FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY.

SAHARA KELLY.

Chapter One.

"C'mon Big John...sign me!"

The blonde purred as she rubbed herself up against "Big John" and flashed him a generous expanse of flesh, most of which was threatening to spill out of her lacy bra.

Jack Foster sighed, pasted on his best public relations smile, and scribbled his name across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"My name's Bambi," she added.

Of course. What else?Anyone with t.i.ts that size, more makeup than Bozo the clown, and about three feet of carefully teased and curled blonde hair justhad to be called Bambi.

Jack sighed again and politely thanked her for coming. He'd been thanking people for the last hour or so, more or less sincerely, and he was tired. Weary to his f.u.c.king bones.

Of course it was nice to have people complimenting his work. His name on a triple-X video practically guaranteed its success. He was a top-ranked director in the field of p.o.r.n, had just about every "name" star in the business at his beck and call, and more money than he knew what to do with.

But the deep, dark and dirty secret that lurked within him was clamoring to escape. He was fed up with it all.

He wantedout .

"Coffee?" Elbowing the blonde out of the way, Lou Franconi offered a steaming cup to Jack, who took it gratefully.

"Thanks, man. I owe you." Jack sipped and let the hot stuff burn down his throat. Perhaps the jolt of one hundred percent pure caffeine would perk him up. And G.o.d knew Lou could make coffee.

Glancing over, Jack found himself wondering about the guy. Good-looking enough to feature in one of Jack's videos, Lou seemed quite at home mingling with the oddball crowd in the store. And yet there was an edge to him, which was at odds with his job as manager of "All Night Video".

Jack shrugged it off. He'd met far too many people tonight. Too many "Bambis" and "Deedees" and a.s.sorted plastic women who'd ogled him, stared at his crotch and thrust their implants into his face.

Well h.e.l.l. He was in the business, and he should expect it by now. And hedid expect it. Perhaps it was the "expecting it" thing that was sticking in his craw.

A short interval of breathing s.p.a.ce opened up around him as the wave of fans departed for the well-stocked shelves. His videos were, of course, prominently featured-his agent had seen to that.

Jack ran his hands through his hair wearily and wondered what the f.u.c.k he was doing with his life. Then he snorted. This was a fine time to experience an attack of existential confusion.

Jack Foster, aka "Big John Johnson", was at the top of his field. After making a couple of p.o.r.n flicks in college as a lark, Jack had become fascinated with the genre. His major was in television production, so it was a natural career move to become involved behind the cameras.

Although not one his alma mater cared to publicize, even while quietly welcoming his regular donations to their video and theater department. Having an endowment funded by a major player in the p.o.r.n industry didn't go over like gangbusters at the Homecoming game.

Maybe that had something to do with his current feelings of disenchantment. He was a "name" recognizable to devotees of l.u.s.t. His skills in production and videography were appreciated by those whose interests lay in the areas of all things s.e.xual.

He could probably claim responsibility for more sperm production than Pamela Anderson before her breast-reduction surgery.

Yeah, he should be proud that his movies were part of j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. heaven. And in some ways, he was.

Vice and Vixenshad introduced a stop-motion camera technique that was now being routinely copied by every other p.o.r.n film company. His lighting angles were carefully calculated, even when filming outdoors, and he personally monitored his soundtrack to make sure that the quality met his standards.

He even insisted on a plot. And as good a one as his writers could possibly manage. After they'd laughed their a.s.ses off, they began to take him at his word, and one or two of his movies had actually crossed over from the strictly p.o.r.n side of the aisle to the "adult" section of a few video rental stores.

All of which had brought him to this slightly down-at-heel all-night video store, complete with just about every p.o.r.n film ever made, along with an a.s.sortment of the "trappings of the trade". One of which, a remarkably lifelike woman's torso-complete with p.u.s.s.y hair-was staring at him from the opposite wall.

Suddenly, Jack felt grubby. Like he hadn't showered in a week. The sight of those pseudo-folded fleshy parts bordered with a ruffle of pubic hair lodged itself in his mind and stewed.

Was this all he did? Contribute to the moral decay of a generation of h.o.r.n.y college kids? Was anyone out there really appreciating the work he put into his films? Or were they just gluing themselves to the sight of t.i.ts and c.u.n.ts and the ma.s.sive c.o.c.ks that plundered them? And jerking off at the same time?

He sighed. There were probably a million guys who'd have willingly parted with their left nut to be in his shoes. He didn't want their nuts, but d.a.m.n...they could have his shoes. They were starting to pinch too d.a.m.n much.

A burst of laughter from the checkout line drew his attention away from his own problems. The crowd had thinned considerably, and it seemed Lou was cracking a few one-liners to keep the diehards amused.

Jack breathed in, relieved to be able to catch his breath and think ashimself , Jack Foster, for a few minutes and leave Big John behind.

And at that moment the door opened.

Daphne Littlewood transferred her binder from her right arm to her left and wiped her sweaty hand down her pants for the third time. She'd been standing outside this video store for nearly fifteen minutes, trying to muster up enough courage to step inside.

After all, it wasn't every day a librarian got to pay a visit to a shop that was little better than a department store for s.e.x. It had seemed like a good idea from the quiet sanctuary of her office in the hallowed halls of the library, but now...

Sure, her thesis required this research. She couldn't very well prepare a thorough treatment of her topic without it. And the topic was one that was dear to her heart. The t.i.tle might be long-winded, but the subject was fascinating.The s.e.xual Revolution and the Media. How the Media Has Contributed to the Changing Att.i.tudes Towards Human s.e.xuality .

She'd read the books, not too challenging since she was a librarian, and could easily check out everything she needed without raising too many eyebrows. She'd covered Masters and Johnson in a week, devoured the Hite Report, read everything there was on the changing pattern of s.e.xual fantasies, and delved into a limited amount of erotica.

She'd struggled withThe Pearl , laughed through back issues of a hundred-odd women's magazines, and tried her best to be impressed with Anais Nin.

One conclusion had stayed with her throughout her work. The times...they were certainlya'changing .

Literature had gone from the coldly clinical or naughtily suggestive to the blunt, informative instruction manuals that regularly topped the nonfiction bestseller lists. Everyone nowadays was apparently in open search of the perfect o.r.g.a.s.m, the most extraordinary s.e.xual experience, or the eye-rolling blend of both.

Everyone except Daphne.

n.o.body had made her eyes roll. They'd watered a couple of times, but never rolled. She had admitted to herself that her fascination with the human condition and in particula.r.s.ex , probably stemmed from the fact that she wasn't getting any. And what she did get wasn't very good.

Well, darn it. n.o.body could be good at everything. And she did crochet onevery impressive throw blanket.

Sadly, crocheting was a lousy subst.i.tute for hot and sweaty activities between the sheets.

So Daphne had sunk herself into her studies, determined to complete her Master's thesis, even if it took her a couple of years. Adult extension courses were available at the local college, and she'd found a charming thesis advisor who'd shared her interest for the topic. However, Dr. Jane Martinson was over seventy, a Professor Emeritus of Psychology, and her interests were purely scholarly. Although she did have the occasional twinkle in her eye when Daphne expounded about some of the things she'd read.

It had been Jane who'd suggested that Daphne should add a look at the current video offerings to her thesis. "After all, Daphne, it's an enormous industry. It fills a need, caters to various tastes, and anyone with a VCR or DVD player can watch it. Given the current technology, one can even slip a DVD into one's laptop these days, can't one?"

Daphne had thought about that. She didn't have a laptop. And she'd never realized the potential. She did have a VCR, but kept it unplugged most of the time, because that annoying blinking timer irritated her to the edge of insanity. The last movie she'd rented had been something with Hugh Grant. A romance. A verynice romance.

She wished she were home watching it right now, instead of standing outside this adult video store. She wished she could get up the nerve to go in. She wished there weren't so many darn people inside.

She closed her eyes for a second, hoping that some guardian angel somewhere would hear her wishes.

No go.

Although within a few moments some of the customers pushed noisily out of the door, laughing with each other, and clutching brown bags with G.o.d-knew-what in them.

Daphne read the large hand-printed sign again. "c.u.m and Meet Big John". She frowned. Of course she understood the appalling pun. But her English grammar gene was telling her that it should have been the other way around. "Meet Big John and c.u.m" would have soundedso much better.

She sighed. At least whoever had scrawled the words on the gla.s.s of the storefront had been able to write backwardsand spell. She supposed that was about all she could hope for.

It was getting dark, a bit chilly for September, and Daphne took a breath.Now or never.

She stumbled over the curb, dropped two papers, picked them up and swore at herself for her stupidity. Shoving the notes back in her folder, she pushed her gla.s.ses up securely onto the bridge of her nose. She could do this.

Shewould do this.

She was a scholar, not a pervert, and this was all about scholarly research. It would be simple. Go inside, note down a few t.i.tles, take a quick peek at the merchandise, and then get out as fast as possible. Try to garner some impressions of what was being sold by looking at the graphic displays. Do not use a camera. Do not speak to anybody. Do not, under any circ.u.mstances, makeeye contact with anybody.

Avoid anything with the word "lesbian" in the t.i.tle, and bypa.s.s the stands featuring farmyard activities. There were some places she preferred not to go. Or eventhink about.

Simple straight s.e.x. That's all she wanted information about. Of course, s.e.x wasn't simple, but that was the general idea. Just get a feel for what was currently being presented to the general public under the heading of "p.o.r.nography", and then do some research to contrast it with what had been available a generation ago.

Piece of cake.

Daphne squared her shoulders and pushed the door. It pushed back. She bit her lip as she read the word "Pull".

Darn, darn, darn.

She pulled on the stupid thing and stepped inside.

Chapter Two.

Jack Foster blinked.

A head was peeking around the door like a fawn looking into the depths of h.e.l.l. Wide brown eyes were

partially concealed behind square horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, white teeth were biting down nervously on a full lower lip, and the rest of her was bundled into some kind of s.h.a.ggy-brown knitted coat thing.

Her brunette hair was pulled into an untidy knot and threatening to slide over one ear, and she had a

bundle of papers in her arm that she was clutching on to so tightly her knuckles were white.

He couldn't help it. He grinned. As out of place as a nun at a wh.o.r.e's convention, this poor woman wasobviously in the wrong store. And she looked-funny.He walked over to her. "Can I help you?"She shifted some kind of canvas bag on her shoulder and stared at the floor. "No thank you.""You look a little lost. Are you sure this is where you're supposed to be?"

She looked up at that, meeting his eyes for the first time. "Oh yes. Quite."

Somethingin her expression caught Jack's attention. A flicker of something that might have been interest or a healthy dose of fear. He wasn't sure what, and he was intrigued.

At least she wasn't thrusting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s at him and demanding he sign her underwear. And that observation included the a.s.sumption that she actually had underwear-clad b.r.e.a.s.t.s under her wrappings- something Jack wasn't at all sure about.

After all the 36DD's he'd been flashed this evening, she was a delightful surprise.

"You must be the manager or something, right?"

Her voice was sweet and a little breathless, and for some odd reason he wanted to make her a cup of tea. Or tug on one of those flyaway strands of hair that surrounded her face. Take her to a baseball game, maybe.

Jack mentally shook himself. What thef.u.c.k was he thinking?

"Um, yeah. Something..." He avoided answering her question directly, preferring to let her draw her own conclusions. It was refreshing to finally meet someone who hadn't a clue who he was.

"Well, good. Then perhaps you can help me." She straightened her shoulders a little. Well whaddya know. Yes, there were b.r.e.a.s.t.s under those clothes. And for the first time, Jack noticed they weren't bag lady clothes either.

They wouldn't have made the cover of Vogue magazine, but they weren't shoddy. Her khaki pants were wrinkled, as if she'd been sitting in them all day, but they might well have been linen, and underneath her muddy brown jacket was a cream turtleneck that looked like silk.

Whoever this woman was, she knew quality fabrics. She just needed someone to add a little color to her wardrobe. He realized she was looking at him as her words hung in the air between them. He'd been busy redressing her into reds and golds, and she'd said something.f.u.c.king A . This was soooo not like him.

He gathered his wayward thoughts. "How can I be of service?"

It was a question that would have gotten him about fifty different off-color answers in his studio. But not from her. The only off-color material she knew about was the stuff she'd pulled from her closet that morning.

"Well..." She pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from her folder. "I need to make a list of some of the top selling...um...adult video t.i.tles." She pushed her gla.s.ses up on her nose. "Maybe a dozen or so. And..."

She hesitated and blushed, charming Jack down to his loafers. He hadn't seen a woman blush in years.

"And?"

"And I need to see how they're presented."

"Presented? I'm sorry...I don't quite understand." Jack tilted his head and smiled at her.

A burst of laughter drew their attention, and Jack cursed beneath his breath. He wasn't about to let this opportunity go to waste. A chance to chat with someone who was completely ignorant of his ident.i.ty. A woman with no axe to grind, no screen-test to push on him, and apparently no interest in what he had tucked into his briefs.

For some reason, that last thought intrigued him just as much as why she was here in the first place.