said Phyllis. 'Those tramps would fuck anybody.'

'It's kind of their job,' said Gladys.

'Which some of them enjoy a bit too much.'

'Whatever, Phyllis. We still need to nip this situation in the bud.'

'That's simple enough, surely?' said Dolores. 'Get rid of the girl.'

'I would if I knew who it was,' said Gladys.

Despite the water, Dolores's throat went dry and the warm glow in her gut was replaced with an icy chill.

'You don't know who it is?' said Dolores.

'That's what I said,' said Gladys. 'Are you sure that's water you're drinking?'

'But the rumour has to be about somebody.'

'Does it? The story I heard is that someone saw a fluff girl's medical file lying on a chair in the studio café. The person who opened it remembers seeing "HIV positive," but doesn't remember the name on the file.'

'Who's that stupid?' said Phyllis.

Dolores could think of someone. She had a very bad feeling about this.

'Apparently, it was one of the actors,' said Gladys. 'Guy with a moustache and mullet haircut.'

'Not Roger Ramrod?' said Phyllis.

'Could be.'

'But he's an idiot!'

'He's a man.'

'Yes, but even for a man, he's an idiot! Who's going to believe him?'

'Are you kidding me?' said Gladys. 'These people exchange bodily fluids for a living! Which of them is going to take a chance on this?'

There was an uncomfortable silence as the three women digested this.

'Does Devlin know?' said Dolores.

'Not yet,' said Gladys. 'But if this doesn't get resolved by the end of today, I'm going to have to tell him.'

'Why?'

'Because if the rumour is true and there is someone out there with HIV, we need to shut the studio down until everyone has gotten tested. That's going to cost thousands. The alternative is to risk half the actors getting HIV and suing for millions. Even if we won in court, we'd still be finished.'

'What I don't get,' said Phyllis, 'is what a medical file is doing on a chair in the café.'

'If it even existed,' said Dolores. 'Roger could be making it up.'

'Why would he do that?' said Gladys.

'He could be getting back at a girl who hurt his ego.'

'So he starts this rumour as revenge?'

'It's possible. Men are bastards.'

'But then he forgets the name of the girl he's taking revenge on?'

'He's a stupid bastard.'

Gladys stared at Dolores in a way that made her uncomfortable. Phyllis felt it too and spoke up.

'What are we going to do?' she said.

'I want you two to go through the medical records,' said Gladys. 'See if there's a file missing and see if anyone has tested positive for HIV. Meanwhile, I'm going to see if I can get to the bottom of this story.'

After the meeting, Gladys went to her office and Phyllis went downstairs, heading for the records archive. Dolores went to the ladies room and locked herself in a cubicle.

'Think, Dolores, think,' she muttered to herself, sitting on the toilet with her drawers round her ankles. 'What are you going to do?'

Her intestines responded with a loud gurgle and Dolores surrendered to a heavy bowel movement. There was a short thunderstorm in the white porcelain pot.

'Okay ... NOW what are you going to do?' she said when it was over.

Her first thought was to go to Gladys and fess up. Phyllis would know by that afternoon that none of this month's medical reports showed an HIV positive result and the big question would be: Who left the file on the chair in the café? Gladys used to be a lawyer and Dolores couldn't see her not figuring it out. Humiliating as it might be, it was probably better to come clean as soon as possible. On the other hand, it was worth talking to Roger first to see who else he might have told. She might even get him to remember the name on the file.

Dolores washed up and went to her office. She checked where Roger Ramrod was due to be filming—some epic called 'Doggy-Style Della, the Fuck-Fest Fornicator'—and she was off to the studio, hoping that God had some miracle up his sleeve.

Roger Ramrod was at work.

That is to say, he was stark naked and lying on his back, his hands on the hips of the woman who squatted over his body. She faced away from him, but Roger could tell by the mane of raven-black hair that it was Lola. His head was propped up on a pillow and he had a premium view of the round, olive-skinned buttocks that went up and down as she fucked him. What he did not have was a view of the camera lens.

'Hey, Cyrus?' he called out.

'What?' came a voice from the other side of the groaning woman.

'Are you sure about this camera angle?'

Cyrus was sat on a fold-up chair just to the side of the camera. In front of them, the vagina of Lola Lickett slid up and down Roger's impressive cock as her leg muscles worked to keep her upright. She gave a groaning sigh every time she went down and Cyrus crossed one leg over the other.

'The camera angle is just fine,' he said.

'Are you sure?'

'Oh yes.'

'But you can't see my face.'

Cyrus took a deep breath and said, 'Let's talk about it after this scene. Meanwhile, we have a great view of your cock.'

'But if this woman moved her leg, you could get my face and my cock.'

'Hey! This woman has a name!' said Lola. Her hips continued up and down, but her expression of rapture was replaced with annoyance.

'Sorry, umm...' Roger noted the black hair '...Lola.'

Hips still fucking, Lola looked at Cyrus in bewilderment. He gestured for her to 'keep going' and she shook her head and focused on getting back into character.

'So are you going to move your leg then?' said Roger.

'How do I move my leg without falling over?' barked Lola. 'Use your fucking brains, you imbecile!'

There was quiet from behind and Lola continued fucking. Then an expression of weary irritation crossed her face and she looked downwards. The cock she had been riding was shrinking and curling away from her even as she watched. She shook her head and stepped off the bed, holding out her hand. The boom-mike guy handed her a black silk robe with a Chinese dragon embroidered on the back. She pulled it on and turned to face the man on the bed. Roger half lay, half sat, his feet stretched out before him like a puppet with its strings cut. His cock lay on his thigh like a dead snail and he looked at it the way a child might have looked at—well, a dead snail. But a snail that had been a pet, which had been cared for and fed with lettuce, and which now had been trodden on by a clumsy parent.

'Cyrus, look what she did,' said Roger.

'What I did?' said Lola.

'Why does she have to be so mean?'

'She is standing right here.'

'I'm not talking to you.'

Lola threw her arms in the air and turned to the director.

'I cannot work like this,' she said. 'I'll be in my trailer.'

Lola walked out in a flurry of black hair and flowing black silk, slamming the studio door. The camera crew looked at one another and then at Cyrus. Cyrus looked at the man on the bed, sighed and then beckoned over to the fluff girl. Shirley put the top back on her water bottle and went over.

'Yes, boss?' she said.

'Our star seems to be a bit under the weather,' said Cyrus.

'And you want me to cheer him up?'

'If you would.'

Shirley nodded and looked across at Roger. He still lay propped on the bed like a child that had been sent to his room. She looked at his limp penis.

'His cock is covered with Lola's love juice,' she said.

'So wash it off,' said Cyrus.

'I mean, it's kind of humiliating to have to lick off the lubrication from another woman's cunt.'

'I just said you could wash it off.'

'Really? You're giving me permission?'

Cyrus opened his mouth to say yes, that's exactly what I'm doing, when he noticed how crest-fallen Shirley looked. The penny dropped.

'No,' he said. 'You don't get permission. This is Lola's cunt juice we're talking about—you don't just wash it off. You'd better lick every bit of it up or you're fired, do you hear?'

Having almost no breasts, Shirley didn't wear a bra, but she did have nipples and they had doubled in size, pushing through the fabric of her white top. She was pink in the face and breathing fast.

'You bastard, Cyrus,' she said. 'Making a girl do stuff like that. I think you enjoy humiliating me.'

'Shut up and do as you're told!' said Cyrus and he smacked her ass. Shirley squealed and scampered over to the bed, pulling her top off over her head and slipping off her jeans, panties and pumps in virtually one movement. Roger looked up in surprise as a naked nymph suddenly leapt onto the mattress and started lapping his cock. Cyrus and the camera crew stared at the girl as she slurped and licked, sighing with pleasure and manoeuvring her ass so they could all see the rosy pink petals of her pussy.

'Does she want to be filmed?' said the cameraman.

'I think she wants rather more than that,' said Cyrus.

The two men looked at each other. Then they unbuckled their pants like their lives depended on it.

When Dolores arrived at the studio, she could hear the telltale moans and groans through the door. Business as usual, she thought, and she opened the door and went in, taking care to be quiet. She held her breath to get past a scenery flat, stepped over some cables and stopped, her mouth dropping open. In the spotlight on the bed, a girl with virtually no tits was being gangbanged by the camera crew. She was on her back being fucked by the director and when she twisted round to get the sound man's cock into her mouth, Dolores recognised her as Shirley Goober. Rumours of a fluff girl with HIV were clearly greatly exaggerated—either that or five men had decided life wasn't worth living. But none of the men nor the girl seemed at all suicidal. Only Roger looked miserable, wandering around in his white towel bathrobe with his hands in his pockets. He saw Dolores and went over to her.

'Hello,' he said. 'You're a bit big for an actress, aren't you?'

'I'm Dolores. From the office.'

'Oh.'

'You not joining the fun?' she said.

'What fun?' said Roger. 'We're supposed to be working.' He looked over at the gangbang. 'I mean, what are they doing?'

'Seems pretty obvious to me.'

'But what's the point if they're not going to film it?'

'Roger, there are reasons to have sex other than because you get paid for it.'

'Really?'

The two of them watched. The director had ejaculated inside the girl and was wiping his cock with a handkerchief as the boom-mike guy took his place. He had some trouble getting his cock into position and the girl shifted her hips and lifted her knees, her eyes gleaming, all but licking her lips. The boom-mike guy sank his cock into her and the girl threw her head back and let out a guttural cry.

'I fancy a cup of tea,' said Roger.

He made to walk past Dolores and she grabbed the sleeve of his bathrobe.

'Wait a minute,' she said, still staring at the action on the bed. 'Did you see a medical file?'

'A what?'

'A medical file.'

Roger expression went from confusion to incomprehension. Dolores sighed.

'It's a brown folder where doctors put their examination reports,' she said.

'Oh.' Then: 'Oh!'

Light seemed to dawn and Roger's face twisted in horror.

'Oh, my God,' he said. 'Are you here to tell me that I've got a vulnerable disease?'

'Pardon?'

'Lola was talking about that. She wanted to see my file, I remember now.'

'Roger, it's not "vulnerable," it's "venereal" and that's not what I'm talking about.'

'It isn't?'

'No. I'm talking about the file that said...' she lowered her voice '...HIV.'

'Hives?'

'No! H.I.V. The AIDS virus!'

'I've got the AIDS virus?'

'NO!'

Dear Christ, thought Dolores, this is so not going the way she wanted. Roger's face had gone almost as white as his bathrobe and his knees were buckling. He looked like a man staring death in the face and suddenly the girl's 'Ah! Ah! Ah!' in the background seemed wildly inappropriate. Dolores grabbed his arms and looked him in the eyes.

'Roger, listen to me,' she said. 'You're fine. You're clean. There's nothing wrong with you. Repeat: There's nothing wrong with you. Do you hear me?'

Roger's eyes darted left and right as he processed the information. Finally, he looked at her. His eyes were pleading and his face looked as open and trusting as a child's. A malevolent idea entered Dolores's head.

'Roger, the file I'm talking about is someone else's file,' she said. 'Someone not so far away.'

'You?'

'No, of course not!'

'But not me?'

'No, Roger. It's not you. It's not me. And it's not any of the men. Do you see what I'm saying?'

Roger stared at her. Dolores nodded over to the group on the bed. Roger followed her gaze. The cameraman now had his cock in the girl's pussy and was fucking her with gusto. Meanwhile, the lighting guy had ejaculated over her face and the girl was wiping his semen off with her hands and licking her fingers.

'Oh,' said Roger.

'Yeah,' said Dolores. 'Oh.'



Lola Lickett - Queen of Porn: Ch. 04



Gladys Dribbel sat back in her chair and looked out through the windows of her office. Despite her weight, the chair did not creak as she leaned back—the amount of money it cost, it damn well shouldn't. Her navy blue suit and crocodile leather shoes also breathed money. But she was worth it. Without her, Devlin would have gone bankrupt or been arrested years ago and he made sure she was suitably rewarded. Gladys knew he was buying her loyalty and she found she could live with it. After years working for respectable law firms—and being constantly passed over for partnerships because of her weight issues—it was odd to realise that the employer who best appreciated her talents was a womanising dickhead in the porn industry.

Gladys had a view of the parking lot. It was not an attractive view, but she liked to believe that if the Feds or the I.R.S. ever came, they'd come for Devlin first and she'd have to time to make a getaway through the back stairs. Given her size, this was a tad optimistic, but nevertheless she would park her car near the fire exit. Also, being able to see who came and went had its uses. Earlier that week, for example, that shabby private dick, Humphrey Harrison, had been to see the boss—a dumb move on Devlin's part, thought Gladys. The whole point of hiring a private detective was that nobody knew you'd hired one. Still, that was Devlin, showing off even when he was trying to be discreet.

There was a knock on the door.

'Come in,' said Gladys, her face still turned towards the window.

It was Dolores.

'Gladys, do you have a minute?'

'Of course. Take a seat.'

Dolores closed the door and went to sit on one of the chairs on the other side of Gladys's desk. There was a loud creak as she sat down and Gladys had to work to keep her expression neutral. Ironically, fat people disgusted her.

'So how can I help?' said Gladys.

Dolores hated the way she always said that. Gladys was only out to help herself. Dolores coughed to get the resentment out of her voice.

'This rumour about the fluff girl with HIV,' she said. 'You said you'd heard it from Roger Ramrod?'

'No,' said Gladys. 'I said I'd heard there was a rumour about an actor who saw a medical file on a chair.'

'But an actor with a moustache and mullet?'

'That's what I was told, yes.'

'Who told you?'

'Is this a cross examination, Dolores?'

'No.'

'Then what is going on?'

'Nothing. But you said there was a rumour and I'm just asking where you heard it?'

'Our priority is to establish whether or not there is any truth to it, wouldn't you say? We can't have someone running around with HIV, can we?'

'No, of course not.'

'So did you check the files?'

Gladys looked at Dolores with an expression that was amiable, but there was steel in the small eyes. Dolores found herself wondering what Gladys would do if she caught her in a lie. Had Gladys been the one to find the file on the chair? Was she staging this as a test to see if it was her or Phyllis who had done it?

There was a knock and Phyllis stuck her head round the door.

'Could you give us a moment, Phyllis?' said Gladys.

'This is urgent,' said Phyllis. 'There is a file missing; a fluff girl's medical file.'

'Whose?'

'Shirley Goober.'

Dolores was glad she was seated or she would have collapsed. As it was, her formidable guts twisted into knots.

'Shirley Goober,' said Gladys, tapping the keys on her computer. 'Here we go: Age 20. Joined the studio six months ago. Voted runner-up in the Sex Cat Club's annual blow-job competition. Dreams of winning.'

'HIV will put the brakes on that,' said Phyllis.

'Motive to steal a medical file though, wouldn't you say?'

'Pretty dumb motive.'

'Well, we're not dealing with a PhD graduate, are we? What do you think, Dolores?'

Dolores managed to shrug and make some kind of reply. Then she excused herself and went to visit the ladies room where she locked herself in a cubicle and surrendered to another gut-ripping bowel movement. A cockroach that had been hiding under the rim of the toilet bowl experienced Armageddon and after being battered and thrown about for what felt like eternity, it was flushed to a place where it never saw daylight again.



In Studio 69, Cyrus watched footage on the monitor while the lighting guy replaced a dead bulb in a spotlight. The other crew members busied themselves with their equipment. In the middle of them, Shirley lounged naked on the bed, swigging water and tapping her smart-phone. Occasionally, semen ran out of her and down her thigh and she would wipe it away with a towel she half lay on without taking her eyes from the little screen. Had she been lying on the bed in her clothes, the men would have glared at her for goofing off while they worked, but being naked seemed to give her permission to lounge around. It didn't even feel like goofing off. Lounging around is what naked girls do.

'Cyrus?' said Shirley. 'Do you think I could be an actress?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because you have no tits,' said Cyrus.

'But some guys like that. And I'd be perfect for the schoolgirl roles.'

'Shirley, I'd hire you tomorrow, but it's not up to me. If you're serious, you need to fuck someone higher up the food chain.'

'You mean, like Devlin?'

'For example.'

There was a sudden bright light and both Shirley and Cyrus shielded their eyes. 'Sorry!' called out the lighting guy and pointed the spotlight somewhere else. Cyrus went back to staring at the monitor making mental notes and Shirley's phoned buzzed. There was a message and she tapped it open. It said: 'Come to the office immediately. Gladys Dribbel.'

Shirley frowned.

What did Gladys want with her? Then it occurred to her that someone using Gladys's account might be sending her a message. Someone who needed to be discreet. Someone like the owner of this studio. Shirley smiled and tapped out, 'On my way.' She had just pressed SEND when a woman's shriek nearly burst an eardrum.

'Zee-rus! What is THAT?'

Shirley looked up to see a quivering forefinger with a blood-red lacquered fingernail pointing right at her. Behind the forefinger stood Lola in her dragon gown and her black hair seemed to crackle in fury. It was time to go.

'All right, Lola. Calm down,' said Cyrus as Shirley went to the pile of her clothes.

'I will not calm down!' cried Lola, throwing her hands in the air. 'How dare this pimple-chested nobody touch my bed! I refuse to be fucked on it!'

'Lola—'

'I come here without even being fetched and what do I find? A Barbie doll using MY bed for a fuck party!'

'This is a porn film studio,' said Cyrus. 'What do you expect?'

'I expect ... professionalism.'

Shirley had finished dressing and she stepped up to Cyrus, pointing to her phone.

'Cyrus, I have to—'

'How dare you talk when I'm talking!' shrieked Lola. 'Get out! Get your skinny bones out of my studio! Go! Vamonos! I never want to see you again!'

Shirley turned and almost ran out. Cyrus watched her close the door behind her. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor. Lola looked over at the bed.

'Change it!' she said. 'And get that towel out of my sight! I feel pregnant just looking at it!'

'Lola—'

'And where's that prick I'm supposed to fuck?'

'He's getting a cup of tea.'

'Tea? TEA? He should be here!'

'Lola, how many times has Roger had to wait for you?'

'He's the man! He's supposed to wait for me!'

Thankfully, Roger chose that moment to enter. He wandered in, hands in the pockets of his white bathrobe and seeming to be lost in his own thoughts.

'Okay, crew!' called out Cyrus, hoping to end the argument. 'Positions, everyone! We'll be filming in five!'

'Not until you change the bed,' said Lola.

'Lola, if we change the sheets, the film won't match the earlier footage.'

'I didn't say change the sheets. I said change the bed.'

'Change the whole bed?'

'You understand English? This is good.'

'Forget it! We're not changing the damn bed, Lola. We're filming in five and that's final.'

'Five what?' said Roger.

There was a pause. Cyrus and Lola exchanged a glance.

'Five minutes,' said Cyrus.

'Oh,' said Roger. 'Oh yeah. So it's not code for something?'

'No, Roger.'

'Oh.'

'Maybe the great actor needs more than five minutes to find his "motivacion"?' said Lola, looking pointedly at Roger's groin area.

In response, Roger shrugged off his bathrobe. His cock was hanging downwards, but already sizable. Roger took it in his hand and it began to grow and stiffen as he waggled it from side to side. He smiled.

'Pretty impressive, considering what I've gone through,' he said.

Lola opened her mouth, but Cyrus said quickly, 'I'm sure Lola didn't mean any harm.'

'I'm not talking about Lola,' said Roger. 'I'm talking about Dolores.'

'Dolores? From the office?'

'She was here earlier, boss,' said the cameraman. 'I saw her talking to Roger while we were ... you know.'

Cyrus went pale.

'Shit! What did she want?' he said.

'She was asking about a medical file,' said Roger, still waggling his penis. 'Apparently, someone here has the AIDS virus.'

His cock was now fully erect. Roger looked up and saw everyone staring at him, their faces pale, their mouths open. He smiled, raised an eyebrow, and lightly touched what he thought was the reason for their astonishment.

'Hey,' said Roger. 'I'm the man.'



Dolores sat at her desk and stared at her computer screen without seeing a thing. She couldn't figure out if she was out of trouble or deeper into it. Okay, Shirley Goober was now the subject of the inquiry and that had been the original idea, but the missing file was troubling. If it were missing. Dolores remembered taking the HIV page out of the file and putting it back where it belonged and she was pretty sure she had put Shirley's file back in the cabinet. 99% sure. But it had been the end of the day, Dolores had been thinking about food and she'd had a bunch of identical files under her arm. It was just possible that she had put the wrong file back. There were a bunch of files on her desk right now, it might feasibly be there. Dolores went through them. No, it wasn't. These weren't even medical files, they were actor profiles—although they were in the same brown folders. Devlin didn't like spending money on decent office supplies, the cheap bastard. Dolores considered going down to the archive room to double check when there was a rap on the door and Shirley Goober bounced in.

'Hello, Dolores!' she said, brightly. 'I'm here to see Devlin.'

'Do you have an appointment?' said Dolores.

'Don't need one. He wants to see me.'

'That's a coincidence.'

Shirley's brightness went a shade dimmer.

'What do you mean a coincidence?' she said.

'Because Gladys wants to see you as well. Didn't she send you a message?'

Shirley checked her phone, more for show than because she had any doubt. Fantasies of being a celebrated actress and walking over Lola Lickett's face in a pair of spiked heels evaporated even as she tapped the screen. Her light had fully dimmed, her hair hung in her face and she felt like crying. She cleared her throat and tried to fake briskness.

'So she has,' said Shirley.

'Then I suggest you look for her in her office,' said Dolores. 'It's on the other side of the building.'

'What's it about?'

'I'm sure she'll tell you.'

Shirley gave a small nod and turned to go.

'One last thing, Shirley.'

The girl turned back and Dolores made sure she had eye contact.

'Mr. Carter calls me Dolores. You don't. Are we clear?'

Shirley swallowed and gave a nod. She left the room, her bounce gone, and Dolores turned back to her computer screen. She had a warm, pleasant feeling in her body and she found to her delight that she was now able to concentrate on her work. A few minutes ago, she had been asking herself: Was this whole file business worth all the stress just to step on a young girl? What a stupid question, thought Dolores as she started going through her mailbox. Of course it was worth it!



Lola was screaming abuse and this time Cyrus was standing right by her, along with the camera crew. They surrounded Roger who stood naked and held his hands over his privates. Despite the muscular body, he cowered like a bullied child.

'Can't you let me put on my bathrobe at least?' he said.

'When you give me an answer!' cried Lola. 'Who has AIDS virus?'

'I don't remember.'

'How can you not remember something like that?' said the cameraman.

'Well, after she told me I didn't have it, I wasn't really listening,' said Roger.

The men groaned and Lola went purple in the face.

'Roger,' said Cyrus, 'you take Narcissism to new heights.'

'Thank you.'

'That wasn't a compliment!'

'Oh.'

'What did Dolores say? Think, man!'

Roger tried on his thinking face. It made Cyrus think of his daughter when she was a baby and taking a shit in her diaper. Eventually, Roger pushed something out.

'She said it wasn't me,' he said.

'You say that already!' shrieked Lola, and if she had started hitting him, none of the men would have tried to stop her.

'And she said it wasn't her.'

'Well, that's hardly—' began the cameraman, when Cyrus shushed him.

'Come on, Roger,' he said. 'What else?'

Roger's face went red. Cyrus took a half step back.

'And she said it wasn't any of the men,' he said finally.

There was a collective sigh of relief. Then, almost as one man, they all looked towards Lola. She stared, reading their faces.

'Is you crazy?' she cried. 'I no have virus!'

'It isn't one of the men,' said Cyrus. 'That just leaves you.'

'And the fluff!'

Cyrus turned to Roger.

'Did Dolores say it was Shirley?' he said.

'No,' said Roger. 'Definitely not.'

'Then that still leaves you,' said Cyrus, turning back to Lola.

Lola drew herself up to her full height—which in heels was not unimpressive—and looked down at the shorter man with withering contempt. But Cyrus folded his arms, lifted his chin and stared right back. It dawned on Lola that he actually thought he could win this fight and she suspected he might be right. She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.

'H'okay,' she said. 'We go to office. I show you papers. And then we all go talk to the fat bitch who start this problem. De cuerdo?'

Cyrus nodded.

'Fair enough,' he said.



Lola Lickett - Queen of Porn: Ch. 05



Shirley took a deep breath and tapped on the door of Gladys's office. She hoped no one was in, but an answering bellow told her otherwise. Shirley went in and quietly closed the door behind her.

In size and layout, this office was a mirror image of Devlin's, with one wall of windows looking out of the building. But instead of sexy posters were charts and graphs and, where Devlin had a huge couch, there were filing cabinets and blueprint storage cupboards. A large potted cactus stood in one corner, but apart from that the room was as sterile as a corridor. The only sign of life was the immense woman in a cut navy suit who sat behind the large flatscreen. She reminded Shirley of the witch Ursula in 'The Little Mermaid'—big and malevolent, but with the veneer of civilisation. She smiled at Shirley, inviting her to take a seat. Shirley sat down in the chair as though expecting it to be electrified.

'As you are no doubt aware, everyone who works at Shooting Star Studios must have regular medical checks,' said Gladys. Her voice was casual, but she watched the girl's face closely.

'Yes, I know,' said Shirley.

'You have to be free of any S.T.D.'

'S.T.D.?'

'Sexually Transmitted Disease.'

'Oh yes, of course.' Shirley shrugged. 'Well, I certainly am!'

'Can you prove that?'

'Of course! I had my check-up and I'm clean. You've got my medical file, right?'

Gladys shook her head slowly. Shirley stared at her, frowning. 

'Where is it?' said Shirley.

'That's what I wanted to ask you,' said Gladys.

Shirley blinked. Then she looked at the carpet, her eyes moving to and fro as she pieced information together. Gladys felt relieved that at least some of this girl's brain was being used for actual thinking.

'That fucking bitch,' said Shirley suddenly.

'I beg your pardon?' said Gladys.

'Not you. Dolores.'

'Dolores?'

Shirley leaned forward.

'Listen, a few days ago I had to get a medical file from Dolores,' she said.

'What for?'

'Lola was refusing to do the film with Roger Ramrod until she'd seen his file.'

Gladys sat back in her chair. Whenever there was a problem, Lola Lickett always seemed to be in the middle of it.

'Go on,' said Gladys.

'Well, I went to get the file from Dolores, but she refused to give it to me. Luckily, Devlin came out of his office and made her give it to me.'

'By "Devlin" you mean Mr. Carter, the owner of this studio?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Okay, I get the picture. What happened next?'

'Well, Dolores brought the file and gave it to me.'

'Roger's file?'

'Yes, but she had a great big pile of them. I reckon she took my file out of there to get back at me.'

'Why would she do that?'

'Because she hates me!'

'Why?'

'Because I'm young and pretty and she's big and faaaa—'

Shirley's voice tailed off into silence. Face pale, she stared at the huge woman across the desk while images of being dragged to the bottom of the sea by giant tentacles ran amok in her brain. Gladys had hard black eyes in a pink, doughy face and her mouth crooked into a thin smile.

'Do go on,' she said.

Dolores was typing an email when the desk phone buzzed. The orange light from the reception desk was flashing. She picked up.

'What is it, Richie?' she said.

'Some people are here to see you.'

His voice sounded panicked and Dolores could hear arguing in the background—the voices of Phyllis and Lola. Lola was ranting, clearly in the mood to make a scene. Dolores glanced at the blue door to Devlin's office.

'I'll be right down,' she said and put the phone down.

There was quite a delegation waiting for her as she descended the staircase. Lola was there, waving her hands as she shouted in Phyllis's face. So was film director Cyrus Bender and his camera crew of five. Looking miserable was also Roger Ramrod, his hands deep in the pockets of his bathrobe looking as though he had been forced to come along. Richie watched from behind the high reception desk like a chicken trapped in a kitchen as he watched the cooks arguing over the menu. Lola saw Dolores coming down the stairs and pointed dramatically.

'You!' she cried.

Dolores decided to stonewall. She walked up to the group and addressed Phyllis.

'Is there a problem, Phyllis?' she said.

'Hey! You talk to me!' said Lola.

'In a moment.'

'Now!'

'If you don't get that temper under control, I shall be forced to call security.'

'Go ahead! See if I—'

'Lola!' interrupted Cyrus sharply. 'That's not why we're here!'

He had taken off his blue lens glasses and something about his look made Lola pause. She frowned, she pouted, but she held her tongue.

'Thank you, Mr. Bender,' said Dolores. 'Glad to see you have your women under control.'

Lola opened her mouth, but Cyrus got in first.

'Don't do that, Dolores,' he said. 'Don't try to be Gladys.'

Dolores glowered, eyes wide and angry. She wanted to throttle this ridiculous little man with his ridiculous goatee beard and beret. Lola folded her arms and grinned. Phyllis stepped forwards, putting a hand on Dolores's arm.

'What do you want?' said Phyllis.

'We want to know what Dolores said to Roger,' said Cyrus.

Phyllis frowned and looked at Dolores.

'Gladys mentioned that Roger may have seen the missing file,' said Dolores. 'I just went to ask him.'

'She also strongly implied that someone had the AIDS virus,' said Cyrus.

'I said no such thing.'

Cyrus turned to Roger.

'Uh-oh,' muttered Roger.

'Roger, what did Dolores say to you?' asked Cyrus.

'She told me I didn't have the AIDS virus,' he said.

'And what else?'

'That I didn't have a vulnerable disease.'

'And what else?'

'That venereal is not vulnerable?'

Dolores and Phyllis exchanged a glance. The camera crew were rubbing their faces and Lola was muttering, 'I kill him, I kill him,' under her breath. Cyrus had gone red in the face and had to force himself to stay calm.

'Yes, Roger,' he said. 'And what else?'

'Some witness,' said Phyllis.

'Yeah, very reliable,' said Dolores.

'All right, you tell us!' said Cyrus. 'You tell us what you said!'

'I asked him if he had seen Shirley Goober's missing medical file.'

'Shirley Goober?' said Cyrus. 'Our fluff girl?'

'Yes.'

'Shirley's got the AIDS virus?' asked the cameraman.

'It would be irresponsible to say that,' said Dolores. 'But seeing as the documents proving she's clean are not to be found, it is a concern, isn't it? However, by the time I got to the studio, it was a little late to warn you, wasn't it?'

All the men looked at one another. Cyrus seemed to need to sit down, but not finding a chair he leaned against the reception counter. 

'Goodness, what's up with them?' said Phyllis.

'Miss Goober is a very generous girl,' said Dolores. 'The sort of girl who shares whatever she's got. Isn't that right, boys?' 

The men were all pale. Cyrus had to lick his lips a couple of times before he could speak.

'Where is she?' he said in hoarse voice.

'Upstairs with Gladys,' said Dolores. 'Who is trying to establish the health status of Miss Goober. As soon as we know something, we'll let you know.'

It was a dismissal. Cyrus looked at the other men and saw the same thought in their expressions.

'We'd prefer to wait here,' said Cyrus.

'Have you finished today's filming?' said Phyllis.

'You are joking?'

'Not at all. Both your actors are healthy enough.'

'That's true actually,' said Roger.

'Shut up,' said Cyrus.

He frowned, as if nagged by some thought, and suddenly realised that there had been no shouting and arguing for nearly a minute. He looked at the two fat ladies, the skinny drink of water behind reception and then around the whole lobby.

'Where's Lola?' he said.

Lola Lickett was no one's idea of somebody who could slip away unnoticed. In fact, she had learned to make quick getaways long before mastering the art of attention seeking. There had been occasions when slipping off her shoes and quietly disappearing had been a necessary—and on one occasion life-saving—skill. But we won't go into that right now. At present, Lola was running along the corridor that led to the back staircase near the fire exit. She pushed open the heavy door to the stairwell and headed up, both shoes in one hand.

'Are you sure about this?' she said to herself in Spanish. She pulled a face. 'H'okay, okay, I trust you!'

She reached the fire door on the first floor, put her shoes back on and fluffed her hair. The strength of her perfume made it easy to sneak away because the scent hung in the air and people didn't register that she had gone, but trying to disguise her entrance was another matter. Better to be bold.

Shirley was cowering in the heat of Gladys's stare when the door banged open and Lola walked in, magnificent in her silk underwear and flowing dragon robe. She stood before the desk, legs apart, hands on hips, and looked down at the cumbersome woman in the navy suit.

'Dolores Burrito is a fucking liar,' declared Lola.

Gladys shifted in her seat, looking like a walrus caught in a Japanese rock pool. She was trying not to be impressed by Lola and it was proving to be difficult. She cultivated some outrage.

'How dare you, Lola!' said Gladys. 'Barging in here, making unfounded accusations!'

'It is Dolores making the unfounded accusations, saying this girl have AIDS virus.'

'What?' cried Shirley. She leapt to her feet, so angry she forgot to cower. 'Is that true?' she demanded of Gladys. 'Is that what she's saying?'

'Sit down!' said Gladys.

'No, you stand up!' said Shirley. 'If you can.'

'How dare you—' began Gladys, but Shirley had already turned to Lola, shaking her blond hair away from her face.

'Where is she?' said Shirley. 'Where is that poisonous heffalump?'

'Come with me,' said Lola and she turned to walk out.

'I haven't finished with you, Goober!' shouted Gladys as they left. 'You come back here!'

Shirley walked the corridor next to Lola. The shouts of Gladys rang in her ears, but Lola made defiance feel possible, survivable, almost fun. It felt good to walk next to this arrogant, gorgeous, impossible Woman, to feel the illusion of equality to her even if only for a moment. Shirley realised that all her hatred for Lola was actually admiration twisted inside-out. She wanted the corridor to last forever.

Then they came to the stairs and Shirley could hear Dolores's voice from below. Shirley's body wanted to wait at the top of the stairs until she'd figured out a plan, but Lola was already heading down and Shirley kept pace, her stomach churning, her legs threatening to give way, moving forward by sheer will power. Shirley saw the gathering near the reception desk. Dolores was turning to look up and Shirley asked herself: 'What would Lola do now?'

'Hey, Fatso!' cried Shirley. 'I want a word with you!'

Dolores's face went purple and her hands closed into fists. The almost identically fat Phyllis gasped and stared, her mouth dropping open like the tailgate of a pickup as the girl came down.

'You'll regret that, you little tramp,' hissed Dolores.

'Not as much as you'll regret spreading rumours about me,' said Shirley.

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'That's not what Gladys said.'

Dolores blanched.

'Now that's a guilty reaction if ever I saw one,' said Shirley.

'You wish!' said Dolores, a little too quickly.

'No, don't buy it,' said Shirley. 'Try again.'

'You stupid little slut. Do you think you can intimidate me?'

'I think Gladys intimidates you plenty. And now that she's on my side—'

'Gladys is not on your side!' Dolores was purple with fury. 'She was the one who thought you had HIV!'

'Only because that's what you told her!'

'No!'

'Then how else?'

'Because your file was missing!'

'Stolen, you mean!'

'Stolen, lost—who gives a shit?'

'You should have put it back!'

'I did put it back, you stupid little...'

Dolores stopped, her voice trailing to nothing. There was silence. Dolores swallowed and looked around. Everyone was staring at her—even Phyllis, even that skinny runt, Richie—all wearing an expression of appalled realisation. Well, except for Roger. He wouldn't know a slip of the tongue if it went up his asshole.

'So you did take Shirley's file,' said Cyrus, his voice a croak.

'I didn't say that,' said Dolores. 'I said I'd put it back.'

'But to put it back, it has to be taken out in the first place. Right?'

Dolores opened her mouth to deny it. No words came out. There is a line beyond which no-one believes what a person says and she had crossed it. She knew it and they knew it.

'Dolores,' said a voice from the direction of the stairs. 'Can I have a word?'

It was Gladys. She was halfway down, her hand on a banister, waiting. How long had she been there? Too long, by the expression on her face—her eyes were like two granite stones in a mound of pink snow.

'In my office. Now.'

Dolores walked towards the stairs, her whole body sagging—and that was a lot of sag. Her shoes squeaked in the stillness of the lobby as she walked. Gladys turned and Dolores followed her up the stairs. Phyllis went after them, not wanting to be left alone amongst the pack. Shirley, Lola and the others watched them go. Cyrus went up to Shirley and moved to put a reassuring hand upon her shoulder, but at the last second she moved out of his reach without a glance in his direction. He hesitated, unsure if her move was deliberate or just bad timing. Still, he did not try it a second time.

Safe in his office, Devlin Carter sat before his flatscreen, headphones covering his ears. The concealed microphones in the lobby were still switched on, but no-one was saying anything. The view from the security cameras showed them standing there motionless as the Three Not-So-Merry Wenches went up the stairs and out of shot. Then, one by one, they all went away until only Richie was left sitting behind his desk.

Devlin sighed and took off his headphones. He looked at the file on his desk—the file that said 'Shirley Goober' on the front. A few days earlier, he had seen Dolores take a file to the studio, her body language signalling Up To No Good in a hundred different ways. Devlin could access all the security cameras on the property, so he followed her as she went to the café from the comfort of his deluxe leather swivel chair and watched her pretend to sneeze, dropping the file onto a chair. Shaking his head at the ineptitude of her acting, Devlin made a call to Tolstoy-loving Dave of security and told him to retrieve the file. He laughed when Dave told him what it was. Were there any depths a jealous woman would not stoop to? Still, Dave was indignant and it took Devlin some time to persuade him that they could teach the 'fat bitch' a lesson without having to deal with all the tiresome official stuff.

So that morning, when Gladys arrived for work, Dave told her at the gate that he had overheard a couple of actors talking about a fluff girl with HIV whose medical file had been seen lying on a chair in the café. And Devlin himself, who had a key to every door, took Shirley Goober's file from the archives and kept it in his office. Then he sat before his desk, put on his headphones, switched on the concealed microphones and sat back to enjoy the show. 

It had been most entertaining, especially at the end. His main regret was that he wouldn't get to hear Gladys chew out Dolores; that would have been so much fun. But Devlin hadn't thought to bug Gladys's office. Instead he had microphones installed in the ladies toilet. A nightclub owner had once told him that the things women said to one another in the ladies room were an education and Devlin wanted to hear for himself. However, all he had learned that day was that Dolores should probably see a proctologist.

Devlin locked Shirley Goober's file in his desk drawer, switched off the microphones and slid his mouse over the computer icon marked 'Job Applications.' Within seconds, he was clicking through pictures of girls and more girls and more girls.

Epilogue:

It was a sunny morning.

Shirley walked across the lot towards the studio buildings. Turning her head, she saw the trailers in a row to the side. She stopped. Lola's silver trailer reflected the sunlight, blinding on one corner, and Felipe the gardener was watering the assortment of potted plants. Lola was almost certainly inside there. Shirley's foot tapped on the asphalt. She hadn't spoken to Lola since the business at the office and Shirley felt she ought to express some form of gratitude. Gladys would have eaten her for lunch had Lola not intervened. On the other hand, Lola was as changeable as a psychotic cat and Shirley didn't want to get scratched. She continued walking to the studio. 

Then she stopped, swore and went over to the silver trailer.

'Morning, Felipe,' she said.

'I'm Juan,' said the gardener.

'Sorry. Are you twins?'

'No, but we get that a lot.'

'Oh.'

Shirley coughed. It seemed awfully quiet in the trailer.

'Um, is Lola in?' she asked.

'Yes. She is probably taking a nap.'

'Oh.'

Shirley stared at the trailer. Her foot tapped and her heart thumped and she found herself swallowing air. 'Fuck it,' she thought.

Shirley walked up to the door and gave it two sharp knocks. In her peripheral vision, she saw Juan edging towards the furthermost pot. There was no sound from within the trailer and then suddenly the metal door was ripped open. Shirley found herself staring into fierce brown eyes above rolling cleavage that disappeared into the top of a black basque.

'What do you want?' said Lola.

Blood pounding in her head, Shirley opened her mouth to say thank you and the words that came out were:

'I want to be your slave.'

Shirley felt her face burn and a part of her brain was running around screaming. Yet her body felt calm, poised and alert and she found it easy not to look away. She had spoken the truth. Lola's eyes were locked into hers, not even glancing down, and the brown her irises were flecked with orange and green. Lola's lips parted.

'I'll consider it,' she said and she slammed the door in Shirley's face.