Hollywood Catpack By The Raven (raven@ravensword.com) Chapter 2, Part I of II Update: 15/03/1998 to raven WHAT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE, IN HOLLYWOOD CATPACK, CH. 1: Rocky Walsh, buddy starlet in 1960s Hollywood, discovered a secret organization called The Catfire Club. The members are Hollywood's most rich and powerful men. They gather together to watch their female stars, wives, and whores wrestle and catfight regularly. Rocky got lucky her first time out and whipped Angie Prickerson's tail. Angie's husband, Art, turned out to be gay and porking Rocky's agent/boyfriend, Stan. Meanwhile, Rocky experienced lesbian sex for the first time and loved it. But she also experienced flashbacks of the life of a Roman female gladiator...one in which she died in combat. Before she left the Prickerson's house, Rocky stepped on Stella Stellar's cunt. Now it's payback time for the Queen of Hollywood to teach the young whipper-snapper a lesson in combat... Copyright (c) 1997, 1998 by RavensWord Publishing. All rights reserved. You may download the documents containing my fiction in order to read them only. You may not reproduce, redistribute, repost, or resell them for financial monetary gain. This covers not only printed documents, but electronic media as well. RavensWord Publishing fiction is restricted to adults, age 21 and older. If you are a minor, you are prohibited from reading this work. IF YOU'RE NOT YET 21, IF ADULT MATERIAL OFFENDS YOU, IF YOU ARE ACCESSING THIS FROM ANY COUNTRY OR LOCALE WHERE ADULT MATERIAL IS SPECIFICALLY PROHIBITED BY LAW, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. "Suck it in hard, honey," Angie commanded. Her teeth were gritted with a cigarette bobbling from her lips. "This thing is a monster." The blond was applying a torture device to my body, the most unique invention of the 20th century: The Playboy Bunny Suit. Angie was taking great pleasure in tying the corset tight around my waist. No matter how petite or thin you were, those Playboy costumes always found a way to hurt you. Angie’s hands yanked and knotted the cord behind the back. I breathed freely, to find my ribs rubbing against the hard velvet material. It was prime time to be a Bunny in August 1964. The Playboy Empire was flourishing and the sexual revolution had only just begun. I was decked out in Hef’s finest: a light blue bunny outfit that accented all my best curves, amplifying my already large tits so that they almost popped out into a man’s face. I wore the white ball tail, resting on my raised ass that the tight crotch produced. Fishnet stockings ran down my short little legs. I wore black stiletto heels that click-clacked on the hard floor as I walked. A black bow tie, collared around my neck, completed the ensemble. "Damn!" Angie swore after I had the full outfit on. "You look gooooooddd." The blonde took a drag off her cigarette and licked her lips lustfully. I could smell the booze on her breath. She was already three sheets in the wind. But I had to agree with her about how I looked. I could get wet just looking at myself in the mirror. The dressing room was a long row of tables and mirrors. The regular club Bunnies came back in periodically to sneer at me and touch up their lipstick. Stella had arrived ahead of me, pre-stuffed into her own copy of the costume. She was sitting somewhere outside, warming up the Rat Pack. I hoped like hell she was getting blasted on booze. I heard Stan running frantically down the stairs. He was nervous, despite being high as a kite on pot. His eyes were dilated to the size of the moon. This was as big a night for him as it was for me. "Good, you’re ready!" He didn’t pretend to be attracted to me anymore. "You better get out there. The King is here. He wants to meet you before the fight." Butterflies popped up in my stomach. Of all the celebrities I had met, none had been my idol more than HIM. "Go get ‘em, honey-pie!" Angie yelled, and slapped my ass. She kissed my neck and whispered in my ear: "Watch out for her claws." "Come ON!" Stan exclaimed. "He wants you to give him a whiskey!" My boyfriend, the closet fag. He had his own fantasy about the King of Rock and Roll. We walked up the steps and into the club. The stench was overwhelming from the first moment I walked inside. The air was so thick with cigarette smoke that my skin reeked for days afterward. I tried to look for the people I knew, but the lights from the ceiling were blinding. They wanted everyone to see the Bunnies as they first walked in. I tried to appear calm and collected, walking on those tall spires, as we made our way over to the bar and collected the drink on a tray. Stan led me to a table in the center of the club. The glare faded from my eyes and I saw a familiar face, from countless movie and music magazines. Dreamy eyes. Cute lips. Long sideburns. He sat next to Art Prickerson and Hugh Hefner. Stella, Dino, and Sammi Davis were across from them at the same table. "Elvis," Stan said, "This is Rocky." Right on cue, I did the famous Bunny dip, arching my back to serve Elvis Presley his whiskey. My breasts and butt flexed in unison, thanks to the tight costume. I wish had a picture now. I still remember how Elvis gasped. "Thank ya very much!" Elvis exclaimed. "Come and siddown here, little lady!" He scooted over in the both and patted the cushion beside him. I sat down and noticed Elvis eyeing me as I crossed my legs. "Ol’ Art here wasn’t kiddin’ when he told me about you!" Elvis took my hand and kissed it. "Yer a real purty peach of a girl!" "Why, Elvis!" I exclaimed in a mock southern accent. "You are such a gentleman." "She could be your Vegas dancer," Art said. "If she wins the fight." Stella glared knives at me from across the booth. I knew she hadn’t forgotten our encounter in Prickerson’s bathroom. Her boobs quaked with the sudden throb of her heartbeat. Her costume was an exact duplicate of mine, save for the red color of the tunic. It was Art who had set up the catfight after my little scene with Stella. Elvis’ next picture was going to be Viva Las Vegas. Stella had already been in his 1962 pic, Girls Girls Girls! Word on the street was that Elvis loved bonking Stellar in her ass so much that he wanted her back in the Vegas pic. Though Elvis also liked a stunning redhead: Margaret-Ann. Stella had fought M-A in Prickerson’s litterbox for the right to be Elvis’ girl. Stella had won the fight. She was going to be with Elvis again...until Art decided to mix things up a bit. The men in the Catfire Club were stirred up after seeing me kick Angie’s ass. There was a buzz in Hollywood now that I could be The Next Big Thing. After stomping Art’s wife, I thought I was home free. I spent the next day replaying the fight over and over in my mind. I tasted the kiss of Angie’s lips a thousand times and fought the urge to call her up on the phone. I felt like I was going insane. In those days, both lesbians and homosexuals were committed to asylums! I sought to purge these dirty dyke thoughts by going to the beach. I wanted to convince myself that I was still a nice little straight girl from Chicago. Instead, I wound up looking at other women in their bikinis and fantasizing about fighting them in a Roman arena. I wrote off all the past-life flashes of Dorian and a woman named Celine to my demented mind. I went home and masturbated myself with a carrot about a half dozen times. I managed to fall asleep shortly after midnight. The phone rang me up at 8am. It was Stan. He was ecstatic, said he had the BEST news, I had done it, I was going places. I thought I finally had a supporting movie role. Instead, I discovered that I still wasn’t officially part of the Catfire Club. I had only passed through the first of three requirements. "Art wants to sign you to a contract," Stan schmoozed. "Dino and Peter Lawford are dying to get a crack at you. If Kennedy was still alive, you’d be fucking him in the Lincoln bedroom by now! Ya gotta through one more fight, then you’re in, white and tight." "What kind of fight?" I asked. I was horrified and excited at the same time. "You against Stella in the Chicago Playboy Club. This a big one, kid--you’re going up against Art’s prize bitch!" My heart skipped a beat. I had egged her on, now it was paying off. "Groovy. What do I get if I win?" "Art says he’ll give you a role in Elvis’ next picture." Stan paused. "The role was going to go to Stella, but Elvis saw your bikini pictures. He’s got the jones to see you get it on with Stella." It turned out that Elvis had what is now known as the "Cat Scratch Fever", the catfighting jones, the sexual fetish for female wrestling. Albert Goldman wrote about this in his suppressed biography about the King. Elvis’ "boys" would recruit some of his wildest female fans to come to Graceland for a fight show. The guys would have the two kittens strip down to their underwear in Elvis’ bedroom. One would wear black panties, the other would wear white ones. They would grapple on the bed, while Elvis watched and masturbated in the next room, through a hole in the wall. Elvis’ favorite type of lady fight: blonde versus brunette. Art’s producing Elvis’ picture, needs a starlet to match the King’s fantasies: Stella and me. Kismet. Just the thing to keep the King Creole happy and to keep Art producing the profitable Elvis movie franchise. Hugh Hefner, one of the charter members of the Catfire Club, was only so happy to provide the arena. Stella would have fought me just to prove the new kid on the block wasn’t so great. But Art had to say to her: "Maybe Rocky would be better in the Vegas pic than you. Elvis doesn’t like to use the same starlets twice. You can make this futuristic dinosaur flick instead, Two Billion Years AD." Stan was there when Art told Stella. She fumed, slammed the table with her fist, and shouted: "No way is that CUNT taking my place in Elvis’ picture!" "Fight her for it then," Art challenged her. "Winner gets Elvis. Loser gets loin cloth and cavemen." "I’ll teach that bimbo and give her a set of scars to boot!" Stella yelled. When Angie heard, she phoned me up. "Listen, honeycake, Stella is a witch. There ain’t nothin’ she won’t do when a movie is at stake. Let me train ya!" "And be your SLAVE?" I retorted, for that was the bottle blond’s price. "We’re all in the same boat, honey. You, me, Stella, Stan, Magaret-Ann: we’re all slaves to Art Prickerson." "Got news for you, HONEY. Slavery was outlawed long ago. Go lick your own cunt." I had too much pride for one so young. I should have taken her up on the offer. I needed a Mistress to train me, but I didn’t want to accept the only one I knew. Instead I did it the hard way, trying to train myself. I jogged, went on hikes, played lots of tennis. I watched boxing on TV and jabbed at imaginary opponents. I watched wrestling and practiced a few moves, mainly somersaults on my rug. I put watermelons between my legs and squeezed them hard for minutes at a time, pretending it was Stella’s head I was crushing. Art made it clear that I had to fly with Angie into Chicago and let her get me ready for the fight. She was horny as hell and kept trying to grab my crotch under a blanket during the flight. I kept pushing her away. "I’m your only hope and salvation," Angie whispered. "You’re a drunk and a dyke," I retorted. "You cunt. Have it your way. I’ll see you out the other end." She sulked in her chair and had a few whiskey sours. We had arrived at the Playboy Club at around 11pm. It had taken almost an hour to find a Playboy Bunny costume and fit me inside of it. It was midnight when I met Elvis. We talked for an hour, then the club was closed, to all the non-players, the civilians, the schlubs, as Dino called them. By 1:15pm, only the rich and famous were left, and had all moved down to the front row seats. Foggy mist was rolling down onto the center stage. Hugh Hefner walked up on the stage and spoke into a microphone: "This meeting of the Catfire Club is now open! Thank you all for coming. We have some lovely Bunny battles for you this evening. You may have noticed Christine and Mary tonight." Hef gestured over at the rear of the club, where a white and a black Bunny leaned against the Bar. The two women turned and waved at the crowd. "They will be fighting up here on stage very shortly. The prize to the victor will be the privilege of becoming Miss December Playmate. Mary there is very anxious to become the first Black bunny. Of course, Christine comes from a long line of Georgia aristocrats. She wants to put Mary back in a lovely set of chains." The crowd murmured pleasingly. The black woman turned and stared darts into the blond bimbo. I suspected it was all a show. The two looked like they were lovers already. Hef continued. "Our title match will come first, for the benefit our treasured guest, who is suffering from jet lag." "I wanna see them HONEYS get it on! Whoaaa!" Elvis yelled. Dino laughed and slapped the King’s back. The others were drunk and busted up laughing, too. "OK, then," Hef continued. "Will you please come up here, Rocky?" As I started to walk towards the stage, I felt someone pinch my butt. I expected it to be a man, but I turned around to see the red-headed actress/dancer, Magaret-Ann, sitting at a table with Peter Lawford. "Give her one for me, darlin’!" M-A said with a wink. I was nervous as I approached Hef. He pointed the microphone at me and said: "Tell us about yourself. Who is Rocky Walsh?" "Just an old-fashioned Chicago girl..." I sputtered, not knowing what to say. This felt more like a beauty contest than a fight. I finally came up with a finish: "...who likes to kick a woman’s ass!" "You bet you do!" Dino yelled. "Ain’t that right, Art?" The producer nodded toward the Rat Pack founder. "I heard you did something to Stella the last time you saw, her Rocky," Hef stated with a smile. "Could you tell us where that was and what you did?" Now I knew Hef’s game: he was revving up the crowd. "Sure, Hef," I said with a smile, rolling my hips a bit. "I last saw Stella in Art Prickerson’s bathroom. I kicked her in the cunt and told her to go fuck herself!" Howls of laughter erupted from everyone. Stella shot up from her seat next to Sammi Davis and jabbed her finger at me: "You are going DOWN NOW!" The blonde started walking quickly to the stage. "Here she is, Miss April, 1962, Stella Stellar!" Hef boomed, and jumped off. I braced myself for the fight I was aching for, ever since the litterbox. To be continued in Hollywood Catpack, Chapter 2, Part II...