Ravishing Riverdale Pt. 1

It was the dry season in Hollywood, so to speak—no pilots being made, the big productions all already cast. I was still what you might call a struggling actor, but I've booked enough commercial roles and bit parts in the past month that I didn't feel the need to hustle for nothing parts when nothing was even available. So I took advantage of a Groupon deal and found myself in a sunny resort on the California beach, San Quinby.

Unfortunately, you get what you pay for. The beaches were crowded, so I made do—lying by the pool, working on my tan, and enjoying the fresh air, the clear skies, and the warm sun.

I was half-asleep when a shadow fell across my face, waking me. I sat up, certain someone was trying to attract my attention, and was so befuddled I felt a momentary spring of panic at being unclothed. I was wearing, at the moment, a loose pair of swim trunks and some tanning oil. They were baggy on me; it'd be a few years since I'd gone swimming (where does the time go?) and I'd lost some weight since then.

Still, they were enough to preserve my modesty, which I realized as I took off my sunglasses and saw who was providing the shade.

"Oh my God... Camila? Camila Mendes?"

"Harry Cranz!" she replied happily, taking off her own shades.

Camila looked great. The last time I'd seen her had been a year ago. We'd been doing a chemistry read together, me for one of those parts that came so close you could taste it. We'd hit it off, and both expressed surprise that the producers decided to go another way for the young lovers in their project. In fact, we got along so well that we set a date to get drinks later that week. However, Camila had managed to score another role. She'd begged off, asking for a rain check, which I graciously gave, and the whole thing just never rematerialized. I hadn't pursued it, not wanting to seem desperate.

Seeing Camila in a bikini, I was not at all sure of my decision making. She was twisting on her heels, showing herself off a little—her dark one-piece swimsuit went well with her black hair. It was also low-cut on her chest and angled high on her buttocks, showing off the roundness of her curves to almost the dead center of her back. The front of the suit filled out rather nicely as well.

But more than her body, Camila had a poise and exotic sultriness that gave her cheerfulness a dark sheen. I recalled that in the roles we'd read for, she'd been some sort of cute goth girl, and even without a pro make-up team for the audition, she'll pulled the role off very well. Idiots, those Hollywood types. Total idiots.

"What are you doing here?" I asked her. "I had it on very good authority that this place was a dive."

"Oh, I'm slumming. The show—" (Like most Hollywood actresses, Camila assumed everyone she met had intimate knowledge of just what her projects were and how they were doing. She was right, in this case, but still—it stung a bit.) "Is doing some dumb arc all about the boys and I'm fucking kidnapped or whatever. Plus, we're on hiatus, so I can either do a bunch of bullshit photo ops or take a break."

She perched herself on the lowest part of my lounge chair. I'd drawn up my legs when I sat up to greet her, unintentionally making room for her. I can't say I minded sharing a seat with her, though I could think of better seating arrangements nonetheless.

"Still, I find it hard to believe this is the best you can afford," I said, indicating the rather pallid poolside. It wasn't exactly tacky, but if anyone looked like she belonged in an Olympic sized swimming pool with ivory tiles and water clearer than a dove's tears...

She shrugged haplessly. The tightly clinging swimsuit made it a very interesting motion—she'd been in the water recently. Hated to have missed that... "Waste not, want not. A vacay's a vacay. Besides, it's not like the CW pays us ER money, OK?"

"A-OK," I replied. "So how've you been?"

She reached out to punch my shoulder. "Wondering why you never called, numbnuts."

"I sent a text," I said defensively.

"One text? Three or four at least, to let me know you're serious. Don't you know anything about dating?"

"Well, I know a little about stalking, and—"

I broke off. Before I moved to L.A., I'd worked as a lifeguard—yes, really—and I'd picked up a bit of a sixth sense for a person drowning. It wasn't like you see in the movies, with the person gurgling and waving their arms around and splashing. You wouldn't really need lifeguards if it was that easy to spot. No, the instinctive drowning response—real lizard brain stuff—is someone vertical in the water, flapping their arms to press down on the surface of the water and leverage their head up. That's what I saw someone doing in the pool, out of the corner of my eye.

"Hey!" I called out to her. "You okay?"

No response, though Camila turned to follow my gaze. I could see the woman in the water was bobbing up and down, not kicking at all, and I was sure it was trouble.

I would like to describe the rescue in detail, but it was all over in a blur. I'd dove into the water, swum through the mild crowd, come to the woman as she slipped under the surface, and the next thing I knew, I was pulling her out onto dry land. I checked to see if she needed CPR, but with her head above water, she was already sputtering and coughing back to a regular breathing pattern. She was a redhead, and a rather cute one, not that it mattered much when she most closely resembled a drowned rat. I held her hair out of her face and rubbed circles in her back, making sure she'd disgorged whatever water she'd taken in. I could hear a smatter of applause around, but it died quick, like a game bird being shot down in a duck hunt.

"You okay?" I asked her, ignoring the gathering crowd.

"Yeah," she said, her voice still a little fraught. She brushed my hand away—slowly, with quite a bit of gratitude I thought—and fixed her hair by running her hands through it. She looked me over. "Thanks, I thought I was done for. I didn't expect such a big... a big..."

"It was nothing," I replied to her wide-eyed stare. It usually take a while for it to hit people that they've almost died.

"No, it's... a lot..." she said, managing to sound vague and certain at the same time. She was looking very fixedly at my face, but every so often her eyes would drift downward.

"Harry! Harry!" Camila hissed quietly from nearby. I turned to look at her, surprised she would be so jealous over me being a good Samaritan—although I supposed that was a good sign—and saw that she was pointing frantically to the pool.

I turned, wondering if some other poor soul was drowning, when I noticed that someone had lose their trunks. An empty pair was floating on the surface of the water. Green, with one of the drawstrings stained blue, just like—

Yeah.

I accepted a towel from Camila. No wonder the crowd'd had no idea what to make of this. I'd managed to turn a rescue into a peepshow.

Maybe I should've tried auditioning for that Baywatch reboot.

***

Thankfully, people seemed to get that I wasn't just some flasher doing his good deed for the day—maybe just a very good-natured streaker, or a nudist with nobility. I let the whole thing get swept under the rug, mostly sorry that it'd made things unspeakably awkward with Camila. My day didn't improve from there. Apparently, at some point in the day a few rooms had been burglarized, and the police wanted to talk to everyone at the resort. No doubt due to my exhibition, I got questioned quite a bit before being sent on my way. Trudging back to my room, I just wanted to call it a night.

The night had other plans for me.

Madelaine Petsch was waiting at my door when I got back. She was the redhead I'd rescued and, err, also exposed myself to (along with half the resort). She looked a lot better with nothing but air in her lungs. She had a poised, stately height that was every bit as attractive as Camila's, but with an eclectic aura to her. It was friendly, just a little off, and the perv in me thought of it was kinky. I could just imagine her reserved-but-genital exterior concealing the occasional depravity, though I tried to squelch the thought.

"Madelaine," I said, nervously cycling my room key in my hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I just thought I owned you a personal thank you. And a private one." She smiled—again, a little oddly. "One wearing clothes."

"Yeah... today wasn't the best circumstances for expressing heartfelt gratitude."

"Well, the day isn't over yet." Above her lopsided grin, her sparkling eyes took me in. I felt ever so slightly eviscerated. Certain women can do that and make you not mind. "Can I come in?"

"Certainly," I said, swiping my key in the reader. The door buzzed open and I stepped inside, getting the door for Madelaine. She nodded thankfully to me as she swept inside.

She was wearing quite a bit more than the scanty two-piece she'd had on at the pool, and to her credit, it was almost an improvement. Her pencil skirt was impeccably fashionable and her blouse looked fine enough to be worth a year of my salary and tight enough to earn it.

Somewhat unnecessarily, I gestured her to the room's breakfast nook—the only real hosting area in the apartment. It was probably the same as in her room, and I couldn't imagine I was much better stocked, but nonetheless I went to the pantry.

"Anything I can get for you?" I asked her. "Coffee? Bottled water? Freshish fruit?" The maid had brought a bowl by this morning. Like I said, not a tacky place.

"That's not what I want from you," she said, crossing her legs. Either the skirt was really short or she just had a lot of leg. Six of one...

"Oh?" I replied, hoping to dazzle her with my razor wit.

"You've heard about the break-in?" she asked me.

"Of course," I said.

She tapped her long manicured fingernails on the tabletop. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you how frightening hearing about such a thing can be to a young woman on her own. The thought of some... criminal breaking into my room while I was in it, sleeping, or even in the nude." She sounded flustered. "I can barely even think about it."

"I'm sure that won't happen," I assured her. "The police will probably have more patrol cars in the area, and I'm sure the hotel has called in more security..."

"Yes, yes, I know, I'm sure you're right," she said, palms pressed flat on the table. "Could you please come here? I feel ridiculously calling to you across the room."

"Sure," I said, and settled on a carton of orange juice and two glasses in case she wanted a drink. I sat down across from her at the nook and was still a little surprised when she grabbed hold of my hand before I could pour.

Her voice lowered huskily. "I really have no right to impose, but you've saved me once before—do you think there's any chance I could stay with you tonight?"

"Me?" I asked, trying the razor wit thing again.

"I know, it's silly, but I would feel so much safer with a man around—one I knew I could trust. You probably feel I'm quite retrograde."

"Not at all," I said. "A little old-fashioned, maybe, but the bed is yours if you want it."

"Oh, I do," she said, giving my hand a squeeze. "I do want it."

"I'll sleep on the couch, of course." She opened her mouth, but I raised a hand to cut her off. "It's no trouble. That thing is comfortable, and I can sleep anywhere."

"I know the feeling," she said, grinning at me. And, like the laugh track after a punchline, there was a knock at the door.

"Excuse me," I said, getting up from the table.

She held onto my hand, favoring me with a pout before she let it go. "Hurry back. I don't like to be kept waiting."

I went to get the door, expecting maybe a maid or something, and was surprised when I opened it to find Camila standing there. She was wearing a dark sailor dress with white piping, adorable enough to, again, almost be an improvement on the swimsuit. It showed almost as much thigh. She'd even added a jaunty little beret to the ensemble, although the effect was somewhat lost to the pinched expression on her face, her arms uneasily crossed in front of her.

"Camila," I said, picking up immediately that she was in a bad way. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not exactly," she said. She looked around the hotel hallway, and I took it from the slight stabilization of her angst that there was no one around to see her. "You hear about the break-in?"

"Seems to be tonight's main discussion," I said.

"Yeah, well—something like that happens, you start thinking. What if someone broke into your apartment while you were alone in it? What if you were sleeping?"

"What if you were naked?" I added, unhelpfully.

She looked at me askew. "How much time do you think I spend naked in my apartment?"

"Well, you are on vacation."

"Look, this is a little embarrassing—I know we're not that close, but I could really use a friend, or at least strength in numbers. How about it? I stay the night and if anyone breaks in, we double-team him."

"Sounds fine," I said, and she broke into a brilliant smile like I'd just gotten her exactly what she'd wanted for Christmas. I found myself smiling back on sheer inertia of her happiness.

"Harry," Madelaine called from inside. "Who is it?"

I came back in, ushering Camila along with me. "It's just Camila. She wants to stay over too."

"She... does?" Madelaine asked, sounding as if a magic spell she'd cast hadn't worked or something.

Coming inside, Camila seemed similarly transfixed to find Madelaine sitting at my breakfast nook.

"Yeah. Don't you two work together?"

"Not," Madelaine drawled, "closely together."

"We splurged on two rooms when we came up here," Camila said. "In case we wanted a little privacy."

She seemed to be pointedly emphasizing that word to Madelaine, though I figured it was none of my business. Chicks, man.

"It's no trouble," I said. "You two can share the bed, I'll stay on the couch."

Camila and Madelaine stared at each other uneasily. I guess they had some personal issues—what co-stars don't?—but they ended up being able to put them aside. After all, where else were they going to sleep?

***

When I finally managed to sleep... the couch wasn't as comfortable as I'd made it out to be... I had a dream that was startlingly real. After the day's events, it was no surprise that Camila was there. She and I were in a huge meadow that stretched out of sight beyond a hilly horizon. The tall green grass rippled in a gentle breeze that bathed our naked bodies like the tide on a calm day. Her movements were slow and deliberate, like a ballet, and it focused all my attention on her lips, a writhing oval of invitation. I kissed them and her tongue eased out to meet mine. Then she was sinking to her knees, her snaking tongue flicking down the front of my body until she reached my manhood. I felt surprising heat and pressure on my glans from her pliant tongue, and I took hold of her head to slip myself into her mouth. I pressed into that flexing embrace, closing my eyes and pleasure, but when I opened them, she was standing beside me, her mouth a marvelously tight cunt around my cock. It was sucking and hungry, sending delightful stabs of pleasure all through me. I fucked into it happily, not caring if it was mouth or sex as long as it was her.

On that thought, I swam up through layers of sleep. The lustful pleasure wrenched at me heatedly, more physical than physical, a feeling groping through my numbed brain. My eyes opened, blinking in the slanting rays of moonlight that came in through the Venetian blinds with painful brilliance. The whole room was silver except for the safe little patch of shadows behind the couch I was sleeping on.

Madelaine was on her belly between my legs, one hand gripping the base of my swollen cock, the other groping my balls. Her passionately disheveled hair fell over one of her eyes, making her look like a real-life Jessica Rabbit as she bent over my manhood, her lips stretched to cover my pounding cockhead.

If the sight of her was something, the feeling was beyond description. Her tongue was curling and sliding over my cock with undeniable hunger, laving along my shaft like every stroke of her tongue was a new chance to show me how much she wanted it. Her fingers tightened on my member, almost hard enough to hurt, then they jerked on me slowly but intently, her hand working its way up until she had to move her face out of the way to let her fingers jerk a bead of precum out of me. Then her lips eased downward just enough to press a sultry kiss against the slitted tip of my prick, which was somehow sexier than all the suckling and licking. With my precum between her lips, she pulled back to tease my glans with a rapid fluttering of her tongue. I trembled in helpless response.

"You!" I gasped breathlessly, caught between total uncertainty over how good an idea this was and the obvious counterpoint of how good it felt. I could stop her before she drew me past the point of no return, or I could let her finish the job, and twelve inches of me had already put in their vote. "You really have a way of waking a guy."

She released my cock, rubbing her chin against the tip as she gave me a wet grin. She looked like she was about to take a selfie with my damn Johnson. "I just realized I forgot to thank you for saving my life," she whispered. "I want you to know I am very, very grateful."

"I can see that!" I groaned. Another drop of precum was squeezed upward with the pressure of her warm fingers. Her hungry gaze upon it was almost better than how she'd lapped up the last one.

"And I am very, very welcome..." She stared at my cock again, like it had her hypnotized. "I should've sucked this the first time I saw it. At the pool... in front of everyone... like it was fated..."

Her lips embraced me again, more forcefully, sliding down until they melded with the grip of her clutching fingers to create one unbreakable hold on my quivering prick. She sucked with instinctive skill, gulping me down until she kissed my groin with a throb of pleasure that spread down to my heated balls. It was like she was in a make-out session with my crotch and she wasn't worried about leaving hickeys.

I couldn't resist any longer. I was already almost gone from the little wet dream she'd given me. I exploded, the blast arching my waist, sending my hips upward in helpless trembling. My seed forced its way through my towering cock, aimed right at Madelaine.

With lightning reflexes, she yanked her mouth away. The first spurt splattered against her full lips and grinning teeth. It was spreading and trickling in the bare moment she luxuriated in her enjoyment of getting a facial.

Then she made a nasal whimper of surrender and went down on me again, gurgling with happiness, wrapping her creamy lips around my jetting cock and sucking with long hard pulls I could barely endure. My load was virtually slurped into her sliding mouth. She swallowed, gulping down my semen with a chaser of her own saliva—I could see more on her chin, gleaming alongside the cum. She moaned her compliments to the chef.

I wanted to ram myself down her convulsing throat, to spend the last trickling moments of my orgasm in victory over that cunning mouth. But instead I let her milk my cock with her sucking lips and massaging tongue, easing my cum out of me with satisfied moans and undignified slurping.

Some of my sperm had escaped her lips, ending up on the sides of my shaft and coating her slender fingers. The aftershow was Madelaine's tongue vacuuming up all traces of it, licking sensuously and hungrily over her fingers and my manhood as if she found both equally erotic. Rubbing her saliva-slick palms over her cum-streaked face, she dropped down to mouth my testicles, curving her tongue under my balls in gentle sweeps. I wondered if she was checking for more.