"Candy, beautiful, that about wraps it up for this film."

"Thanks, Frankie," the voluptuous brunette said, exhausted now that the shooting had been wrapped up. She waved weakly to the director behind the camera and fumbled for her robe. "I could use a glass of iced tea."

And I can also use a cold shower, Candy Mullender thought, sniffing the air. She could smell the rich, ripe woman-scent of her own perspiration and feel the moisture coating her smooth, tapering ivory-hued thighs and trickling down the valley between her high-set tits. The camera crew were wiping their brows and hands too, looking just as wrung-out as she felt. Eighteen hours of straight shooting for a new film was bound to take a lot out of anybody. And as a performer, one of the rising female movie stars, Candy found she could put more of herself into a character if she completely immersed herself into the role. Although she was now twenty-five, she had never become entirely adjusted to the way her teenage fans ogled her sensual body. It made her uncomfortable, just as did the four-letter words everybody else seemed to use so casually.

"Sometimes I wonder if they're listening, or just looking," she once mused to the agency man assigned to her.

"Honey, it's like the old sign at railroad crossings -'Stop, Look, and Listen,' Jason Wells told her. "They look, and they listen-they break box office records at the theaters in order to see your beautiful face."

"I suppose so," she had conceded, but wishing it didn't have to be that way. She fet like a piece of meat on a rack.

Now, dripping wet from her last scene in the movie, with her thin robe belted around her tiny waist, the sleek brunette entered the studio where the camera crew were wrapping up today's shooting. They caressed her exhausted body and exchanged the meaningless showbiz kisses and she forced herself to endure it all. She knew they meant nothing, but the close contact with male flesh, and the scent of manhood filling her flaring nostrils, excited her and she had to break away.