A fantasy story set in 1920's, in the era of early, silent stag films. The young actress, Violet, posing as an innocent femme fatale...in the middle of a steamy Mexican jungle...knows what she's required to do. But is this savage scene more than the fainting beauty bargained for?
Excerpt from my novel Innocence Defiled
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Violet wasn’t used to bugs and creepy crawly things, exotic birds that screeched at midnight and the darkness of the wind-whipped jungle. The heat was miserable and it took but a few hours after her arrival in Mexico for her to feel the grimy dirt sticking to her flushed skin. Baths were drawn for her morning and night, with water carried from a stream and heated over the fire, but they did little to cleanse away the uncomfortable feeling. An hour after drying off in her tent, she was back to feeling sticky and sour.
Much to Lionel’s fury, it took three days before the entire cast and the movie crew arrived the Mexican jungle—something about the cargo plane getting held up at the airport by a band of guerillas searching for contraband: i.e. guns. Other than checking the light and the speed of the film, and scouting out the right locations, there was little for the director to do until the entire company had assembled.
Violet spent the long hours of waiting in her tent reading books. The less time she spent in the jungle the happier she was.
On the fourth morning, Violet’s hunger pangs drove her quickly from bed. She dressed in haste and emerged from her tent looking for a bite to eat and a fresh cup of coffee. Considering the primitive nature of the campground, the cook, who had flown in with her and Lionel, was able to furnish decent food, in fact better than decent food. Where he found the energy to work in the terrible heat over a hot fire was a mystery to the actress and everyone else.
As she took a steaming mug of coffee back to her tent, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and fruit, she heard Lionel shouting to his crew. Though she’d paid little attention to the man since arriving at their location, she suspected from his anxious shouts that the rest of the crew had finally arrived.
“Miss Atherton,” Lionel called to her before she could disappear into her tent.
She turned around to see him standing some twenty feet away. “Yes, Mister Rains?” “We’ll have the full crew on site in about thirty minutes. In about an hour, I want you in your costume and ready to go. Florence will be in to fix your hair.”
“So, today’s the day,” her placid face finally broke a smile while a delightful tickle of excitement raced through her body.
“Yes, today’s the day,” he confirmed before he took off toward the jungle airstrip.
Unlike the previous movie with a simple set in Lionel’s living room, this film was a lot more complicated to produce. As Violet understood the script, she was to imagine herself on a hunting expedition with her husband, through a remote and dangerous jungle. At some point, the party would be raided by an indigenous tribe and, screaming in panic, Violet would be filmed running through the jungle. Eventually she’d be captured and the taking would begin. There were few details in the storyline after that point; scripts for stag films didn’t require much more than a simple plot.
When the shooting finally began, Violet sensed the mood in the jungle change. Perhaps it was just the passing clouds that for several minutes blocked even the scant sunrays from reaching the jungle floor. Perhaps the general eeriness of the jungle made her edgy. Perhaps it was knowing that her afternoon would be spent in some vulgarly sexual activity. It was difficult to say exactly what gave Violet such a case of nerves, but she certainly had the jitters. When Lionel handed her a shot of whiskey, she didn’t hesitate to gulp it down. Though she hated the taste, the effect was worth the price. In seconds, her head had begun to swim and her nerves were calmed, at least until the liquor wore off.
“More?” he asked, holding out the bottle.
“No, that should do the trick.” She flashed the director a smile and then proceeded to follow him through the jungle.
The actual movie set was created some distance from the camp set up for the actors and crew. Beside a canvas tent much like the one she’d been sleeping in, Violet was to sit at a collapsible writing table and pretend to be writing letters to friends at home. She was dressed rather strangely for an adventurous expedition of this sort, wearing a long white dress that would have been perfectly appropriate for a summer barbecue in the Hamptons, though it was hardly suitable for the jungle. The filmy gown was, however, perfect for a stag film, which suggested that the point of the movie easily won out over authenticity in costuming. At least the dress was airy and comfortable in the miserable heat, even if Violet felt a little silly, looking as if she’d just stepped out for a casual stroll through a city park. All she needed was a pretty parasol to twirl on her shoulder.
Florence, who was in charge of costumes, make-up and hair for the entire cast, had earlier entered her tent with a brown wig that was fashioned in a short style, requiring Violet’s blonde hair to be pinned up underneath. The wig was quite tight and uncomfortable, but the director had been quite clear that even in the likely scuffle that would take place during the filming, the wig must stay in place.
“You’ll probably have a headache before this is finished,” Florence advised her. “But then, what’s a little discomfort for the sake of art, hum?”
“You call this art?” Violet laughed.
“Well,” the older woman smirked, “I try to put it in a favorable light, honey. It’s the best we can do.” Florence was a big blowsy woman with over-dyed hair tied up in a messy chignon and way too much make-up. Perhaps her painted look was suitable for a jungle in which garishly colored birds flitted about from tree to tree. Violet had heard through the gossip mill that Florence was a washed up actress. Probably true. But it didn’t matter to the younger actress. Florence didn’t put on airs, or look down on her in judgment the way the rest of the crew often did.
Although Violet had never actually heard the crude remarks from the male crew members, she saw how they looked at her. She knew there were jokes about her going back and forth amongst the crew, lewd comments behind her back. No doubt, they were speculating about what she’d look like when being taken advantage of… when her clothes were ripped away… and she was accosted by her brute attackers and forced to give up her body for their use. Words of the plot still echoed through her mind, just as Lionel had read them to her from the script.
So far, she was unsure who would be the perpetrators of the ‘act’ itself, but that was the plan. “There has be a little element of surprise, Miss Atherton,” the director had said when she asked for more specifics. It became hard to escape the feeling that everyone else on the set knew exactly what would happen and with whom, to exactly what extreme degree, while she was left in the dark to worry if she could endure the torrid scene that was demanded.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, had been repeating in her mind since she first stepped into the jungle. But it was too late to change her mind now. She’d given Lionel her word.
Slightly intoxicated and feeling a little dreamy, Violet sat at the fold-up table on cue and began writing a letter to her cousin in Indiana. Whether it would ever be mailed was not the point, she needed to get in the mood of the scene, and this was one way she could do that and concentrate her energy at the same time.
In the distance, she heard Rains shouting out directions, then the approach of the camera team, and several others moved in fast. Though her anxiety was mounting, she kept her focus, knowing that the commotion was extraneous noise that would never be part of the film. Suddenly jerked by the arm, Violet was pulled from the chair and immediately landed in the dust. Three huge men, one of them very black and almost naked, stood over her while Lionel and crew moved in and filmed the expressions on their faces. For several seconds the camera focused directly on Violet’s terrified eyes. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.
As soon as the director gave the word, the black man jerked her from the ground and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her off through the trees. He ran barefoot through the jungle for about thirty seconds, then in another scripted move, Violet flailed wildly until she finally fell from his arms to the ground. According to the script, and a little prior instruction from Lionel, she scrambled to her feet and took off deep into the jungle, knowing that her attackers were close at her heels. She followed a marked trail that Lionel had forced her to memorize during several run-throughs of the scene. But disoriented from liquor and a mild case of hysteria brought on by the emotions in play, she soon forgot the markers and was flailing blindly through thick stands of tall bamboo and tropical vines. Her face was scratched; her red high heels muddy; and her anxious heart beat at a panicked rate. Caught in a tangle of thorny branches, the white dress tore in several places, turning dingy when dragged across the dirt.
Behind her, the trailing assailants—no longer actors in her mind but primal beasts—moved at a frenzied pace, Rains directing, while cameramen hauling their equipment raced along beside them.
As directed, Violet continued to stumble through the undergrowth in a blind panic. She stared back several times in her race against the elements, then suddenly found herself smashed against an enormous tree. By the time she was able to pull free of the viney vegetation clinging to the tree trunk, the men were on her and Rains was shouting, “Do it now! Take her!”
Working like madmen possessed by the devil, the native black man and two muscled Caucasians had her bound to the tree with thick sisal rope, her arms, her legs and her torso fixed in place so she could barely move a muscle. She stared back into the camera, alarmed and anxious, crying out loud: “Please don’t, please, please let me go. Anything you want, please don’t hurt me…” over and over, tears streaming from her eyes and down her face.
Their hands were large and powerful, their thick palms enough to cover an ass cheek with a single smack, or grab for a breast and maul it till it ached. The first act in the exhilarating scene began with violent smacks against her flesh, the ripping away of the pretty white gown, and the boorish crudeness of the men mauling their bounty. Her naked body emerged from the encounter pale and beautiful against the background of the lush green flora. Thick rope defined her struggle, while the tattered ruins of the white dress clung to the undergrowth like distant memories of a better time in a better place.
Act Two began with Violet’s assailants first feel of her pretty snatch, fingers diving deep between her thighs and inching toward the holy home they intended to violate. There was no civility employed in their exploration, not one but several fingers jammed their way into her back door. The ruthless way they pinched her nether lips and the bud between them made her worry how much damage would be done before the scene was over.
“That’s it… that’s it…” the sound of an animated Rains could be heard through the crazed commotion like a voice from a distant dream in Violet’s mind. “Yes, that’s it…nasty…mean…as vile as you dare…
Her body shrieked, warnings of danger tearing through her. Shrill screams ripped from her throat. This was going farther, faster than she ever dreamed. Three men…three men! How could this ever work!
Please, please… don’t make me do this…” she spoke sincerely now, but the director was far too involved to stop the action and no one would take her pleas seriously.
When the cameramen finally moved in closer, Act Three began. The men moved forward with their assault, discarding the rope that circled her torso so her body could be more easily manipulated.
Her ass was gripped by two powerful hands and pulled back from the safety of the thick tree trunk. She was no longer standing upright, but bent over with her hands and arms still tied to the tree. Her rear cheeks were mauled for several minutes more, then they were roughly jerked apart. To film the scene up close, one cameraman was on the ground shooting the action of the two crotches from pointblank range. Violet’s sex-lips dripped with pussy juice; the thick pink cock was poised to strike; then the rude shove knocked her back against the tree.
Despite all prior anticipation, the sudden shock of the impalement stunned the frazzled actress. She wept more forcefully, grimaced in a way the camera loved, and then began to moan in an especially provocative manner—sounds that would be recorded only by her attackers and those who watched—those who understood that demure little Violet Atherton was only half-acting, and only moderately horrified. The rest of her experienced the scene as a shameless slut. Soon as that big cock began to move in her, the urgent force of the copulation stirred all the wonderful feelings that had surged through her weeks ago when she was taken on Lionel’s living room set. Every forceful shove forward by the brute behind her sent another violent rush of erotic pleasure to the far reaches of her aroused body.
She’d been well-primed, as if Lionel knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what was needed to raise the sexual being behind Violet’s modest exterior. The liquor made the rough stuff go down a little easier and the fucking part she easily enjoyed. The combination of the setting, the men and the innocent girl created such explosive images that, just as it had been during her ‘screen test’, those watching were too amazed to voice a thought.
The moneyman behind the production wanted it all, all of it first rate sex, and that is exactly what the movie man intended to deliver to his client.
That's exactly what he got. Their not so innocent actress was particularly suited for the role.
(c) Copyright by Lizbeth Dusseau. All rights reserved. May not be used without permission.