Portmanteau Ch. 01–03

Chapter One – The arrival

Blame our fathers. They met at some out-of-town conference or symposium, when they where sitting next to each other at a bar in their hotel. They liked each other so much they had dinner together the next evening. Their specialties are different (Avner is a fertility specialist while my father is a neurologist), but since they are both physicians with high-end Manhattan patients, they had a lot in common.

Months later, they agreed that neither had ever developed a friendship so quickly or easily. As a matter of fact, each felt as if the other was almost the brother neither had ever had. Moreover, their wives liked each other very much. Before long, Dad was going off to play tennis with Avner, or Mom was headed out to a museum with Shelley (she's an artist), or they were dining together at the latest restaurant sensation.

So it was no surprise that almost a year after the two guys met, we were all invited to spend Labor Day weekend at their summer place, situated at a small, secluded lake in New England. After all, they'd had dinner at our apartment several times, so they thought they knew me fairly well. For example, they were aware that my prep school had plenty of famous kids or children of famous people, and that it was no big deal to me. On the contrary, my friends and I always made a point to treat others as nothing special. It was part of the code.

They also knew about the crowd I'd hung around with during college. And they liked the fact that although still in my mid-twenties, I was a serious professional, already editing books at a respected publishing house. So they were satisfied. And apparently, they actually liked me.

Before leaving, Mom and Dad had a discussion with me on behalf of Avner and Shelley, explaining that their daughter would also be at the lake house, and how exceptionally rare it was for them to bring a guy my age into their household when she would be there. If they did so at all, since they were an extremely tight-knit family and extraordinarily protective of their daughter.

I was mystified by all the discussion and didn't know what the big deal was about. Maybe the daughter was disabled in some way, like Down's syndrome, or in a wheelchair, or mentally unstable. Whatever, I could care less. I just wanted to get out of the hot city because my friends would be gone. And the idea of hanging by a lake while getting a little work done didn't sound half bad.

Early on Friday morning, the three of us had just closed the apartment door to go down to the garage with our gear when I remembered leaving a manuscript behind. Mom and Dad continued down to the garage to pack the vehicle as I hurried back into the apartment. After picking up the MS, I spotted a sheet of paper on the kitchen counter, the directions to Avner's and Shelley's that my parents had forgotten. At the bottom were the address, phone number and family name.

My parents must have thought I was an idiot during their discussion with me. They didn't realize that I'd never known Avner and Shelley's last name. I forced myself to calm down. Their daughter was probably raised to be friendly and polite, although she'd keep her distance. We'd probably see her only at dinnertime and maybe an occasional breakfast. I'd act as if she was only the daughter of my parent's friends, not an incredibly famous star. Of course, there'd never be a single question about her work.

When I rejoined my parents at our vehicle, I handed them the directions but didn't say a word. Inside I was anything but relaxed. Like millions of other guys, I'd had a crush on her since her first movie, when she was all of 14. Since then, I'd seen all—or parts of all—her films, and read that she and her parents were intelligent, tight and grounded.

During the long drive to the Berkshires I naturally tried to remember the handful of dinner conversations I'd had with her parents. When one of my parents asked about their daughter, which wasn't frequently, all I could remember was a bland and generic answer, such as "She's fine" or "She's working hard but enjoying it." And I completely understood that it was not an aspect of their lives in which they wanted to involve my parents. After all, they had agents, managers, investment counselors and PR people for that.

In any case, she wasn't even there when we arrived. It was a gorgeous place: secluded, surprisingly large, beautifully designed and furnished, and peaceful. The parents retired early, tired from the workweek and lengthy drive. Once they'd gone upstairs, I stripped off my shirt (it was still hot) and settled into the couch to do some work.

After an hour, I heard footsteps and was shocked to see the daughter standing in the entrance to the living room. "Oh!" she said, surprised as well. Surprisingly, she was wearing a gray business suit and heels. "The house was so dark I thought everyone was asleep." She looked even more incredibly gorgeous in person than she does onscreen.

"I was just doing some work," I said, self-conscious about lying there only in cutoff jeans, even though my torso had a summer tan and was, according to one of the trainers at my gym, well-defined. "We weren't expecting you till the morning," I added lamely.

"I – I changed my mind," she stammered. "You must be Philip."

"Yeah. This is such a great place. Can I help with your luggage?"

She laughed, her face lighting up. "Well, there's quite a lot of it."

"No problem. Just relax." I put on my shirt and stood.

"Thanks, I'd love to change. Please be careful with my portmanteau." I looked at her quizzically.

"It's the large satchel on the rear seat. It's heavy."

"No problem." I went outside to her beautiful Lexus SC convertible. It was crammed everywhere with luggage: in the small trunk and the passenger seat, while the rear seat was filled with a large, expensive leather satchel. That must be the portmanteau. It was extremely heavy. Curious, I unlatched and opened it. Inside was a portable collection of bondage implements: wrist and ankle cuffs, gags with a harness, clamps, weights, chains, dildos and vibrators. I wondered if she'd forgotten to lock it or had left it unsecured intentionally. . . .

When I reached her bedroom I knocked and entered. It was a large suite, complete with four-poster bed, a large deluxe bathroom and spacious sitting area. Oddly, she was standing in the dark, lost in thought. "Shall I open the drapes?" I asked, realizing I must sound like a hotel bellhop.

"Yes, it's a beautiful half-moon tonight," she said. The entire long wall of her room that faced the lake was glass. I opened the drapes and we stood there in silence, stunned by the magnificent view of the lake. The moon had just risen above the trees and was silvering the lake. It was a magical moment. I turned my head to glance at her and she was already looking at me. Our eyes met for an instant before we both turned back to the view. It was an intimate look that acknowledged the shared splendor of the moment.

"I'll just get the rest of your stuff." When I returned, she had opened her purse and was looking at a few photos. After completing the final load, I asked, "If you're hungry, I can make up a late night snack."

She looked at me appreciatively and grinned. "I'm starving! See you in the kitchen in 20?"

"Sounds good," I said, heading for the hallway. "Something to drink?"

"White wine, please."

In the kitchen, I sautéed some tofu with a couple of sauces and prepared a plate with couscous, fresh mint leaves and a salad of cucumber, shaved carrots and fresh peas. When she entered, she wore a snug halter and very tight cutoffs and was barefoot. Without the suit and heels and with her hair in a pigtail, she looked years younger, like 16, although the same height as she appears in movies. But her breasts looked much larger. She looks like a A cup in all her films, but she now looked like a big B, quite large on her small frame, especially with the tight top.

She sat at the kitchen counter and raised her glass. "A toast," I proposed, raising my glass as well. She looked at me skeptically, as if I was going to say something improper. "To the lake."

Surprised, she smiled and took a large swallow of wine. "Mmm, that's refreshing. And what's that great smell?"

"Just a bit of tofu." I plated and served her dish.

"This looks great! Leftovers from dinner?"

"Just the couscous. I made the rest."

"Oh," she said, surprised again, and ate with relish. Her glass was soon empty and I refilled both of ours. "My parents really had tofu for dinner?"

"No, they had chicken, but I know you're a vegetarian." She nodded.

"Was your drive okay?"

"I've done it lots of times. I was visiting friends from college in Cambridge. The last part of the trip was beautiful." We chatted about schools (she was a Psych major) and friends and eventually agreed to adjourn into the living room. I was surprised that she wasn't immediately going to her suite. She was tipsy as we walked into the living room, where she asked me to refill her glass again. I poured a half glass, but she insisted on a full one.

"Are you sure?' I asked lightly. Her eyes flashed at me, so I poured liberally. We actually had a few friends of friends in common (I'd also gone to an Ivy League college) and talked animatedly about friends, schools, majors and courses. I never once mentioned a word about her career. She seemed remarkably relaxed and by now fairly high. Three large glasses went a long way in her petite frame.

"Goodnight, Philip," she said as she stood up. She swayed a bit and brought her hand to her forehead. Still holding her head, she walked to the stairs

I had just settled in for a few minutes of reading, but who was I kidding? I thought only of her. In a couple of minutes, I was surprised again. "Philip," she called. I turned to see her standing at the foot of the stairs in a nightie. It exposed most of her gorgeous thighs. And although she'd been barefoot before, she now wore bedroom slippers with 2" heels. I confess: I stared, and while I did, she not only stayed there, as if posing, she actually spread her legs wider. Her tits looked even larger beneath the filmy fabric. Onscreen her tits looked minimal, but now she looked much larger. "I just came down to say that tonight was nice."

"Yeah, it was great," I replied. She made an impulsive decision, walked to the coffee table and raised the wine bottle. Although her glass was right there, she raised the bottle high up in the air, bent backward and drank straight out of the bottle, as if to provoke me. The nightie rose up several inches and although I didn't see her pussy, somehow I realized that she wasn't wearing panties. She chugged down the remainder and looked at me. My face must have looked sternly disapproving, for she defiantly wiped the wine off her wet lips with the back of her hand and spun around to leave. But she slipped on the rug and went down. Luckily, she went down on her bum without hitting any furniture.

I rushed over and she seemed stunned, not injured, but only semi-conscious. I tried to rouse her by calling her name and shaking her shoulders. Lying there, her nipples were straining against the gauzy material. On film she looked as small as an A cup, but now she appeared to be at least a large B. I noticed how large and dark the nipples looked, like others I'd known with small tits.

There was nothing to do but put her to bed. Gently, I lifted her in my arms and carefully climbed the steps. She was so small and light. Her suite was strewn with clothes. I set her down at the foot of the four-poster, facing the glass wall. She had come around slightly and was able to sit there, although hunched over. As I pulled down the cover and sheets, she spread her legs very wide for stability, still bent over, groaning. I removed the extra pillows and turned to her to see if she could climb in herself, but she'd passed out and fallen back onto the bed.

I stared. The nightie had risen up to her waist, exposing her. Since she'd opened her legs a moment ago, her inner thighs and pussy were totally exposed in the bright moonlight. She had shaved everything but a tiny short piece, making her look far younger than her 25 years. The lips were overlarge, thick and long for such a small woman, and they glistened wetly. Her gorgeous pink cunt was practically dipping with juice.

Despite my hard cock, I knew there was only one option for me here. She moaned, shifting on the bed, but kept her legs spread. Resolute, I went to stand between her legs and looked down upon this incredibly hot young star. As I bent over her body, the front of my thighs made contact with hers and she sighed softly. Placing my forearms under her armpits, I lifted her to a standing position, her oversized nipples pressing into my chest and her head lolling on my shoulders, her face turned into my neck and her open wet lips pressed against the side of my neck. Unavoidably, my hard-on pressed into her pussy. She moaned.

I dragged her towards the head of the bed, laid her down, swung her magnificent legs up from the floor onto the mattress, and covered her.

Then I left, shutting the door behind me, terrified about what the morning might bring.

Chapter Two – The cove and a photo trove

I awoke later than planned, a touch groggy from a lot of wine but after I took a quick shower, felt fine. She had just begun breakfast in the kitchen. "Good morning."

Her eyes flicked up at mine and returned to her plate. "Hello," she said in a small voice.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, wondering if she was hungover.

"Fine." She seemed cold and aloof.

"Look, I didn't mean to be inquisitive, I was just concerned that you might be a little tired after the wine last night. Do you remember that you fell in the living room last night?"

"No, I don't remember that at all. Anyway, I feel fine," she said in a softer tone. I assembled my breakfast and sat down but gave her space and read the morning newspaper. After a few minutes, she said, "Thanks for asking."

"Sure," I said. "Where are they?"

"Oh, you just missed them. They went into town to do the shopping for the weekend," she said happily. She guessed what I was thinking. "We don't like to have staff here. It's just us and sometimes a few close friends and relatives. Besides, it's a cute town and they actually enjoy the marketing. They say it's relaxing and that they like to chat with the merchants." Town was a good 20-minute drive away. "They also said they'd probably stay in town for lunch as well."

"Well, don't be concerned about me. I don't need any looking after and I brought plenty of work and summer reading with me."

"I appreciate that," she said, sounding relieved. "I have work to do also."

I cleared my place, said "Catch you later," and left the kitchen.

As soon as I had settled onto a deck chair with two manuscripts, she walked out onto the deck, full of energy. "Want to go down to the lake? Morning dips are the best!"

"Sure," I said, surprised that she didn't want to be alone.

"Okay. Meet ya in 5."

She returned wearing a beautiful caftan. Seeing my stare, she said, "It's Moroccan." We walked down the grass slope toward the water. She also wore a hat, and carried a script. I laughed. "What she said, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

"It's just that we're both carrying scripts, although mine's a manuscript."

"It is funny, isn't it?" she agreed. Just before reaching the water, she grabbed my hand and led me off to the side. She was certainly full of surprises. I felt a rush at her touch, like a high school adolescent.

"What's up?"

"I'm taking you to my private spot." She pointed to the lake. "See that narrow opening? It leads to a tiny cove that's part of our property. My parents never go there because the walk is several minutes and it's not a good path. And boats never go there because the water's shallow and full of tree roots." She held my hand until we reached dense trees and a very narrow, twisty path. In five minutes we arrived at a lovely, isolated cove.

"It's beautiful," I said. She turned to me for a moment, smiling shyly and eyes downcast. Silently, we laid down a beach blanket and sat. She removed her caftan. [] I looked at her beautiful, pale skin. "Did you put on sun block?" She nodded and we got to work, sitting or lying side by side. I assumed she felt as comfortable as I did.

After a while the sun emerged from the tree line. Natalie promptly stood and without a word moved down to the shore, sitting on a large beach towel. It was a touch odd, but I assumed she wanted more personal space in order to focus. A few minutes later, I noticed her moving. She had removed the caftan and was wearing a bikini that looked lovely from the rear. She turned around and asked, "Shall we?" She walked back to me, showing off a very scant French-cut bikini, extended her hand and helped pull me up. Then she laughed and ran down to the water and plunged in. I followed and we had an idyllic swim. Back on shoe, we resumed our separate places. Shortly afterward, staring down at her script, she rose to a kneeling position, pulled off her damp bikini panties and unhooked the top.

She remained like that for an hour as I struggled with the hard cock in my swim trunks. It didn't seem like it was a come-on or tease. After a half-hour, she threw on the caftan, gathered the bikini straps, script and towel and left – without a word and avoiding eye contact. What the hell? Did she feel rejected after stripping? I was perplexed and disappointed since, after her initial frostiness at breakfast, the rest of the morning had been magical.

I stayed at the cove for quite a while to give her space. I headed back at lunchtime to make something for us, but didn't see her back at the house. Around 1:00 pm, she appeared in the kitchen. Immediately I said, "Thank you for taking me to your special cove. And I loved swimming together." She nodded and smiled in a small way. "Did I do anything to hurt your feelings?" She ignored the question, grabbed the plate I had made for her, perfunctorily muttered "Thanks for lunch" without meeting my eyes, and walked out. I was exasperated, feeling as if I was reliving some adolescent torture with a 14-year-old – although an incredibly beautiful and famous one.

After lunch, I watched her swim out to a float in the lake and sun herself, talking with a couple of neighbors. She wore a much more conservative bikini than the one she wore (part of the time) at the cove. It didn't bother me that I hadn't been invited. After all, she was usually surrounded by lots of people and had plenty of pressure when working.

Her script, filled with Post-It notes and margin comments, was lying on the coffee table, so naturally I picked it up. Apparently it was a historical romance about the painter Goya and his muse, to be played by Natalie. One scene had by far the most notes, where Natalie's character poses nude in Goya's studio. I considered this for a while. How interesting. The actress/student who decided to forego the premiere of one of her movies in order to study for exams, whose life appeared to be so squeaky clean, played a professional stripper in one film, during which a nude scene had been filmed but edited out. Now she was about to perform yet another nude scene. Yet gorgeous female stars only occasionally appeared nude in any films. Perhaps the girl and young woman whose life was so upright in most areas actually had a human vice?

The script had been lying on an open envelope. Several photos were visible peeking out from the inside. I had poked my nose into what was probably a confidential script, so why not some photos as well? I was stunned to see that the person in the first photo was . . . me. Yes, yours truly, standing in my own kitchen with my parents. I held a large metal spatula in my hands. I didn't remember the pose at all, but it must have been shot by one of her parents on Thanksgiving, when I drank throughout the afternoon (chef's prerogative). Natalie had been absent, on location someplace.