Once A Sucker

CHAPTER ONE-1

CHAPTER ONE

He wiped his forehead and finished his drink, swallowing the neat whisky down in two quick gulps. Through the open door came the sound of the shower and Daphne's voice humming the latest pop song.

"How the hell does she pick them up so fast?" he wondered out loud. Then shrugged his shoulders. His wife was always a couple of jumps ahead of him: whether the trend was pop songs or fashions.

The man sniffed, stretched his arms out wearily, then began to knot his tie in front of the dressing table mirror. "Tomorrow, Mr Swanson", he told his reflection. "Tomorrow we'll be in Portugal, getting some of that lovely sun on your pale, wrinkled old face".

Then he peered a little closer and frowned. Lines were beginning to show quite clearly on his forehead and around his eyes. They weren't too deeply etched -not yet. But Bruna knew that a few more years of his present hectic pace would fill out the crowsfeet soon enough.

Too many cigarettes, too much alcohol -and too many godamned cocktail parties. To say nothing of the intense pressure of work ...

Bruno made a wry face at himself in the mirror and turned away from the tell-tale reflection. Why was there always a price on everything? he wondered. You couldn't get anywhere nowadays without having to pay for it in some way or other. Even when you were reasonably succesful you couldn't sit back and simply enjoy it. You lived under a constant compulsion to prove yourself all the time. You couldn't afford to relax -not completely relax -for a single moment.

He sat heavily on the bed and began to ease his feet into a pair of expensive black leather shoes. Lacing them up tightly, Bruno thought again of his precarious hold on fame and good living. All this: he glanced quickly around the room, taking in the long, black leather settee from Heals with its twin easy chairs; the lounge separated from the bedroom by a sliding panel which was now up; the wall-to-wall carpeting; the thick window curtains which opened and closed at the press of a button... all this: the Knightsb-ridge penthouse; his Savile Row suits it could all disappear practically overnight if he had another failure or two.

In fact, after the fiasco his last play had turned into, he'd be fortunate to survive at all unless his inspiration (and luck) took a sudden turn for the better.

Still, there was Douglas Wilder's synopsis on the bedside table... Bruno picked it up and flicked briefly through it. A further half-dozen copies were in the lounge and tonight they would be handed to the BBC and Independent Television producers who were attending his party.

In outline, it read like a damned fine play, Bruno thought. An experienced eye could see how it needed an imaginative director like himself to bring out all its qualities -and he had first option on directing it: in writing!

An unpublished, unknown writer, Douglas had sent the play to Bruno before his last production had been televised. And Bruno had quickly signed a contract with Wilder which gave him the right to sell it to either of the television authorities on a 50-50 basis. This was perfectly fair -or, rather, Bruno corrected himself bitterly: it had been perfectly fair. When they had drawn up the agreement Bruno was acknowledged as the most brilliant young director working in British television. Almost single-handedly he had raised the standards of tv. drama to the level of an art form without losing the mass viewing public in the process.

If anyone could persuade the producers to accept the work of a nobody it was Bruno Swanson. His name on the director's credit was sufficient guarantee for any play...

At least it had been until that costumed period piece he'd stupidly made such a mess of. Bruno threw the synopsis back onto the table. In this profession, no matter what your previous record was like, you were evaluated almost solely on your last production. Past successes counted for little: what the audiences and the critics thought of your penultimate play was the deciding factor in establishing your reputation.

If the viewing figures were low and the critics had either ignored or slated it, you'd be very lucky to get more than a couple of chances to redeem yourself. That was one of the drawbacks to being a freelance television director. Without the security of a contract you worked under intense pressure to maintain both your status and the fat fees which a successful independent could demand.

But a contract director could never earn the inflated fees which Bruno, by playing one television company against another, could command for his services. Until that last bloody play he'd had them all eating out of the palm of his hand. Now, unless he was able to sell them on Douglas' synopsis and do a fantastic job of directing it, the pendulum looked as if it had started to swing the other way...

The trouble was that Bruno had become something of a cult figure. And like most cults and trends his public and critical acclaim was an inconstant, unreliable phenomenon. He would slip from favour as soon as he showed the least sign of growing stale and unfashionable.

He looked up, suddenly conscious that he was no longer alone in the room. Daphne had been standing by his side for some moments and she now put her hand out and gentry ruffled his dark, tightly-curled hair.

"What's the matter, darling?" she asked softly. "Still worried about that last play?"

He nodded gloomily, unable to shift the depression which was stealing over him despite his efforts to elude it. "They've all been waiting for the great Bruno Swanson to screw up", he said. "And now he's done it." He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. "You could almost smell the satisfaction at the BBC. Behind their 'tough luck, old boy' cliches and their smarmy condolences they were as happy as sand-boys. 'Swanson's had a flop at last!' they were thinking. The boy wonder's run out of inspiration'.

"You'll see it in their eyes tonight", he went on angrily. "The bastards! Well, we're going to show them! Once they've read Douglas's synopsis and I tell them they can't have the play unless / direct it -".

Daphne took his hand and sat down on the bed beside him. "Relax, baby", she soothed. "You know as well as I do that everything's going to work out fine." Her perfume, exotic and expensive, filled his nostrils. He could feel the silk of her negligee against his body; and beneath it the round curve of her breast thrusting forward into his shirt. "You and Douglas will get the final script ready for production while we're on holiday, and when we're back they'll be fighting each other for the privilege of producing it! They're not fools, whatever else they might be..."

While she spoke, Daphne began to caress the nape of his neck; her long, skilful fingers lulling him into a gradual easing of his tension. "Even from the synopsis they'll be able to tell that you're the only director who can do justice to the play".

She kissed him just below his ear, then, keeping her lips on his skin murmured: "Don't worry, precious!"

He slid his arm around her waist, feeling the suppleness of her flesh through the pale, flimsy pink negligee -and was reminded that Daphne, too, was a symbol of his success.

She was beautiful, desirable -and very, very sexy. Everything about her oozed gracious living and poised elegance. If it hadn't been for his sudden rise to fame in television, Bruno doubted if he would have met a girl like her: Let alone married her.

In every way they were opposites. She possessed a quality of absolute calm, of complete stillness. Nothing seemed capable of disturbing the inner tranquility of her life. Although she was one of London's leading fashion models, Daphne had never betrayed the least sign of tem perament. Her wealthy parents, now dead, had cushioned and protected her from every form of physical and psychological want. And since she was independently wealthy, her modelling was strictly a hobby -Daphne wouldn't mind too much if her offers of work suddenly ceased: like most things in her life, she didn't really need it ...

Bruno frequently wondered if she felt the same way about their relationship. It was an uncomfortable, disconcerting idea.

She stretched her body indolently on the bed, her pale green eyes closing; her tall, willowy figure beautiful in repose. Her negligee rose, barely covering her crotch, and Bruno could see the raised curve of her mons veneris thrusting beneath the hem of the garment.

He started to rub the inside of her leg, his fingers sinking deliciously into the softness of her white flesh. At the caress, Daphne moved her legs slighdy apart letting him catch a glimpse of her half concealed s*x ...

Bruno marvelled again at the silken sheen of his wife's thigh. The skin was so tender; so warm and supple to his touch. He stroked upwards until the tips of his fingers were almost within reach of Daphne's swollen s*x-lips, moving them up and down the inside of her thigh in a slow, hypnotic massage.

His eyes stared at the faint mark his hand was creating on her flesh. Under the pressure of his fingers, four red weals appeared -quickly fading as soons as they moved on. He pressed them more urgently into her thigh until the deep stains marred her skin for a longer period: finding the contrast between the white beauty of Daphne's thigh and the cruel welts raised by his fingers strangely exciting.

She wriggled her body sensuously, making the muscles of her legs alternately stiff and relaxed. Bruno slipped his other hand beneath her knee and gently raised it, then stroked down the fulless of Dahpne's under thigh. He caressed to the plumpness of her bottom and let his fingers rest there -curling in towards the pubic hair which was now clearly visible.

"What about our guests, darling?" Daphne murmured. Her voice was low and throaty; it did something to Bruno, stirring an impulse deep inside him to fling his body on top of hers and savagely sink his prick into the soft sweetness of her cunt.

"They won't arrive for another hour", he said thickly. "In any case... let 'em wait!"

He squeezed the round flesh beneath his fingers, feeling it give voluptuously. Daphne sighed. "You ought to relax, I suppose" she whispered sexily. "Get rid of that tension ..."

Bruno wriggled up on the bed until he was lying beside his wife. Keeping his right hand under her thigh he cradled her head with the other and brought her mouth against his.

He kissed her fiercely, pushing his lips onto hers and almost immediately driving his tongue wetly between her teeth. Daphne opened her mouth and he inserted his tongue, licking at the luscious warmth until the tip of her tongue met his and they melted sexily together.

She began to make tiny breathy sounds -urging her lips against Bruno's and sliding them beautifully from side to side. Her clever tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, tapping against his teeth, quivering and tempting. Bruno felt it striving to penetrate him as fully as possible, and he reluctantly withdrew his own tongue from Daphne's mouth and allowed her to explore him as intimately as she wished.

Daphne made her tongue revolve in a slow, tantalising action around Bruno's lips; circling the fleshy and sensitive inside of his mouth -poking the very tip of the liquid, live muscle against the back of his teeth.

He pulled her sharply against him, turning her on her side until he could feel the firm thrust of her breasts against his chest. Her body strained wildly against his, the hard mound of her s*x pressing excitingly into his stiffening prick.

Bruno kept one hand around her shoulders, letting the other slide gradually down the silk of her back. His fingers caressed downwards until they felt the base of Daphne's spine and the globular swell of her buttocks. The negligee ended here, rucked up so that the full expanse of the girl's arse-cheeks was exposed.