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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
WATERMELON MOON
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Chapter One
It was 1:00 in the morning, but Willette didn't care. She pumped the
horn of her car, creating a bleating noise that reverberated through the
neighborhood. The car's horn would have been annoying enough on any
street lined with homes, but this neighborhood consisted of closely packed
apartment buildings which lined an alley like so many sardine cans
waiting for cats to pry them open.
A figure opened the blind of his window. He peered out at the
silver-grey sports car with the well endowed horn. As the man stared
Willette defiantly gave several more bleats with her horn. This was, after
all, Friday night or, technically speaking, Saturday morning. Who was this
man to be holed up in his apartment on Party Night anyway?
Willette jumped out of her car and ran up to the bank of apartments.
If she couldn't get her guests to come to her, she would, after all, have to
go to them. Impatiently she rang the doorbell of her friends' apartment.
Finally the two young boys tumbled out, and Willette directed them to the
back seat of her car. As she slipped back into the drivers' seat of her
sports car she saw that the man was still staring out his window. Still
staring, when her horn hadn't gone off now for several minutes? For a
moment she sat staring back at the man, while her two boyfriends in back
busied themselves unwrapping joints. This man may have opened his blind
in anger at the horn, but now his anger wasn't motivated anymore by the
noise. It was motivated by loneliness. He really had no interest in being
in his apartment at all. He wanted to be in the car with the loud horn.
With the girl who was making the noise with the loud horn.
Willette stuck her hand out the window of her car and, with a smirk,
waved at the man. She hit the accelerator on her car. With a loud squeal
of her tires she sped off, leaving the lonely man behind to while away
Friday night in his little apartment. "Goodbye, lonely man," Willette
called.
"Suck on this stuff, it's great!" Peter crowed, passing a lit joint up
between the seats to Willette. Lola, Willette's best friend, who occupied
the seat beside her, was already enjoying the controversial benefits of
hashish.
"I want some Scotch," Lola whined, even as she took a drag on a
marijuana cigarette. "John, did you bring some Johnnie Walker?"
"Too expensive," John replied, sharing a toke with Peter in the back
seat. "Got some Bud, though."
"Plebeian bullshit," Willette scoffed. Tentatively she inhaled on
Peter's homemade cigarette. At least he had finally learned to roll the
paper right. But the sweet smell of the hash made her sick enough without
having to inhale it directly. She passed the weed cigarette on to Lola, who
took it greedily, adding it to the one already in her mouth. Then Willette
rolled down her window.
The party proved to be less than Willette had hoped for. The football
players were big enough, and eager to show off those large parts of their
bodies that they were unable to show on the playing field. But Willette
wanted something more. Perhaps it was only because Lola surrendered
herself so quickly to the jocks. Willette found herself minding Peter and
John, while Lola, who was supposed to be John's girlfriend, retreated to an
empty upstairs bedroom with three of the football players. John, who did
not share Willette's contempt for Budweiser beer, seemed too drunk to
notice.
"Hey, let's ride that new motorcycle of yours, Biff!" John suggested
jubilantly. His speech slurred with every syllable.
Biff lifted his head and shook off his drunken stupor just well
enough to reply, "Sounds great! Hit the road!" He surveyed the roomful of
high school seniors. "Which of you girls wants to come with us?" A girl
no less drunk than Biff and John agreed to accompany whichever of them
rode first.
"You're too drunk to go cruising," Willette hissed at John.
"Aw, no way I'll get caught driving drunk," John snapped. "I can just
outrun those fucking cops if they come after me. I didn't do dirtbiking for
five years for nothing."
Willette grabbed John's arm. "John! I'm not worried about your
getting a damn ticket. I'm worried about you not coming back!"
"Hey, man, don't razz John!" Biff called out to Willette. "If he wants
to join the cast of Night of the Living Dead, more power to him!"
"You don't even care if he wrecks your motorcycle?" Willette cried.
Biff laughed hysterically, drunkenly. "Night of the Living Dead is a
good cause."
"And you're both dead...dead drunk!" Willette cried. She stormed
from the room to a titter of laughs.
Willette found herself cruising the streets in her little silver sports
car. Now she was alone...just like the man in his little apartment. A
patter of rain began to fall lightly on her windshield. Would John kill
himself? Would Biff? Would Lola kill herself getting gang banged by
three football players? Willette wondered if she cared anymore. She was
18 now. The Senior Prom was approaching, but after two Junior Proms as
a freshman and and sophomore and a Senior Prom as a junior, she was
beginning not to care. It would be the same top ten list she'd been hearing
all spring, the same slow songs that the boys considered a license to
molest her, the same dumb speeches by the coach and the principal and, as
always, the lecture on showing their school spirit by not leaving a mess in
the cafeteria at the end of the night.
Willette dreamed of college. Of holing up in the library with
gourmet popcorn and bottled European water. Of parties with real men,
not little boys flush with testosterone trying to pass themselves off as
men. And Willette dreamed of law school. Now there was a profession
worth pursuing! No glass ceiling there! She could argue with the senior
partner in a law firm if he didn't promote her to the top. And if he still
didn't, well, by then her reputation would be so great that she could just
set up a law firm on her own. She wouldn't even have to go solo. Freshly
minted young law grads would flock to work for the law firm of Great
Attorney Willette Means.
Willette sidled up to a nightclub. It was growing late, 3:30 in the
morning, but she knew she'd hate herself if she let the night pass away
without any fun. Willette parked and sauntered up to the club door.
Predictably, the bouncer let her in without paying. Her great looks almost
always got her past the front door without a fee. Did the silly hunk who
manned the door think by letting her in without paying the $4.00 tab he
could get some sex off her? He looked like he did. Absolve Willette of a
$4.00 debt and get $200.00 worth of sex in return. Not a bad bargain, if
Willette was stupid enough to fall for it. But she snubbed the bouncer's
eager looks and continued on her way into the smoke filled recesses of the
club.
Willette found a round stool near the back of the club and daintily
seated herself. She knew she wouldn't be alone for long. Sure enough,
soon a young man with oversized biceps came up to her and attempted to
make small talk. Apparently he was of the mind that he deserved a
beautiful girl like Willette. She disabused him of his notion. Then, a
minute after the first boy had scurried away with his tail between his
legs, a second boy showed up. Willette dismissed him as easily as she had
the first. The boy hurried back to the comforting sanctuary of his friends.
"Maybe she charges," the boy suggested. Willette frowned. It was
one thing for a boy to make light of his loss, another to accuse her of
being a whore. She decided to make use of the third applicant when he
arrived.
As luck would have it, the third male to approach Willette's
makeshift throne looked like he had missed the boat on evolution. He was
fairly short, but with big, heavy shoulders that looked like they could have
lifted the roof of the dance hall off Willette if an earthquake struck. He
had a low, sloping forehead and a prematurely receding hairline. But he
would be great for taking out the boy who had called her a prostitute.
After several slow dances, in which Cro-Magnon man turned out to
be a perfect gentleman, Willette complained that a boy was teasing her
behind her back. Cro-Magnon man welled up with chivalrous intent. Was
his Queen being insulted? Cro-Magnon man would put things right!
Willette pointed out the boy in question and Cro-Magnon man waddled over
to where the boy was dallying with his friends.
Willette stayed just long enough to see the fight. "Whore boy," as
she thought of him, was unlucky enough to have his back turned when Cro-
Magnon came up to him. When Whore boy responded to a tap on his shoulder
he got decked in the face. Naturally, his friends jumped to his rescue, and
Cro-Magnon was quickly wrestled to the ground. Last Willette saw Cro-
Magnon was receiving a series of brutal kicks to his body as he lay
writhing on the danceroom floor.
The rain was heavy now, and Willette had to run to reach her sports
car without getting too wet. At least no policeman had stopped to ticket
her for parking in the handicapped stall. She hopped into her little grey
sportscar and cut the engine to life. She flicked on the wipers. She
headed for the road.
"...a rather cruel, headstrong young girl," Willette found herself
reading two days later in the high school library. English Literature was
one of her favorite classes, even if it did sometimes provide disturbing
summations of her own personality. Well, if Willette ever wanted to be a
District Attorney she had to learn to be even tougher than she was now.
She had to learn how not to just manipulate one stupid low-browed boy,
she had to learn how to manipulate an entire jury. She intended to have
the highest conviction rate of any prosecutor the world had ever seen. And
then, when she retired from that and inevitably turned to criminal
defense, she intended to have the highest rate of acquittals.
Willette's mind drifted back to the man in the apartment. Now there
was a true loser. Probably some nice, humble guy who had long since given
up on women or career advancement. He would just plod through life doing
what he was told, getting his little paycheck, and then he would die.
Perhaps if he were lucky he would find a divorcee with three children who
needed a man with a steady income. Willette laughed. That woman might
be her, in another 20 years.
The following Friday night Willette found herself once more in front
of Peter and John's apartment. This time, though, it was only midnight.
Would the lonely man come to his window again if she blew her horn? He
should know that Peter and John had just moved into their new apartment
on what she thought of as Sardine Row, and unless she found something
better she'd be blaring her horn outside their door every Friday night from
now on. In fact, if Willette was especially unlucky in her search for a
better senior year spring, she might well be outside Peter and John's on
more nights of the week than just Friday.
"Beep! Beeeep!" Willette began pressing on her horn. Lola, sitting
beside her, was already giggling. "Beeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeep!" Surely that
would bring the man! And it did. The blind didn't just open this time, it
went straight up. And there stood the dark male figure again. This time
his arms were crossed. And this time Willette had a little surprise for
him.
Willette flicked on her headlights. She had angled her car so they
would shine right into the man's window. Suddenly his anonymity was
stripped from him. Surprisingly, he turned out to be younger than Willette
had imagined. No more than 30. He was only of a medium build, about
5'11", and his face was not unhandsome. But his eyes returned a glare that
was ten times brighter than the glare of Willette's headlights. Yet, at the
same time, he looked sad.
Willette began tittering to herself as Lola broke into guffaws. The
man couldn't see them this time, thanks to the headlights in his eyes! But
they could see him very well. They could sit and judge, he could only stand
there, stolidly staring back at their lights.
Peter and John skittered out of their apartment and dashed to the
car. As usual, John had a small brown paper bag which Willette knew was
stuffed with as much hash as John had been able to earn money for that
week with his job at McDonald's. Peter carried the Bud. Lola opened her
car door and John rudely pushed her seat forward and climbed in behind
her. Was he trying to exact a little revenge for her fling with the football
players? Peter hopped in behind John and Willette hit the gas. Again she
waved at the lonely man in the window as she broke for the street.
No prearranged party was to be had this week, and the girls and John
and Peter sped off to a nearby nightclub. After a few too many drinks
Willette found herself being persuaded to go backstage and offer herself
as a dancer. The prize was a case of Bud, and John and Peter were quite
eager to save their money by having Willette win the Bud for them by
dancing on the club's stage.
Willette unwrapped her leather vest, giving the club's owner a better
look at her ample cleavage. The man smiled, obviously quite pleased at
what he was seeing. His pencil thin mustache twitched spasmodically.
"Nice, nice," the owner breathed in a reedy voice that exuded
cigarette smoke with his every word. "If you dance well you may very
well win the prize. And don't forget, that will qualify you to compete for
an even bigger prize."
"Don't tell me. The couch in your office," Willette snapped. She
unzipped her lambskin skirt as she spoke.
"That we can do right now, without the dancing, if you're interested,"
the owner rasped. His eyes glowed bright, competing with the tip of his
stubby cigar.
"I'm just in it for the beer for my friends," Willette answered. She
kicked her dress off her spiked heels. In fact, Willette was in it for
herself. She had ended last Friday miserably, alone and wondering if she
should go knock on the door of the lonely man in the apartment building.
Tonight she would have fun. She would strut herself before the randy boys
in this club and know when she went to bed that they were all at home
masturbating over her performance.
Willette sashayed out onto the club's stage with a bevy of other
girls. Relieving herself of her vest and skirt had left her with only a thin
white T-shirt and matching white cotton panties. And, of course, her
steepled heels. The other girls were dressed the same. Those who had
arrived at the club without the requisite attire for the contest had been
given T-shirts or panties. Willette never went anywhere without her
panties on, even though many other girls as pretty as she did. But she did
like to wear T-shirts without bras underneath, plus an expensive vest or
sweater.
A young man with an obvious bulge in his crotch came out from the
far side of the stage carrying an iced tub full of champagne bottles. Loud
rock music began to blare from an overhead speaker, and Willette and the
other girls began to sway their hips. The men in the crowd roared with
approval.
As the dancing progressed Willette and the other girls broke into a
mild sweat. Gyrating under hot stage lights before a host of randy young
men certainly was the perfect test for Secret deodorant. When it was
obvious that the girls were in heat, or sweating, the first of the iced
bottles of champagne was passed down the dance line.
When each girl had a bottle the boy with the bulge in his pants began
walking down the line of girls, popping the cork from each of the girl's
bottles in turn. As champagne began to spout from each of the girl's
bottles, she directed the stream at the body of the girl next to her.
Willette danced happily as the girl next to her suddenly hit her
breasts with spurting champagne. Without missing a step, Willette
squealed and looked down at her cleavage to watch as her rosy red areolas
came into view beneath her shirt. A moment later and the girl next to her
redirected the flow of champagne so that it hit Willette square on her
pubis. The front of her panties wettened and her matted blonde curls
began to show through. Suddenly Willette spun on her heels and stuck out
her bottom. The last of the champagne hit her right on her rump,
delineating for all to see the seductive crevice of her bottom.
Then it was Willette's turn, as the boy with the bulge passed her a
champagne bottle of her own. The boy uncorked the bottle and Willette
turned to the girl to her right, who was still dry. A moment later Willette
was wetting down the poor girl's jiggly breasts. As Willette then dropped
the stream of champagne down the girl's tummy, she suddenly pulled open
the front of her panties.
"Fill me up!" the girl suffering under Willette's stream of champagne
cried. Willette directed her steam into the girl's opened drawers and
watched in fascination as the champagne bubbled up in a pool inside the
undies to spill out the top of the girl's waistband and fall to the floor.
Willette became so enamored of filling up the front of the girl's
panties before her that she never got around to wetting down the girl's
rear end. But the girl, when she obtained a champagne bottle of her own,
found to her delight that the dry dancer to her right was already standing
with her bottom thrust out, and her panties' waistband flipped down in
back to present a bare bottom for attack. The girl with the eager bottom,
as it turned out, never got her breasts wetted down. Later she rubbed her
breasts against the girl beside her to attempt to wet her breasts with the
dampness of the other girl's shirt.
When the last girl in the lineup received a bottle, she ran to the girl
at the other end of the line and sprayed her with champagne. Willette
couldn't help thinking how much the spurting champagne resembled semen.
Perhaps that was the real reason the men in the audience were howling so
lustily. The champagne was an erotic substitute for what was even now
roiling in their balls.
As the sun broke over the horizon Willette found herself standing
outside Peter's apartment door, being kissed goodnight. His hand wormed
its way down the front of her champagne soaked panties. She caught his
arm and held him there, permitting him to feel her damp bush, but
preventing him from reaching his true goal, her labia lips. After a moment
she broke their kiss.
"That's enough," Willette breathed.
"You're no fun," Peter said unhappily. "You're just a tease."
"You'll get to screw me when I decide, young man, and not before,"
Willette said, putting a finger to the tip of Peter's nose. In her heart she
knew she would never allow Peter to lay her. He was O.K. for keeping her
looking cool in front of her friends, but didn't feel any particular need for
his...ah...peter.
Suddenly the apartment door of the lonely man swung open. Without
appearing to see them, but with a face so sad Willette knew he did, the
man strode past with a sackful of garbage. Peter drew Willette close and
embraced her in yet another kiss, his hands wandering this time to her
bottom, as the lonely man threw his garbage into the apartment block's
dumpster. This time Willette let the kiss last. She enjoyed teasing the
lonely man as he walked past her once more, back to his apartment. Only
when she heard his front door slam shut did she break her embrace with
Peter.
"Goodnight," Willette cooed to Peter.
"What's left of it," Peter groused. He looked drunk and sleepy.
Willette skipped back to her silver sports car, eager to be away before
anyone else stepped out of their apartment to see her in only her T-shirt
and panties. She might have worn her vest and lambskin skirt, but she
didn't want them smelling of champagne. She hopped into her car, glanced
back at her skirt and vest on the back seat, as if to reassure herself that
they were still there if she really needed them, and then sped off.
The following week Willette was once more bumping into disturbing
literary descriptions of herself. Her high school's version of gourmet
popcorn, which she had managed to smuggle into the library, only partially
relieved her mental discomfort. Was she really like the heroine of this
book she had been assigned? Did she really care only for herself and her
own advancement? And what would happen to this girl in the story if she
continued on with her selfish ways?
Suddenly a burst of gunfire tore through the still library air.
Willette nearly jumped high enough to bump her head against the ceiling.
More gunfire, then screams. Then incoherent yelling. Willette scrambled
underneath the desk of a carrel.
The gunfire continued intermittently, accompanied by cries of pain.
Willette also heard a strange knocking sound, as of something being
repeatedly banged against something else. The gunfire and knocking drew
nearer. Suddenly Willette saw a pair of grimy combat boots beneath her
carrel. And then a hand reached down. Willette cringed, but the hand
caught her by her long hair. For once she wished she were a brunette.
Gentlemen preferred blondes, and, yes! Killers preferred blondes too!
Willette found herself on her knees before a very disturbed looking
young man. His face glared at her, with wild eyes of brilliant blue that
seemed never to be able to behold her for more than a second at a time. In
one hand he held an assault rifle, in the other a pair of wooden castanets.
With nervous twitches his hand holding the castanets rose and fell. The
castanets bumped loudly together with each flick of his wrist.
"You're just what I'm looking for," the boy said with a growl. He
pulled Willette's hair upward and, to keep him from pulling it out, she rose
to her feet. The boy put his arm securely around Willette's slim shoulders.
They were bare and a golden brown from the sun. Willette wished she
hadn't worn such a sexy peasant top. With his other hand the boy stroked
her bare, flat belly.
Willette's reverie of fear was interrupted by the sound of wailing
police cars pulling up outside the school library. The disturbed boy turned
and dragged Willette with him toward a row of shelving units. His
castanets lay easily now over the barrel of his assault rifle. With each
step he took they banged loudly together.
Would this be where Willette died? Here, of all places, in her high
school library? Her eyes lighted on her bag of popcorn lying on the desk of
the carrel. Would her obituary add that she had been eating popcorn
illegally in the library?
The boy positioned himself in between two tall bookshelves, with
Willette in front of him, firmly in his grip. He levelled his gun at her head
and held it there. Eventually the castanets hanging from his gun barrel
stopped clacking together. Willette felt an ominous dread grow within her
from the silence of the castanets. However nervous the boy might have
seemed, the castanets were a sure sign that his precarious future did not
trouble him in the least. Surely the hands of anyone else holding a hostage
at gunpoint would tremble. But not this boy. If he chose to pull the
trigger of his gun, the bullet would not miss.
Everything was quite still now. Even the low moan of pain from the
boy's less fortunate victims had ceased. The air itself in the library
seemed to come to rest. The place had always been dead, but now it was
as dead as a...graveyard.
Willette heard the front door of the library open. "I'm not going to
hurt you," Willette heard a confident voice call from below. It was a
policeman! Willette couldn't see the man, of course, but who else would
open the front door of the library and walk in? Footsteps fell one after
another as the man below paced about the lower floor. Victims, sensing
the possibility of relief from their pain, groaned to him. Then Willette
heard the man coming up the library's stairs.
The lone figure cleared the top of the stairs. He stared directly into
the eyes of the killer. Unafraid, yet inoffensive at the same time. He was
unarmed. He was about 5'11". He had a sad face. Willette gasped.
"What's the problem? Can't get a date?" the plainclothes policeman
asked the killer at Willette's back. "We all have that problem sometimes."
The lonely man smiled. A tepid smile, a forced smile, almost as if it were
something he never did.
"You got no fucking business being here!" the killer snarled. "This
building belongs to me now, and everyone in it."
"Some of the people downstairs are dead," the lonely man said. "Mind
if my people come in and remove them?"
"No!" the killer barked. "They will be food."
"Such a pity, with a McDonald's right across the street," the lonely
man observed. "Wouldn't you rather have some ketchup and pickles with
your meat?"
"No!" the killer snapped. With each sentence the lonely man had
gotten a step closer. He was only a few feet from them now.
"Get back!" the killer ordered.
"Why of course," the lonely man said, but he moved not a muscle.
"You wouldn't mind if this girl here went across the street for a burger,
would you? I'm sure she wants ketchup and pickles on her meat, even if
you don't."
"This girl food too, after," the killer said. Willette felt herself
turning even paler than she already was.
"Well now, did you ever consider that she might not want to be your
next meal?" the lonely man asked the killer.
"Doesn't matter," the killer said.
"Well, you know, no eating is allowed in the library," the lonely man
said. Willette felt the killer grow restless behind her. The castanets
banged once together, then again.
"I eat!" the killer said. "I eat here, I eat there, I eat her, I eat you!"
"I don't taste very good without ketchup," the lonely man said.
Suddenly, his hand was upon the killer's gun barrel. He lifted the point of
the barrel above Willette's head and at the same time drove the butt of the
gun violently into the killer's chest. The gun discharged. Willette fell to
the library floor. Her ears rang and the top of her head felt as if it had
been singed by the blast from the gun. When Willette had the courage to
turn around the lonely man was picking the killer up off the floor by his
armpits. The killer was bleeding from the nose and looked barely able to
catch his breath.
30
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