Hollywood Catpack By The Raven (raven@ravensword.com) Chapter 4 Update: 05/04/1998 to raven WHAT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE, IN HOLLYWOOD CATPACK, CH. 1-3: 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's beaten two bitches so far: Angie Prickerson and Stella Stellar, both who appear to be slaves to Angie's hubby, Art Prickerson. Rocky's pissed Art off, but she has no idea why. He fucks Rocky until she's unconscious. Rocky has an incredible dream that unfolds a chapter in the life of her past as a female Catalan ruler. She dominated two male slaves called Romulus and Dionysus, and two Asian female members of the Noble House, Lady Rose, and her daughter, Lady Sato. As the next chapter begins, Rocky awakens back in the present day of 1964... 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. The maid knocking on the door awakened me in the strange room. I didn’t answer right away, as it took me a while to wake up. I had no idea where I was or who I was, for more than a few seconds. The dream of the Lady Rose and the slave Romulus was so fucking real. When the maid opened the door, I looked up and saw the fine Chicago hotel room. I was lying on top of the bed sheets, naked as a jaybird. I wanted to run and hide, but I was exhausted. "Sorry!" The maid stammered, eyes going wide. "Come back later." In those days, it was almost unheard of to sleep without wearing pajamas or nightshirts. I groaned and sat up. My head was dizzy, and I could feel the soreness in my body. My neck had kinks in it. I recalled everything in a quick series of memory flashes... ...The fight with Stella at the Playboy club... ...Winning the fight but losing the film role... ...Angie’s surprise attack back here... ...Our short but sweet lesbian fuck in this bed... ...Art’s savage butt fuck, making me Submit to him before he almost drilled through my waist with his super- cock. A wave of hatred for the man came over me. I stood up. My ass was incredibly sore. Art’s butt- fuck had taken a toll on my anus. I would scream every time I took a shit for days afterward. I went to the bathroom, took a piss, washed some water over my face. My eyes were still not wide open. I was so depleted of energy, I was sure that I was sick. I showered, toweled myself dry, and then stretched my naked body, trying to touch the ceiling with my hands. I glanced back at the mirror, looked at my ass, and noticed that everything was normal. My wounds had healed completely! It was impossible. The gouges on my butt and back from Stella’s claws were too deep to disappear this quickly. I turned and looked at my face in the mirror. The scarred tissue there was also magically repaired. My skin was the same clean, buttery complexion that it had always been. My mind raced back to what Angie had said last night: "Art’s got a secret way of healin’ em. So we can fight one night and go back on camera the next day. That’s the benefit of joining the Club." I still couldn’t get over it. My fingers ran down my cheeks, feeling the perfectly smooth skin. Down my chin, everything perfect. Down my neck... ...where I wore a collar. Stupid, but I had been so groggy, I had not noticed it. It was a black collar, made out of a hard material, neither metal nor plastic. A single Amethyst stone lay in the center of the collar. I screamed. It was the same collar as in my dream. The collar I had placed on Lady Rose’s neck, to weaken her will. The same magical collar that the slave Romulus had worn to make him subservient to me, the Lady Welch. I kept on screaming and screaming. I knew at that moment that my dream was more than a dream. Just as Art Prickerson was far more than a Hollywood producer. I had a past life, which had repercussions now in my reincarnation. I had never been that religious, but the idea of a soul being reborn again and again throughout eternity always appealed to me. I suppose I always had these dreams of being a Royal warrior. I had convinced myself that they were a product of an over-active imagination. When I met Angie and Art, they provoked my soul memory, because I had known both of them before. Prickerson shouted something in bed when he climaxed on top of me: "Dionysus, I have done it! I have lusted for this moment for over a hundred years!" Impossible as it seemed, I knew it in my heart it was true: Art Prickerson was Romulus. They looked exactly the same. They could have been twins. But they weren’t. They were the same man. Somehow, Romulus had escaped the world where females ruled, entered this world, and became Art Prickerson. And now I was HIS slave. Just as Angie and Stella were. I crumpled to the floor and started crying uncontrollably. The phone rang. I ignored it and kept on weeping. It did not stop. Finally, I stumbled over and picked it up. "Good morning, my dear. Did you have a nice sleep?" It was Prickerson. From the static on the line, it seemed like he had to be back in Hollywood. "You son of a bitch!" I moaned. "I want this fucking thing off me!" He laughed. "You can try and remove it, if you like. You’ll find it’s impossible." He was right. I felt around the collar and found no clasp or lock of any kind. I yanked and tried to snap it off. The band was too strong. I suspected that scissors or a razor blade wouldn’t do it, either. It was magic, as I had seen in my dream. "Fucker!" I shouted. Anger was good. It allowed me to stop crying. Prickerson laughed again, a soft, constant, cackling laugh. "You should have killed me when you had the chance. You were more partial to my cock than any other, despite your allegation that I was ‘just another barbarian’. That’s a mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your lives, I suspect." "Romulus!" I screamed. "Very good. You are starting to remember now. But it’s too late. YOU are wearing the Bitch Collar NOW." He paused for a few seconds and said: "Let’s be clear about this. YOU ARE MY BITCH." I could think of nothing to say. I growled and my legs pounded the bed in frustration. "Life is simpler in this world," he continued. "Being my bitch means you’ll star in my movies, and give me 40% of your salary as well. You’ll fight when I tell you to fight, lose when I tell you to lose, fuck when I tell you to fuck. Everything goes through me. Do what I say, I’ll give you a taste of high-quality cunt. Disobey me, you’ll get the whip, you’ll get hurt, you’ll get disfigured, and you’ll never work in this town again, honey bunny. Got all that?" "Yeah, I got it," I replied. "I’ll play your game for now." "No, you’ll play it forever!" Art shouted back. "Listen to God: you’re gonna call room service, have them serve you a late breakfast with a whole carrot. You’ll snap off the thickest part of that carrot, shove it in your ass, and keep it there all fucking day. You’ll hold off shitting all day, until midnight when you will take it out for sex. Go find the menu now!" I wanted to tell him he was screwed. But the Bitch Collar was pure evil magic. I started looking for the room service menu. I was helpless. "Got that menu now?" He asked. "Yesssssss." I said, through clenched teeth. "Good," Art replied. "Use it after I hang up. Now, you do anything you like today, as long as the carrot stays in your butt. At midnight, you’ll go to the Playboy Mansion, where you’re gonna suck Stella Stellar’s pussy in front of Hefner and the Rat Pack. From now on, you’ll let any big star I like fuck your brains out, male or female. You’ll fake orgasms and act like all of them are the greatest fuck of the decade. Got that?" I groaned, tried to resist saying anything, but a compulsion in my mind made me blurt out: "YES!" "Then tomorrow, you’ll get on a plane and fly to Italy. I’ll send the tickets over today. You’re gonna star in Two Billion Years AD. You’re gonna pretend to be scared by cheesy fake dinosaurs, show off your tits and ass in a skimpy loincloth bikini, and fight an Italian bimbo. You’re gonna be a major fucking sex symbol and you’re gonna owe your entire goddamn career to me. And who am I?" I fought it longer this time. A minute passed while I stuttered, clenched my teeth, tried to stop the words. Sweat ran down my cheek. Finally, I stammeered: "M-m- mmmyyyy MMMMaaaasstttteerrrr." "That’s the wrong answer," Art replied. "I am your GOD. You had better say that right next time or we’ll break you clean, Angie and me. We know pretty well how to break slaves. We learned from you, a long, long time ago in a land far, far away. BITCH!" He slammed down the phone. I immediately ordered the room service, with the carrot. The collar made me do everything as Prickerson specified. I looked at myself in the mirror. Things looked pretty grim now, but I could give myself a slight smile. I knew who I was now. I was glad the bastard had called me to gloat. That was his big mistake, you see: rubbing the salt in my wound. Prickerson had to let me know who I had been in my past life, to make me feel terrified of him in the present. But his plan backfired. Instead of fear, I felt hate, a deeper hate that would motivate me to perform superhuman acts of courage. My former slave would fuel me again, though this time he would stoke the fires for my revenge. I had ruled him once before. I would do so again. I would grin and bear the sex slavery at the Playboy Club tonight. I would let Stella, Dino, Peter Lawford, even Sammy Davis fuck me silly, just like Art had said. Except they’ll become my pawns in the end. They’ll wind up owing me, and they’ll owe me big time. One single picture in my mind was going to keep me going through all the sex and degradation: Romulus wearing that sweet and twisted Bitch Collar. He was going to wear it again and call me "Lady". To be continued in March 1998. For updates, visit RavensWord Publishing web site: http://www.ravensword.com