Alfred Hitchcock

River, who hadn’t bothered putting her clothes on, leaving them for the horny star-gazers that had assembled to watch her public display of debauchery to pick up, strolled up the stairs and made her way to the bedroom.

She found no one in the room, and walked over to sit down on the queen-sized bed, waiting for the sisters to arrive, while teasing her ever-wet pussy.
Getting more aroused, River was just about to slip a few fingers into her tight slit when she heard the smaller side-door leading to the room creak as it was pushed open.

The figure that entered the room was not one of the Alpha sisters, but a naked man. From his bald head, impressive physique and tall stature and the huge cock that dangled between his legs, the club-like head of it in level with his knees, River recognized the man as Alfred Hitchcock, the legendary director whose movie “Nympho” had set in motion Hollywood’s drift towards much more graphically sexual movies. He had starred in the male lead himself, and had treated his female casts, Cathy Hepburn and Lana Turner to a series of highly intense encounters.

“Ah,” Hitchcock grinned as he spotted River sitting on the bed, her voluptuous body still bearing the signs of the hard fucking that she’d received earlier, “Miss Hayworth I presume?”

“Yes,” River replied, watching Hitchcock’s dick swing between his legs as he sauntered over towards the bed, “and you must be Hitchcock.”

“Whatever gave me away, my dear?” Hitchcock wondered, with a smirk, stopping right in front of River.

“This, mostly,” River responded, patting Hitchcock’s member before clasping her nimble fingers around the thick cockhead, “I recognized it from the silver-screen.”

“Ah, yes,” Hitchcock grinned wider as he felt his massive prick stirring to life at River’s touch, “though I’ve yet to meet a girl who’s willing to have me fuck her in the ass while the cameras’ are rolling.”

“Trust me honey,” River smiled, “when I tell you that that is about to change.”