CHAPTER ONE

 

After finishing his workout at the clubhouse gym, Cal Marcus decided to soak up a few rays by the pool.

He didn't usually take off Fridays but after a particularly stressful workweek, decided to give himself a much-needed break from the business arena. Cal worked as a computer tech for Orlando Software Brokerage, a small company of less than thirty people whose headquarters occupied the fifth floor of a twenty-year-old hi-rise on Robinson.

Cal's job was to monitor system outages for the company's more than three hundred applications. When the applications were running smoothly, the job was simple and nauseatingly boring. You watched the monitor until your eyes glazed over. However, during a job abend, things quickly changed and you spent your time on an international conference call with network programmers.

A simple enough task under normal circumstances, but since most of OSB's network guys lived and worked in India or Pakistan, Cal rarely spent less than half an hour on a network fix that should normally take five minutes. Network techs specialized in programming--not the English language. Needless to say, communicating with highly-educated people who spoke little English usually turned out to be a real treat.

Cal didn't feel badly at all about taking the day off.

In his line of work, you needed to get away frequently if you wanted to stay relatively sane.

Pumping iron-Cal's favorite pastime-worked wonders for kicking stress. Cal owned a lifetime membership at Gold's, where he worked out during his lunch hour. He was also a member of Bally, and used their facilities whenever he wanted a change of scenery.

But when he was home, wanted to relax and didn't want to fight Central Florida traffic, he used the machines at his apartment complex.

Their weight room didn't have as many machines as Gold's or Bally, of course. It was designed for residents wanting a quick workout before going out and jumping into the pool. It also provided fitness-minded oldsters access to the Swiss ball, treadmill, recumbent exercycle, and an area covered with floor mats for those wanting aerobic activity.

Fortunately, the room provided the basics necessary for serious pumping. The bench press, lat machine, leg press, wall- and floor pulleys got most of the major body parts. The room was also well-designed. Whoever laid it out knew what they were doing.

After pounding out that last set of heavy benches, Cal went right out to the pool with his CD player, towel, suntan lotion, sunglasses, and bottled water.

The lotion was designed to protect your skin from heavy blistering. Early June in Central Florida can be brutal. On most mornings, a recognizable cloud--the only noticeable break from the blinding sun--doesn't usually appear in the sky until noon.

But it didn't matter. Cal wasn't obsessed with having a dark tan. He normally only stayed outside for half an hour. Anything longer than that did some really frightening things to a person's skin. His plan was to soak up some of the least potent morning rays while listening to his favorite big band music. Then he'd retreat into the comfortable air-conditioning of his garden apartment, stand under the shower for half an hour, have breakfast, and lie around until Monday morning.

By the time he left the air-conditioned weight room and went outside, he was already sweating freely.

Which was no surprise. He'd spent nearly an hour with the weights, working up to two-eighty on the bench press after pyramiding to two hundred on the lat machine. He was pretty spent and needed some sack time. He was also hungry, but wanted to relax under some soothing rays before breakfast.

He chose a lounge chair at the far end of the pool, far enough away from those huge ceramic pots the Management kept filled with sand for the smokers in the complex. The chair was far enough from the closest one so he wouldn't be forced to smell burnt cigarette butts while enjoying the cool sounds of the Doc Severinsen Tonight Show Orchestra, Maynard Ferguson, or Stan Kenton.

He placed the player, along with his water bottle and lotion, on the small slatted wooden table beside the chair. Then he spread out the towel neatly on the chair, sat and prepared to apply the lotion.

Movement out of the corner of his eye.

The girl looked to be in her early twenties. She was about five-seven and slender, with round tits and long, shapely legs. She wore her thick red hair long and loose. It bounced on her shoulders as she moved. Her flimsy black two-piece showed every conceivable curve. Her smooth tanned skin glistened in the sun. She wore large-rimmed red shades and carried her white beach towel draped over her left forearm. She also carried a drink in a large glass filled with ice. The ice clinked as she walked.

She chose the lounge chair about three feet down from his. She turned her back and bent over to arrange the beach towel onto the lounge chair, giving him an excellent glimpse of her perfect round ass. Not one ounce of baby fat anywhere on her that he could see. The girls he saw nowadays--especially the young, slender ones--carried around cellulite deposits near their hips and on their ass. This babe was really toned. Her skin, smooth and tanned, nearly glowed in the sunlight. She obviously spent less time sitting in front of her laptop than her peers. Or she was one of those fortunate few able to keep fit merely by breathing. He hadn't met too many of those but always suspected they existed.

She pulled the foot of the chair in his direction, then positioned its back at a 45-degree angle. Once she got the beach towel spread out to her liking, she sat, squirmed into position, and rested her arms above her head. Without turning her head she said, "Hey."

He guessed that since she was now almost facing him, she was probably watching him behind those enormous shades. "Morning."

"Gonna be a hot one this morning."

"Hot is right. I probably won't be able to stay out very long."

"Not very adventurous, are ya?" She squirmed in her chair, making sure her perky jugs jiggled a little.

"I'm not into pain that much."

"You're no fun at a party."

"Damn. You found me out."

She reached for her glass, pursed her lips so she could wrap them around the straw, and sucked down some of the cold liquid. She put the glass back down, brought her right arm up and back, and squirmed into her former position.

Cal couldn't take his eyes off her. She was a helluva tease but was also really great to look at.

"Actually, you look like you can take some serious pain."

He had no idea what she meant by that. "Looks are deceiving, I guess."

"You telling me it's not painful to hoist all that weight on the bench press machine?"

Apparently she'd seen him in the weight room. She was obviously observant or just happened to notice him in there when she was walking by.

"I train here once in a while. Whenever I don't go in to work. I was in there earlier this morning."

"I know."

Cal tried to read her expression. It told him nothing.

"I saw you when I went by to check my mail."

Cal nodded. Mystery solved.

She picked up her drink again and had another sip, then put it back down. "The weight room's on the way out to everything. You're kind of hard to miss."

He couldn't tell if that was a compliment or insult. Some chicks didn't like muscular guys. Some said they preferred slenderness in a guy. Others said they liked it because it made them feel safe.

He decided not to press the issue. This chick didn't seem the type to mince words. If she had something on her mind, he'd probably hear it shortly.

"I hope you saw me rather than heard me."

"Spotted you in the window. Why?"

"I try not to make too much noise when I'm tossing the iron."

"You mean you don't grunt and groan like a horny elephant during mating season?"

"I try not to. . ."

"I don't see how you do it."

"Do what?"

"Not tossing your cookies or shitting your drawers when you're lifting all that tonnage."

That was a tacky way of putting it, but he realized he'd been right. This chick said exactly what was on her mind.

"It helps if you don't try to lift more than you're capable of."

"I saw you pushing up that entire weight stack. How can you lift more than that?"

"The stack holds three hundred. I stopped at two-eighty."

She shrugged. "What's twenty pounds?"

"After half an hour with the lat machine and leg press, twenty extra pounds would've killed me."

She raised her head and tilted it, watching him, then lay back down and adjusted her hair over her shoulders. She'd probably just washed it. It glistened in the sunlight. "You look like you can handle it."

Yeah, she was definitely a tease.

"I guess I'm used to it by now."

"You compete?"

"No way."

She squinted behind the shades. "Why not? You look pretty good."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. At least you're not one of those guys who looks like a tank with a golf ball sitting on his shoulders."

"I do it to stay in shape and because it feels good. I'll never compete."

"Why not?"

Cal shrugged. "You can't eat junk food."

She smiled.

He liked her smile. She was definitely a babe he wouldn't mind fucking. He'd seen her once or twice before, out here by the pool, usually with two other females about the same age. One was a tall slender brunette, the other a petite blonde. They usually sat on the other side of the pool, facing the clubhouse, and only went into the water a few minutes before they went back inside.

"Haven't I seen you here with other girls?"

"Two of my buds come over once in a while. Tina and Renee. We graduated from UCF two years ago. We also work together."

"Where?"

"At the Florida Mall. We manage Hair Care. Actually, Tina and I manage the place. Renee's the one who's really into hair. Tina and I also do hair, but we're always stuck in the back office more than out front. You have neat hair. For a guy."

"I guess that's a compliment. Thanks."

"Most guys have really funky hair. They usually just cut it all off or wear it all messed up. Then there are the guys with good hair who always cover their heads with baseball caps, flattening it and making it all greasy. Makes most of 'em look like real dorks. I still haven't figured out why you'd want to cut off all your hair--especially if it's good hair."

Cal shrugged. "Less trouble. A lot of guys who work on cars don't like getting it covered with grease and oil."

"That makes sense." A warm breeze pushed some of her hair over one side of her face. She pushed it back over her shoulder. "How come you never came over and talked to us?"

"I usually keep to myself."

She shrugged. "A quiet, good-looking guy with a great body who doesn't hassle anyone?"

"That's me, I guess." Cal spent the majority of his time in downtown Orlando during the week and most of his evenings alone in his apartment. Since his divorce from "Material Girl" Alyssa six months ago, he hadn't bothered looking for anyone to date or even spend time with. Several cute babes worked in the OSB offices, but they were professional and business-minded, and preferred fraternizing with upper management.

Cal spent his weekends at flea markets and yard sales, buying CDs and all the old LP records he could find. He'd been collecting old records for the last five years and owned nearly a thousand.

He also attended antique car shows when he had a chance. He'd been looking for an affordable '65 Mustang but hadn't yet found one.

He just didn't spend enough time at the complex to get to know the other residents. He knew the manager, of course, and the two guards. He knew his next-door neighbors only by sight. When he bumped into someone in the weight room, he was usually focused on his routine and never engaged in any serious conversation.

He didn't feel guilty about keeping to himself. Nowadays, being too friendly could get you in a lot of trouble. And since people rarely stayed in the same place very long any more, it was almost impossible to establish any sort of lasting friendship.

She brought her left hand down and adjusted her glasses. He spotted a ring. It didn't look like a wedding band but clung to the appropriate finger. Bummer. "You're from Building L, yeah?"

She'd obviously seen him going into or coming out of his apartment as well as training in the weight room. He was beginning to think she actually liked muscular guys. "Yeah."

"Aren't you the guy who makes movies?"

He stiffened in his chair.

He hadn't told anyone about his background. He'd been very careful not to mention it--not even to his few friends at the office.

His college buddy Jack made adult flicks in his spare time. Cal sometimes helped out when his friend was short-handed or in a rush.

Cal had no idea how this babe knew about this. He knew he shouldn't be so uneasy about it. People were much more open-minded about such things nowadays. Kink rarely raised nearly as many brows as it once did.

And with the younger crowd, such a controversial topic usually served as a sure-proof conversation starter. A lot of chicks--especially young ones--enjoyed adult films. Some even readily volunteered their services to fulfill a fantasy and to tell their friends. They also found it an instant turn-on to see the DVD advertised on adult sites and in adult stores and also to buy copies of it when it came out.

But he was determined to find out how she'd learned about him.

"Well? Aren't you?" she asked.

"Who told you that?"

She shrugged.

Not a very revealing answer. He'd have to find out another way.

"How long have you been making them?"

"I'm not the one who actually produces them."

"But you're involved, right?"

For the last year, he'd helped Jack out by working as the rigger on the set. Jack studied filmmaking at college and found out several years ago that a boatload of money could be earned by making adult movies. After some research, Jack learned that bondage flicks were instant moneymakers. They were also relatively cheap to make. All you needed was a motel room or warehouse, a couple of hot young babes, some clothesline and a big fat roll of duct tape. If you wanted to get fancy, you could use chains and a few overhead pulleys, as well as an assortment of whips and paddles. Hoods also came in handy and looked good. All sorts of blindfolds added to the suspense and looked scorching on a babe--especially when she was gagged.

Other than that, all you really needed were a couple of adventurous young babes who didn't mind getting naked, tied up, taped, stretched, slapped around, and fucked.

To make the situation even more fun, finding willing young women with good bodies--especially in Florida--proved ridiculously easy.

Since Cal had done a brief stint in the Navy, Jack asked if he could put his knotting skills to the test as a rigger. Cal's job, in layman's terms, was to tie the women in as many tight, sexy positions as could be imagined and make the knots pretty, symmetrical and effective.

Being a rigger was a truly enjoyable venture. The girls were being paid to act in the movie. They were there to do what they were being paid to and didn't care what you did to them as long as you didn't hurt them. They'd even used some babes who actually got off on the pain--making the experience totally win-win for all involved.

Since Cal was an expert with knots, he knew which to use in any given situation, how much pressure to apply, and where to apply it.

He'd originally scoffed at the idea but soon found how much fun it was. Jack paid him two hundred bucks a film. The filming usually took a day or two. The rigging only took a few hours.

They averaged eight flicks a month back then. They were usually shot during the weekends, in Jack's leased Industrial Park warehouse, with other scenes done in various motel rooms and any apartment available at the time. This added activity didn't interfere with Cal's primary job at all.

Cal quit scoffing after his first movie. Tying up beautiful naked women for money quickly turned into a genuine mind-blowing experience.

"I'm sort of a prop guy," he told the redheaded babe.