Author's note: One thing I hate about writers is when they have to delay the story by placing one of those incredibly annoying author's note. But then again I've always been something of a hypocrite when it comes to virtually anything; so here goes.
This particular story is based on one which I have been hawking around a variety of publications for some years. Obviously the original story didn't have any 'BE' in it what-so-ever. Most of the editors looked on it favourably, but demurred each time ["We'd love to run it, but we can't see that it's quite appropriate."]. (One rather mendacious chap actually held on to the manuscript, obviously for his own enjoyment, and as far as I know still has it.) Recently I've had a lot on my mind and decided to alter it just enough to allow it to be posted here.
Non-author's note: Get on with it!!
Author's note: I still think that you can see a few of the joins ("You can't see the join!" as Eric said to Ernie - that shows my age!), but it's as good as it's going to get.
Non-author's note: What a pretentious moron, this is a bleeding load of old cobblers.
(Fanks ter Mart & Alison fer dif'rent sortsa support.)
Ken lay on his bed, it was the cheap, unsprung, uncomfortable variety which reside in only the tackiest and cheapest hotels. He was quite substantially heavier than he had been in his pre-alcholic-binge-on-waking, pre-saturated-fats-for-breakfast, pre-cardiovascular-threat-of-death, pre-impotence days; but he still sank deeper into the mattress than he did into the one at home. He picked up his well-thumbed copy of Dante's Divine Comedy and turned to Canto V of Hell, and resumed his reading. However, he was unable to absorb the poetry of the phrases, his concentration had dissolved by the volatile action of the rum and amphetamine that he'd been using over the past few weeks. He placed the paperback on to the thankfully flat surface of the bedside table, and began scrutinizing the ceiling.
Earlier in the week he had caught himself looking at himself in the mirror. That flat, selfish silvered plane which demanded all, yet gave up nothing of itself in return. He had regarded the lines, the fissures, the pain, the pleasure, which the years had carved ceaselessly on his face. "Who am I?" he had asked himself. His fingers stretched out, encountered the hard glass and left fingerprints and circles of condensation as the re-affirmation that it was a mirror, that the person trapped behind that flat, unforgiving, unbribable surface was him. "What have I done with my life?" Those thoughts returned with a vengeance as he lay, a prisoner to his depression, the vapid feeling of come-down pervaded him on a cellular level, only after his very first dusting of the day would it leave him.
His brain was flooded with images of Candy. Candy who was all woman, and more, a woman who had deliberately and of her own volition had her body grotesquely violated. Under the knife of an industrial plastic surgeon, she had had sufficient sacks of silicon packed into her breasts to expand them to proportions that were, frankly, obscene. She had the largest bosom that he had ever seen, scarless, perfect, and gargantuan. Each was a Leviathan, any of the words he would employ to describe her and them were useless: she was an experience. When he had initially seen her, his loins had even, very nearly, been stirred into wakefulness, and then when she had removed her clothes, his prick, for the first time in an age, had started to rise, as though endeavouring to say: "me first."
It was overt that she was not an actress, her capabilities were more tangible than that, she was on the set to stand in front of the camera and jiggle, let the lens ogle her. She then said her lines and moved around the other actors and actresses. Even talking to her took a supreme effort of will, first to look her in the face and not at her vast, swollen chest and then to stand listening to her asinine, ridiculous voice. Although she was a woman, admittedly artificial and like nothing genuine on the planet, deep inside, in the vacant lot of her brain, she was a child, with both the intellectual capability and the emotional variety of a twelve year old. The other men of the set, especially Emile Brutus, the leading man, showered her with the type of attention that would have been reserved for a Mega-star, not a third rate stripper who had the appearance of having been inflated like a cartoon animal, admittedly in only two important areas. Emile's mouth salivated semen at the slightest hint of her mammoth mammaries, he curled his churlish arm around her, pressing himself as close to her mountains of flesh as he could.
Ken wouldn't have minded this whole hotbed of sex, sleaze, and silliness if everything were going according to plan. Candy looked very nice, if you liked that dirigible-sized breast sort of thing, but she was unable to remember her lines or to take basic direction. It had taken them two days to produce two minutes of film recently, Candy had been late, and was entirely unable to do what he asked. Then she and Emile had gone to lunch together, coming back after two and a half hours. It was clear to everybody what they had done, and they did not endeavour to disguise the fact, they returned arm in arm, stroking one anothers bodies giggling, sharing a private joke. Ken knew that he should have said something: he told himself that ordinarily, under different circumstances, he probably would have. Candy was the producer's plaything, and she was Ken's own lifeline, his potential passport. If he could make some money, if he could make a success of this film, then maybe, just maybe, he might be able to scrape enough backing together to make a real film. Do something he wanted to do, make an achievement. Not exist in a twilight world of dead beats, prostitutes, morons and alcoholics: people who were, he reflected, just like him.
"In dreams begin responsibilities." He said to himself and began to laugh.
Zara, the other leading lady, had come around to his room last night, when he saw her half standing and half leaning against a wall in the corridor, a picture of servere alcohol abuse of the worst destructive kind, he was thankful she didn't seem capable of seduction. He stepped away from the door, wordlessly inviting her to enter. She shuffled in, her shoulders hunched as though against a frozen air he was unable to feel. She sat on the only chair, he poured her a large whisky and dribbled some water from the tap into it, then shoved it into her fist. Not because he was being, or acting, the convivial host: he just didn't want to drink alone. He pressed his backside into the mattress, and while he waited for her to say something, he continued to pour tumbler after tumbler of his medicine down his parched throat, with its never ending thirst: a thirst of the soul.
"Well, aren't you gonna say anything?" Her red rimmed eyes blazed. " Aren't'cha gonna ask me why I've come round?"
Ken poured himself another drink, not wanting to look at her. "It's obvious, isn't it? It's Candy."
"Too fuckin' right. I can't carry on with that hunk of meat hangin' round. She's useless, she can't act, I'd like to say I don't know why she's here. But with tits like that it's obvious, innit."
He silently gazed at her. She had been really rather attractive at some point a few years ago, but with a life lived on the edge, with a surfeit of virtually everything, she was washed up. An averagely attractive woman in her thirties who can act is common, and generally not in demand.
"You sound," he uttered the phrase slowly and softly in an effort to reduce the impact, "jealous."
"Jealous!" A screeching owl at the dead of night. "Jealous of that cartoon woman? Do me a favour. She's just a wanking machine."
Ken exhaled before he made his reply, inside he could feel the chemical fuel was nearly exhausted. "That's what this film is, Zara. That's all that we do, now." He paused. "I think you're just jealous of the attention she's receiving from Emile."
"Him! That ignorant shit!"
"You like him, or at least you did at the start. It was clear to us all."
She pouted at him, her cheeks turned the colour of rouged nipples.
"Look, Zara, all I can tell you is this: Candy remains, she's the star of this skin flick, regardless of whether she can act or not. We won't be doing it for too long, let's make the best of it while we have to, okay? This isn't high art, I don't know why you're getting so upset. I've been working for Caesar for too long now. One week turn around for the films. No plot, no stars, no overheads, all profit. The guys just lap it up. We're small cogs in a big money making machine, and we don't even have visual evidence of the cash. We turn and we churn. That's all Caesar's interested in. Candy is just something to pass the time and make some money."
"Yeah, but" she gulped down the urine looking liquid. "But don't you think that all this is pretty useless. You know, I wanna be myself again. I don't wanna whore myself for Caesar. Don't you wanna get out, baby?"
"There's no way out, not really."
He was forced to administer several more glasses of whisky to her, each one containing less and less water, until she had passed out. He had taken her down the hall to her room, fished the key out of her jacket pocket and tossed her on to her own equally uncomfortable bed. As he left, he saw Emile return to his room as quietly as he could, noticing Ken he gave a conspiratorial wink and moved into his own room.
Had it been Candy? Ken had asked himself as he made his way down the shabby corridor. Or had he been receiving his fix of flesh through another dealer, another pusher? In his head Ken saw them making love, she would have to be on top wouldn't she? or would do it doggy style? or would it be in a safer version of the missionary position? He shook his head and desperately tried to rid himself of the all too realistic vision in his mind, and made his way to his room for the customary half bottle prelude to two or three hours of dreamless sleep.
It was seven fifteen, he had been asleep since five, now he knew he would have to try and get on with writing the script, what there would be of it, for the next day. Renoir said that he painted with his prick, Ken thought, I write with my chemicals. He unfolded the tightly wrapped packaging of speed to its fullest extent, stuck out his tongue and like a puppy lapped all of the tiny granules up. Over the years he had grown to love the bitter taste of the salt, being a harbinger, a promise, of a soaring high. It wouldn't take long, and he would stay up and energized for hours. He removed the electric typewriter from under the bed, and put a sheet of paper in, rolled it around and he began. He had no idea where it would go or where it would end, it had no idea what it was about, all that he did know was that it was important, imperative that he finish the next section by nine thirty
He wished that he knew what he was going to write about, but most of all he wished that he wasn't here; he wished, for a second, for the briefest of fleeting instants, that he could be on a bed, fucking Candy; he wished that he could gain an erection; he wished he wished he wished. The motor mouth in his fingers began oscillating, there was the familiar delicious tingle in his scalp, as though his hairs were being plucked from the inside. He felt his leg start to move, jostle up and down and his fingers began to play the rat-a-tat-tat rhythm on the keyboard, beating out the tune that emanated from his head. Words, events, people, places, things, all came falling, like food from a horn of plenty, from the synapses in his brain, through the bone structure, down into the skin surrounding the fingers, into the rhythm of taps and clicks. Automatic writing directed straight from the atomic structure of the infinite.
When he was mixing uppers and downers and acid, the time he was writing and directing proper films, he used to think late at night that a god, some god, any god at all, was telling him what to write, telling him how far he should go, what he could risk. But that had been part of the problem, that had caused him too much agony listening to those voices. He wiped out all traces of those drugs and the voices ceased, but the craving didn't, money and pain caused him to indulge in the rich idiot's Holy Grail -- speedballs. But that was a long time ago, when he had money, when he could afford A-grade coke and heroin. Now he was lucky if his speed wasn't cut with rat poison, laxative, bleach or something far worse that he did not wish to even think about.
The phone rang, urgent and peremptory, like a teacher, or a politician. Ken did not want to answer it because he had a preternatural idea who the caller would be. It rang for an entire sixty seconds before he moved his stiff, claw towards the receiver.
"You took your time." Barked the voice, the voice he knew well.
"I was asleep."
"Asleep! at this time of day. You should be exercising, you don't wanna waste the day in bed. You ain't a student, you know. You can't afford to waste time, not at your age."
"What do you want?"
"You sound crabby today, sucker. What's the matter with you, eh? Well, I'm wond'ring how my films coming along, I'm wond'ring when you think it'll be ready. We got post production coming up soon, and my palms are getting itchy, you know."
"Yes, I know. But you've got to remember that film making takes its time. You can't rush things. And any way, we've got the rest of the week haven't we?"
"You had a week tops, I wan' it to be less, you know that, cut down on cost, I'd like to be able to get everything wrapped up by Saturday. Candy and me'll want to go on holiday after that. And you don't wanna get in the way of us enjoying ourselves do ya?"
"No, no, no. Don't worry about it, I'm working on the next part of the script right now, the last few bits, if all goes according to plans and we don't have to do so many re-shoots, and everybody does what they told and they don't do as many fuck ups, and we can all start on time, then I reckon we should make it quite easily and that'll be fine for all concerned."
"Great, that's great. Just make sure that Emile don't just to fuck 'er, okay? I don't want him to touch her. She's just there for show, right."
"But," Ken's mind was training out of the station at top speed, the passengers were afraid they were going to suffocate. "But, why? 'Cause Emile's got one of the biggest dicks in the business? Candy isn't a virgin."
"No, it's got nothing to do with that." Was his voice quavering?
For some reason Ken felt the compulsion to say the things that he would ordinarily only be permitted to think. "You worried in case she starts to want a big organ, in case she laughs at you?"
"Shut the fuck up." The phone became molten in his fist, detestation rung out in the words. "It's got nothing to do with that. He's fucked too much, he's got some diseases I reckon. I don't want 'er to get 'em, do I? So shut your fucking mouth before I get you sorted out."
"But we're doing porn. This isn't going to be porn if the punters don't witness any actual sex. You should know that."
"Don't try and tell me my business. Awright? This is a film about 'er, about Candy. Nothin' too bad, just alota stuff with 'er with 'er kit off. This is a film that's gotta bita tit in it. Well, with Candy it's gotta lotta tit in it. The more the better. But no fuckin' awright?"
"It won't work. I'll have to scrap the script I've done so far."
"I don't care. No fuckin'."
The phone died in his hand. He smiled to himself. Force his employer to sack him, that would be an idea: not a very good one, but worth while considering, at least he'd be on benefit.
Now that the schedule had been altered, not just altered but severely reduced so as to make its completion seem impossible he was going to have to work hard. Ken felt his heart beat harder and his mind span, his mind was string unravelling, circles and ovoids, the Universe slowly germinated in his mind, ideas and conceptions which he wished to partake in, which he wished to come to fruition. He didn't want to do it any more, he didn't want to have to make skin flicks, in the past he had made real films, he had had talent, everybody had commended him, they had said, they had all said, that he would go far, that he could be the Great British Hope, and what had happened to him? where had he squandered his talent most? where had he prostituted himself most? which segment of his future had he mortgaged first?
As the euphoria deepened, and the words and images in his head linked arms, he sat at the typewriter and bashed away. Trance like. Otherworldly. In direct communication with the centre of the universe.
When he arrived at the beaten down, dilapidated building which they called the studio, he found them all waiting impatiently. Candy and Emile were idly chatting to one another, eyes and hands betraying to all what was on their minds, they made certain that no other member of the cast, especially Zara, was permitted into their secret conversation. Zara hugged her sides, to keep the pain of her large variety of different overdoses inside, caking her viscera with an insulation against whatever it was that she needed to protect herself against. She didn't seem to know any more, and neither did any one else. Bob the camera operator slipped off the cardboard box which housed the props, went over to the camera's electric cable and plugged it in.
"Why are you late?" Demanded Candy, taking a deep breath.
Ken stared at her ridiculous proportions, which were only just hidden beneath Emile's narrow jacket, and suppressed the urge to laugh.
"What you smiling at?" She demanded crossing her arms under her pendulous breasts. "We don't think it's funny."
"Right. I'm sorry I'm late but I've just finalized the script and we should be able to stop doing all this by Friday by the latest. That should mean that Candy, poor, little, Candy, will be able to go on holiday with Mr Caesar on time." He turned to her and smiled through the mist of chemicals. "I hope you appreciate what I've done for you."
Candy leaned backwards slightly, exposing a few more square metres of her impressive cleavage either deliberately or accidentally, and looked at him with a confused pout on her scarlet bee stung lips.
"Right. I've got the script, here's your copies." He flung them around at the assembled actors. "Now, Candy's character has had to hide in a topless tabletop dancing club. And after she's..."
To Ken, just like the viewers of this video, like Caesar himself, the plot didn't matter. He didn't care if Candy was naked walking down the street, as long as she did as she was told. He had culled the words, the phrases, and the incidents of the recently battered out pages from a huge range of different sources, from some of his own films from years previously, from other movies he'd seen, from books, plays, television. All he wanted to do was make sure that it was easy, titillating and would satisfy both the lascivious and greedy eye of Mr Caesar, and the masturbatory dream desires of the purchasers and renters of the video. High Art, anything that could be considered aesthetically pleasing was not on the agenda. Low brow, lowest common denominator, base, full of turpitude as long as it made the requisite mess on the floor and the feeling of transitional pleasure for the punters, then his job was done. The plot could go and fuck itself.
As he manipulated the players of his employer's phantasy, putting them here and there, telling them what to do, what to say and how to act, he felt, as he worked more and more quickly, that he was rushing towards his release, the moment when he could exhale with such ferocity that it would be as though he were expelling all of his hurt and pain out of his body. These diminutive figures, these actors in somebody else's tragedy, seemed to be made of plastic or of clay for him to mould, shape and alter to varying degrees, his playthings. However he had a slight distaste for them, as though they were made from shit: even the sensations that he had originally felt towards Candy, the concupiscent images that had flooded and plagued him in the recent past, had evaporated. She was not real, nothing of this life was real, it was a simulacrum of what was genuine, or at least what used to be genuine.
"Now," he said to Candy, as she lay on the makeshift bed. "This is what I want you to do. Emile's character is an evil scientist and he wants the secret microfilm, that's hidden inside you."
"Where?" For someone who had been naked for a great deal of the filming, she suddenly and inexplicably appeared to become embarrassed over his terminology. "What in my... fanny? That's disgusting!"
"I cleared it with Mr Caesar himself." Why was he saying that? He wanted to stop. His brain feeding on the frenzy of the sulphates that had invaded his bloodstream had other ideas. "In fact he said you'd relish it."
"What's in this microfilm?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. This is just some skin flick okay? We're not trying to win any awards."
"But what's my motivation?"
Ken stared at her in disbelief, then he looked around the set.
"I'm sorry, but who's been giving Candy acting lessons. I can't put up with this. Come on put your hand up." No one moved. "Right, no one's leaving till the person who did it owns up." He started to laugh. Soon almost everyone else was laughing as well.
"I don't think that's funny." Candy shifted her shoulders and her massive mammaries wobbled in a hypnotic manner. "I'm the star of this film. And you shouldn't treat me like this. If Mr Caesar got to hear..."
"I, for one, wouldn't be surprized." Ken smiled at her indulgently. "Look can we get on, please. You've got the microfilm for the chemical make-up for the breast enlargening medicine, okay? Emile wants all women to have massive tits, and you don't want them to because..." Ken suddenly thought that this all sounded very familiar, but couldn't place it. "Because it would put you out of a job as a stripper."
"EXOTIC DANCER."
"Whatever. Look just read the script and lets get rolling okay?"
They took their positions with Emile and Candy standing opposite one another trying to get into character. Candy snarled at him and creased up her heavily made up face. Ken removed the perspex container from his pocket.
"Emile, catch."
He threw the container, which Emile caught like an England fielder. Once he'd picked it off the ground he looked at Ken.
"What's the tictacs for?"
"That's the supply of drugs you force into Candy."
"O, right, gotcha."
"I'm not having any sorta drug put in me, Ken. From what I heard you might want to do whatever drug there is going, but I'm not having any of that."
"Candy, for god's sake, they're tictacs. You know, sweets. They haven't even got sugar in them. No chance of tooth decay."
She looked at him suspiciously.
"For god's sake." He stood up and put one in his mouth. "See?" Then he passed one to Zara who looked as though she needed something to take away the nasty taste of the previous night from her mouth. "Happy?"
"Awright." Candy said. "I s'pose."
"Right everyone. Mark it and... Action."
SCENE 45
[Both Emile and Candy have guns and are brandishing them.]
Emile
Right Candy, just hand it over. I know you've got it.
Candy
No. If I do you'll put the likes of me out of business. And I can't have that happen.
Emile
(with menace) If you don't I'll have to kill you.
Candy
I don't care. What you're doing is wrong.
Emile
But I'll just get my henchman to jump you from behind. I'm sure he'll enjoy doing that to such a beautiful young woman like you. Now Pedro.
[Candy turns around to look behind her. There is no one behind her. While she does so Emile jumps forwards and knocks the gun from Candy's grip.]
Emile
Aha! You fell for the oldest one in the book! Fool!
"Ow. That hurt." Said Candy nursing her right hand as close to her cleavage as it was possible for anything to get. "Be more careful."
"I'm sorry baby doll." Emile moved forwards and started to stroke her arm, making certain he had a good eyeful of her chest.
"Cut! Cut! Cut!" Ken wished that he had a knife then he might be able to carry his own order out. "Can we get on to the next part of the scene, please."
"But I've hurt my hand."
"O diddums have you broken a nail? Aw never mind, Mr Caesar'll buy you a new one."
"You bastard." She said. "You horrible bastard."
"Please, can we get on."
SCENE 45 (continued)
[Emile is holding on to the pills while his henchman is holding on to Candy.]
Emile
Right, my dear young lady let's see if you like to be a big stripper.
[Emile opens her mouth and starts to put some pills into Candy's mouth.]
Emile
Ha ha ha.
"And cut. Now all we've got to do is improvise with the expanding..." But he didn't finish everybody was looking at Candy, who was still writhing on the floor. "What's wrong Candy. We're finished filming. You can stop now."
"He gave me too many pills."
"They're just tictacs, Candy."
As they watched Candy's breasts started to move of their own accord, as though she was breathing incredibly deeply but wasn't letting any of the air out. Swelling, straining against the cutaway blouse, squeezing the flesh through the gaps. As her tits expanded they began forcing apart the material of her clothing, causing rents and gaping holes in the seams. The cleavage grew deeper and more cavernous as her breasts were rammed together, but soon as the mass of the flesh became too great, the front of her outfit tore apart completely exposing her in all her glory. Honey coloured and smooth they both began to dwarf their owner and Ken felt his penis began to grow hard.
"Help me." She said trying to sit up, as each tit overcame her lap.
Ken turned and looked at Bob, who smiled and nodded vehemently. They both, with one big yank sat her upright and continued to watch in astonishment. Size approximation had become very difficult, none of them had any idea how many inches or what cup size or even what post code she might be. They stopped growing when the nipples had reached her knee caps.
"Look what you've done to me you bastard." Candy gazed at the massive extent of her breasts. "I'm a freak."
"You might be a freak, Candy, but they were only ordinary tictacs. So that makes you a much better actress than I gave you credit for."
Candy looked at him over her gargantuan bosom, unable to speak.
"Well, everyone," said Ken, "I think we'll call it a day."
Author's afterword: Of course it's probably nearer the truth to say that it's had a checkered history because it's ruddy awful!