Duplex

She paused in front of 412A, then spit at the door. Then she knocked on Harold's door.

"Hey, ran off so fast didn't get you sign nothing," Harold said.

"Got you these," Whitney said, holding up the grocery bag.

"What that is?" Harold asked, squinting at the bag.

"Let me in I show you," she smiled.

"Aw yeah!" Harold enthused and she laughed, a genuine, happy laugh.

Inside of his unit, she looked around at the tasteful furniture. His couch was a rich brown leather, bold, masculine. His two end tables were a rich brown as well, with candlestick lamps and frosted glass domes. His coffee table matched the end tables.

The chair that Harold was sitting in was a blue fabric that complimented the rich brown of the couch. Next to his chair was an ottoman in the same color fabric, and his wooden magazine rack, which matched coffee and end tables.

Next door, in Richard's unit, the furniture had been salvaged by the two boys. The couch was a garish electric blue velour that was horribly stained and had a foul odor; Whitney refused to sit on it. There were two recliners that did not match each other. And neither chair matched the hideous couch.

The only light, other than the overhead ceiling fan and light fixture was a bent floor lamp. And the coffee table, the table where Richard and Jonathon ate most of their meals was a beat up, chipped fiberboard table.

Richard's bedroom wasn't much better. He had a mattress sitting on a box spring, both sitting on the floor. His bedside table was a TV tray table. His digital alarm clock perched precariously on the wobbly table, threatening to fall off at any minute. There was no chest of drawers, no dresser. His clothing either hung on twisted, rusted hangers, or took up residence on the floor of his closet.

Whitney perched on Harold's couch, near his chair, and dug into the grocery bag.

"Here's October," she said, pulling out one magazine.

She quickly flipped to page sixty three. The page showed her dressed as a sexy witch, smiling at the camera. Instead of a broom, it looked like Whitney was riding through the dark, moonlit sky on a giant umbrella.

"What's your name?" Whitney asked, pulling a black marker out of the bag.

"Harold, Harold Melancon," Harold said, adjusting his erection in his baggy cargo shorts.

"And..." Whitney said, writing 'To Harold, kisses to a big fan, Whitney.'

"This here's the July one," Whitney said, pulling a second magazine out of the bag.

Rifling through, she opened the magazine to page 89. Again, she was posed with another large breasted young woman, a Nordic looking blonde dressed in patent leather bra, panties and boots, pulling on the dirty blonde hair of a nude Whitney. The thirteen photographs in the pictorial showed the two women in various poses of bondage and discipline and lesbian activity.

'To Harold: Kisses to a big fan, Whitney.' Whitney wrote.

"And now..." Whitney said, pulling out March's issue.

"Sign the fourth one?" Harold begged when she opened to the first page of the pictorial spread, the one that showed 'Britney' and Tara, both dressed in tank tops ripped to just underneath their massive breasts and skimpy white panties.

Whitney flipped two pages, counting. Then she blushed hotly at the fourth photograph.

"No, if it's all right, I mean, I don't like that one," Whitney admitted.

"Oh, oh yeah, I mean..." Harold stammered, now blushing hotly.

"But why you like that one?" Whitney asked, peering at him.

"I mean, look, huh? You got you some beautiful boobs yeah, but there? Show you got you a beautiful butt too," Harold said.

Whitney looked at the photograph again, then smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah, sure," she acquiesced.

'To Harold" Thanks for liking my butt, Whitney.' Whitney signed.

Then she stacked the three magazines on his coffee table, capped the black marker and dropped the marker into the grocery bag. The grocery bag she rolled up and dropped into her cheap vinyl purse.

"I can get you a beer? Oh, or, I got me some of that St. Elizabeth rum, or some whiskey," Harold offered.

"Yeah, rum and you got any diet Coke?" Whitney asked.

"I ain't on no diet," Harold scoffed. "It's real Coke or its water."

"Ooh, yes sir!" Whitney teased.

He quickly, expertly made her a drink and carried it into the small living room. Through the walls, they could hear Jonathon's, or Richard's hard rock music bleeding through the walls.

"You don't like that, huh?" Harold asked.

"No, stuff's noise," Whitney agreed.

"I uh, I got me some Dolly," Harold offered, and his eyes went immediately to Whitney's sizable chest.

"Ooh, I love Dolly Parton!" Whitney enthused.

She started singing 'Jolene' out loud.

"And a little bit of Johnny, oh, and Loretta Lynn and, how about the Stones?" Harold offered, hoping that Whitney would quit singing.

"Met a gin soaked barroom queen in Memphis," Whitney sang out.

Harold went over to his small stereo and turned it on. A few taps and The Rolling Stones began to pour out of the small speakers.

Whitney bounced up and began to dance. Her dancing was as bad as her singing. But her cute butt was sticking out of her cut off shorts and her massive breasts bobbled in her tank top as she bounced around.

'Sister Morphine' started and Harold smiled as she let out a breath and sat down again. She sipped her drink and nodded approval.

"Marianne Faithful did a cover of that one; like hers better," Harold said.

"Who?" Whitney asked.

"Singer, used date Mick," Harold said.

"So, really? You like my butt, huh?" Whitney giggled, flipping open the March issue of Parasols.

"Yeah, don't like that tattoo you got you no," Harold said.

Whitney squinted at the long stemmed rose tattoo that adorned her left breast in the pictorial.

"It was just drawn on," Whitney assured him.

She lifted the hem of her tank top and flipped up the cup of her heavy bra.

Harold goggled at the sight of her naked breast with large dark areolae and rubbery looking nipple. The breast itself was a light pink in color; there was no tattoo visible.

Her breast was a large round mound of flesh. It did sag down under its natural weight, but it maintained it's perfect spherical shape and the dark nipple pointed straight at him.

"Took me a shower and it come right off," she said, smoothing down both bra and tank top.

"Light kind of bad in here, didn't see me," Harold quickly said. "Need show me again."

Whitney laughed at his blatant lie

"So what it like? Doing them pictures?" Harold asked, finishing his beer.

"It's all right," Whitney shrugged.

She fished out July's issue.

"I mean, this one? Didn't like it no," she admitted. "Ingrid? Was real into pulling my hair and I'm like 'Man! Going rip it out yeah!' but she kept on doing it."

She tapped the picture of herself tied with arms above her head, breasts thrust forward.

"That one? Took almost whole hour get it; my arms 'bout fall off," she said.

She leaned close to Harold as she pointed to Ingrid's breasts.

"And they was fake," she confided.

She put her arms above her head, thrusting her chest forward.

"These real yeah," she boasted.

"Now how I know that?" Harold asked

She laughed and waggled a finger at Harold. The Rolling Stones continued to pour out of the speakers and they continued to chat about her experience as an erotic model. She finished her drink and got up as the CD selection switched to Jerry Jeff Walker.

"Oh, why you was looking for Richard?" Harold remembered what had brought her into his unit.

"Dumped me yeah, believe that?" Whitney yelled, face becoming splotchy with anger.

"Boy got to be a queer yeah," Harold declared.

"Well, it was very nice meeting you, Mr. Harold," Whitney said.

"Now why you got say that? Make me feel all old, that 'Mister Harold' stuff," Harold said, face twisted in distaste.

She laughed, a genuine laugh, gave him a wet kiss on his cheek and left his unit.

A few days after this visit, Harold was surprised when he heard a knock at his door. A quick check of the live feed showed Whitney was the one knocking so he quickly opened it.

"Hey, fixing go do another shoot, want come?" she cheerfully asked.

"You serious?" Harold asked, gawking.

She laughed and assured him that she was serious. He grabbed his keys and wallet, slid his feet into his shoes and followed her to her car.

"Thanks for coming in, Whitney, oh. This your dad?" Valerie Elswell, the Editor-In-Chief said when Whitney entered the lobby of the magazine, a gaping Harold Melancon in tow.

"No, just a friend," Whitney said.

"Well, hi, 'just a friend,' I'm..." Valerie smiled, extending her well-manicured hand to Harold.

"You the Anniversary girl!" Harold said excitedly, pumping Valerie's hand.

"I was the first cover girl and Bobby's made me the Anniversary model every year since," Valerie smiled, delighted at being recognized, and delighted with Harold's enthusiasm.

Harold was thrilled when Valerie reminded Whitney that for this shoot, she was to pretend to be a client at a hair salon, in for a shave. Valerie assured her that the well-endowed Latin girl actually was a hair stylist by trade. Therefore, the girl would know how to shave her and not nick her sensitive skin.

"Yeah, found her at T. Dayton's; you know they're closed on Mondays? I didn't. God, pissed me off went there last Monday to see if they'd take a walk-in," Valerie complained.

Harold was shown to a very comfortable chair and watched as Bobby Elswell, the Chief Operating Officer of the magazine set up the shoot with two assistants. In a corner of the room, a very attractive Latin girl was having make up applied, quite thickly to her face. A young woman tried three different hairstyles on the girl until Bobby decided on a loose, somewhat tousled look. The girl shrugged into a lab coat that just skimmed the bottom of her luscious buttocks.

In another corner, Whitney was having her face heavily made up, covering her acne scars. Her lips were painted a very bright red, then she was dressed in ridiculously short tennis skirt and top.

"All right, Whitney, you're returning home from a tennis lesson and see a new hair salon and decide to go in," Bobby directed.

Valerie sat at the reception desk, breasts ready to spill out of her tight top and pushup bra. Whitney leaned forward, her own breasts ready to burst from her tennis top. From where he was sitting, Harold could see the bottom of her tight buttocks peeking out of the too short skirt.

"And Valerie takes you over to Rita," Bobby instructed.

Whitney walked over to where a smiling 'Rita' waited, tanned legs sticking out of her too short white coat.

"And..." Bobby said as 'Rita' fastened a towel around Whitney's throat.

Rita's buttocks were very visible in the pose. The towel did not come below Whitney's breasts; Harold could see her thick brown pubic hair from his seat. He assumed that the girl that squatted down to snap off several shots also could see Whitney's pussy, Rita's buttocks.

Several times, Harold had to adjust his erection as Rita and Whitney posed this way and that way. Valerie looked over at him and smirked.

"Believe it or not," she whispered loudly. "See it every day? Get to where it doesn't even faze you."

Harold wanted to shrink into the seat, embarrassed at being caught with an erection. He also wanted to tuck the erection down again. But he was afraid to even chance it; his cock was twitching and jerking as he watched Rita using a straight razor on Whitney's crotch, shaving away Whitney's thicket of brown pubic hair

"Okay, receptionist, where are you?" Bobby called out. "You're supposed come over, see how cute Whitney's pussy looks and demand to have your own pussy shaved."

"Like that's ever going happen," Valerie laughed as she stepped onto the set. "Hate how it looks all bald."

"Uh huh, and..." Bobby smiled as Valerie stepped close, lifted the hem of her skirt and pointed to her neatly trimmed crop of brunette curls.

"Stick around, might need a few more," Bobby cautioned as the two photographers scurried out of the room.

"So? What you think?" a now nude Whitney asked, walking over to Harold.

"I think I'm in love with you yeah," Harold said, looking at her bald pussy.

"Aw, you so sweet!" she giggled and gave him a wet kiss on his cheek.

The staff did take a few more shots. Harold had been counting the number of clicks he'd heard as the two photographers scurried around, but had lost count at a hundred. By his best guess, they'd probably taken at least two hundred photographs each. He wondered how many shots erotic photographers had taken before the invention of the digital camera. How many shots when the film needed to be developed before it could even be viewed.

"Thanks again, Whitney," Valerie called out as she walked off the set.

"Remember, put baby oil on it," Rita or whatever the girl's real name was said to Whitney as she pulled on a tank top and shorts.

"I do that yeah!" Harold immediately volunteered.

"Got to feed me first," Whitney smiled as she dressed in her tank top and shorts.

"Okay," Harold readily agreed.

"So, where you taking me?" Whitney asked as she linked arms with Harold.

"Transferred, money's in your account," Valerie said as Whitney and Harold prepared to leave the building. "Bye, just a friend."

"Bye Anniversary Girl," Harold smiled.

"Don't try getting out of this; where you taking me?" Whitney playfully demanded as they stepped out into the brutal humidity.

"Anywhere you want go," Harold said.

"Even Side By Side?" Whitney asked.

"Even there," Harold agreed.

"Nah, its catfish day at Sweet Pea's; you like catfish?" Whitney asked.

"Man! What you think, huh?" Harold asked and got into her car.

"You got you any baby oil at your place?" Whitney asked as they plowed their way through a couple of plates of steaming hot fried catfish filets.

"Damn, no I don't," Harold admitted.

"Need get some," Whitney mused as she playfully snagged a hush puppy from his plate.

Again, she linked arms with him as they left the restaurant, even snuggling her head against his shoulder.

At Super One Foods grocery store, Harold lucked out when he assumed that the 'Health & Beauty Aids' aisle would have the baby oil. He picked up a small bottle of no-name baby oil, and turned to see Whitney grabbing a large bottle of name brand baby oil.

"Shut up you, don't matter how much it cost no," he demanded of himself.

"See? Got the pump handle right here?" she giggled as she showed him the pump spigot on the bottle.

"Then that what we getting," Harold agreed.

She had clutched onto his arm as they sauntered in. Harold was aware of what an odd couple they made; him an old, gray bearded bald headed man and her a young, overly endowed young woman. There was no mistaking their relationship; daughters did not clutch onto their father's arms in such a passionate fashion, did not rest their heads on their father's shoulders in such an intimate manner.

If Whitney realized what an odd couple they appeared to be, she didn't appear to care.

"Need you anything else we here?" he asked.

She decided she'd grab a pack of disposable razors and shave gel in a pink can.

"What you got snack on?" she asked.

"Nothing really, watching my weight," Harold admitted.

So she pulled him to the aisle where the cookies were. Then she dragged him to the aisle where the potato chips were. Then she made him buy her a two liter bottle of diet soda.

He wanted to point out, the calories in the chips and the calories in the cookies would make any calories she saved by drinking diet soda negligible. But again, he kept his mouth shut, just smiled as he gratefully dumped the armful of items onto the conveyor belt.

Richard and an odd-looking girl were arriving home when Whitney pulled up to the duplex. The girl was at least four inches taller than the five foot eight Richard, but probably weighed twenty to thirty pounds less than he. Her facial features were almost mannish as she and Richard regarded Harold and Whitney.

"Arnaud," Harold said politely as he unlocked his door.

"Loser," Whitney sneered.

"What? What you doing with..." Richard stuttered as Whitney and Harold entered 412B.

Harold closed the door, shutting out any further words from Richard.

"That her dad?" the girl asked in a voice that was deeper than his.

"Grandpa," Richard sneered.

Inside of the unit, Whitney ripped open the bag of chips.

"Make me a drink? Pretty please?" she begged, batting her eyelashes playfully.

"Absolutely," Harold smiled as she carried the bag of chips from kitchen to living room.

Harold took the two liter bottle of diet soda and poured a drink. When he entered the living room, he almost dropped the glass.

Whitney sat on his couch, shorts bunched up on the floor. Her thighs were spread wide and she gingerly touched her smooth crotch.

"She missed a couple of spots," Whitney complained. "You got that baby oil?"

"She missed a, let me see," Harold demanded and squatted on the floor between her splayed thighs.

Harold had once overheard Shirley telling a neighboring wife that he ate pussy better than her college girlfriend. Of course, whenever Harold asked her about her lesbian past, Shirley denied it.

Now, he ran his tongue up and down, bathing Whitney's pubic mound. There were indeed a few patches of stubble, a few patches that would need to be touched up.

"Oh!" Whitney moaned as Harold's thick tongue rasped across her sensitive skin.

Her pussy was a plumb one, with a deep cleft. Her purplish pink inner lips were forcing out of her tight cleft. His tongue coaxed them out a little further. He used his thumbs to open her a little more as he tasted her excitement.

"Oh, damn!" Whitney said, putting both drink and bag of chips on his coffee table.

She kicked her feet up onto the couch and tilted her crotch forward, to give him better access to her pussy. Harold continued to lick up and down her cleft, pausing every now and then to delve his tongue deeply within, tasting her musky essence.

Then he began to torment her clitoris. He flattened his tongue against her fat little nub, lapping slowly. Then he tickled it with the tip of his tongue. A quick suck, then he tickled it again.

"Shit, I'm about to," Whitney complained.

Harold backed off and trailed his tongue to that area between pussy and anus.

"Aw yeah," Whitney encouraged, tilting her pelvis forward more.

Harold tasted her anus, which produced a gasp from Whitney. Then he returned his attention to her clitoris.

When she was once again close to orgasm, Harold again teased her perineum and anus.

"You better let me, yeah," Whitney growled when he returned his attention to her clitoris again.

This time he did lick her to orgasm, driving two fingers deep into her pussy, seeking out her G Spot.

"Fuck!" Whitney cried out in orgasm.

She pulled her tank top and bra off and now sat on his leather couch, nude. Harold got onto his knees and began to make oral love to her large breasts.

"Get them clothes off yeah," Whitney ordered, gripping his head to her breast.

Harold did as well as he could while trying to maintain contact with her large breasts.

Finally, he had to pull his mouth and hands away from her magnificent chest and pull his shirt off.

"Damn! That's a nice, that ain't bad!" Whitney praised, looking at his seven inch cock.

It was seven inches long, and fairly thick. His scrotum was a large bag of flesh, holding to large egg shaped testicles. When he'd worked off-shore, he was never afraid to go into the showers, never afraid of being mocked.

"Bedroom's better," Harold said.

"Lead on," Whitney demanded.

Harold grabbed her hand and began to pull her toward his bedroom. She clutched his arm in her two arms, a loving embrace as she followed him.