Only a small oil lamp lighted up the heavy tent. The oil was low, and the light flickered to cast weird shadows on the canvas walls and on the iron cot at one side.
The brown-skinned girl was naked, her head tilted back over the end of the cot, and her thick black hair streamed down to the hard ground. Her forehead was wrinkled as if in the deepest concentration beneath the red cloth headband bound tightly over the top. Her moist, overripe lips were curled back to bare sharp, small white teeth and the nostrils of her somewhat squat nose flared and shrank. Her short, stubby fingers were dug into the neck of the naked man atop her, his head pillowed between her heaving, gourd-like breasts, and her wiry, slim, smoothly muscled calves locked over his buttocks as he jerked back and forth against her, driving his swollen manhood deep into her pulsating, moist, maddeningly tight cleft.
Her dark brown eyes were closed, but her eyelids were fluttering spasmodically, as she seemed to tilt her head still farther back until her brown, satiny throat seemed as if hewn from warm brown marble taken from the depths of one of the quarries along the Chilean plain. Her soft armpits were thickly tufted with damp black silky curls, and the scent of her flesh and of her private hair mingled with the aura of sexual cohesion in a kind of cantharidic distillation.
Her name was Tiama, and she had escaped from the clutches of the Zunata, a war-like tribe of South American Indians whose village was a few miles to the south and thousands of feet below this mountain in the Chilean Andes.
The black-haired, sinewy white man mounted upon her writhing, feverishly avid belly and who wore only a sweater and shorts and boots, was Carl Gallert, the twenty-five-year-old partner of this silver-mining expedition. Three days ago, when Tiama had come staggering up the cliff to fling herself down at his feet before the campfire, her feet bleeding from the sharp rocks and the mountain thistles, her cheap cotton dress tattered to shreds and the livid marks of a man's fingers on one satiny, brown-sheened bare arm, Carl Gallert had had her given food and water and her hurts palliated by Quitano, the native Chilean foreman of the crew. Quitano had questioned the girl in her native tongue and learned that she belonged to the Tadicale tribe, peaceful agrarian Indians whose village was to the north and at the base of the mountain. She had been trying to find medicinal herbs to cure her fever-stricken mother when two warriors of the Zunatas had appeared from behind a boulder and tried to drag her into a gully, there to violate her and then to take her back as a slave-bitch for their warriors. She had seized a rock and struck her captors and fled by a hidden trail she knew, and she had climbed the perilous Andean peak for hours until at last she flung herself down, exhausted and bleeding, before handsome young Carl Gallert.
Quitano had been worried about the wisdom of giving sanctuary to this Indian girl, for fear it would enrage the hostile Sonatas. Edward McKenzie, a year older than his humanitarian partner, had agreed with the Chilean foreman and angrily insisted that Carl Gallert send her back to her village and let her fend for herself. There was no sense in adding to the risks of this expedition, for it had already taken two years to get the Chilean government to issue Gallert and himself a permit for excavation along the range of the San Christobal Mountains to the south of the Mapocho River, about a hundred miles from the city of Santiago. It had been agreed that the two men should retain thirty percent of the value of the first year's excavation of unrefined ore ... a fabulous fortune ... surely one not to be thrown away so cavalierly over the worthless life of an unkempt, savage native girl.
And now, in her primitive gratitude towards her savior, Tiama had crept into Carl Gallert's tent, cast off the shirt and heavy trousers which Quitano had found for her in the pack of one of the workers, and, naked and feline, had moved to the black-haired young engineer as he sat at the table writing in the log of the expedition, lifted his hands and pressed them against her loins, and nodded with a passionate smile...
Tiama was groaning softly now, her eyes still closed, and the cadence of her breathing had become flurried as the tides of longing swelled with her quaking cunt. Now her hands cupped the cheeks of her white lover, forcing his mouth against one of her dusky coral nipple buds, and as he mouthed it, thrusting himself home to the roots inside her clamping sheath, she uttered a raucous cry and flung her legs around his buttocks, clenching him tightly to her pelvis as she arched into him to take the brunt of his virile organ into the deepest crannies of her churning love chasm.
Carl Gallert's hips, too, quickened their jerky cadence as, feeling his own need grow gigantic within his loins, he plunged back and forth inside that quaking channel as if, indeed, he were on the way to the bottom of the shaft where the rich vein of silver ore hid its priceless treasure from mankind. His face flushed and twisted with the cumulative force of his insensate rut, his hands now gripped the sides of her feverishly squirming satiny hips to pin her to his plowing. Tiama wailed a wordless plaint, locking her calves still more tightly over his sinewy buttocks as she seemed to urge him on to even more savage violence within her tender Venusburg.
And now he too began to groan as the gradual frenzy of an overpowering lust cast aside all notion of what or where he was, magically transcending all else until his only cogent awareness of life was the aching, demanding turgidity of his digging prick and the indescribably maddening sensations of Tiama's clamping and voraciously yearning cunt.
Their groans and cries mingled now in a discordant symphony of passion, drowning out the stealthy ripping sound of torn canvas on the other side of the tent. For outside, crouching down in the darkness, the clasp knife which he had used to cut a slit wide enough for himself to see what was going on lying on the ground beside him, Edward McKenzie stared with bulging, glassy eyes and trembling, lust-wet lips as he watched the primal union of the Indian girl and his partner.
Now their mouths fused, and Carl Gallert rose and sank with frantic speed on that brown-skinned, writhing, naked body, as their sublime moment approached.
Edward McKenzie's right hand tremblingly fumbled at the zipper of his heavy breeches, dragged it down to liberate his stiffening cock. Frenzied, he watched the furious writhing cohesion of those two bodies, and as they finally uttered a final shout of ecstasy, he felt his seed burst from him and spatter the tent.
Half-fainting with this explosive draining of his very life from him and from the torturing pangs of an irrational jealousy, he continued to watch. He could see Carl Gallert at last kneel up from the sprawled, palpitating nakedness of the Indian girl, saw the lamplight send a tracery of intricate patterns over her heaving breasts, her moist, flat belly with its wide and shallow umbilical nook ... and made the viscous drops of potent male sperm glisten salaciously and the rumpled, thick black curls of her pubis. He could see his partner's organ, stickied and dwindled, yet still tumescent. He felt his own vitiated manhood throb with renewed longing and covetous envy as Tiama slowly lifted her head, her eyes opening, humid and very wide; and then he saw her sit up, stretch out her hands towards Carl Gallert's loins, stroke his sinewy, hairy thighs, and suddenly and impulsively plunge her face against the obscenely pink and not yet dwindled instrument which had gratified her primitive needs. He saw her fleshy lips impose noisy, quick little kisses all over the meatus and the shaft itself, until his partner's prick seemed to become elongated again by magical incantation. And then he saw Tiama nuzzle that rigid dark-blue veined shaft between her palms, rubbing her cheek against it, her eyes half-closed as she crooned some primitive chant to the dark gods of fertility and passion.
And then he felt tears sting his eyes, and it was not from the bleak November wind that dashed itself against the smoldering campfire and the tents all around it. For these were tears of lust-envy and of frustration as he saw Carl Gallert cup Tiama's dark, satiny titties and force her back down on the cot as with a single, easy lunge his partner again transfixed her with his renewed and replenished spear.
He could bear no more. He stumbled to his feet, and a gust of wind made his own restiffened prick bob and dance as he fumbled for the knife he had abandoned. Retrieving and closing it, stuffing it into the pocket of his breeches, he stumbled back to his own tent. Flinging himself down upon his cot, his hand again grasped his rigid member as, closing his eyes, he imagined that Tiama was here with him now, servicing his elemental needs, proffering the kisses of that moist red, savage and hungry mouth upon the shuddering and furiously sensitized organ about which his fingers tremblingly moved in ever-increasingly rapid tempo. . .
Even before this November night high on the Chilean peak, Edward McKenzie had begun to wish he had never gone with Carl Gallert. If only he hadn't needed capital so badly, he could have arranged the expedition by himself, and then the thirty percent allowance by the Chilean government could have been all his.
Twenty-seven, brown-haired and stockily built, six feet tall and lacking the personable and communicative social graces of his younger partner, Edward McKenzie had got the idea for this expedition from his own father, a famous mining engineer. Old Christopher McKenzie had mined in Ecuador, Peru, and Uruguay, but just a year before his death he had made a small strike in the Chilean Andes, perhaps fifty miles from this present campsite. There he had met an old Indian guide who had told him that it was believed that a great cavern, hidden for many hundreds of years by avalanches and the accumulation of rock and soil, contained a virtually limitless store of silver, but that the gods did not wish strangers from other lands to find it, and so had hidden it by nature's ways. The old Indian had told Edward McKenzie's father where he believed this cavern to be located, in gratitude; Christopher McKenzie had saved him from being crushed to death by a boa constrictor, attacking the monstrous serpent with a hunting knife and cutting and stabbing away until at last the hideous reptile had loosened its lethal coils.
So Christopher McKenzie had told his son in turn of this hidden treasure, and had given him a crude map which the old Indian guide had made. At first Edward had laughed and told his father that there were such tales of treasure everywhere, and all of them mere figments of the imagination. But his father had shaken his head and told him there were certain recognizable signs of the locale which the map indicated, and from the geologic point of view it was entirely possible that the map might lead to one of the richest lodes of silver ore ever discovered in South America.
Then his father had died of pneumonia and Edward McKenzie had spent a year trying to obtain a permit for excavation. Only because his father had been well known to the former president of the Chilean Republic had he been given any hope, for he himself was as untested, untraveled, with only a degree from a mining college to qualify him. But finally, after a year of technical maneuvering, the permit had been granted.
Yet his father had not left him enough money to outfit an expedition that would take from three to six months and would require minimum equipment and the wages for a loyal crew of workers. That was why Carl Gallert was here. Carl Gallert, wealthy son of a Florida realtor, whom he had met in New York in an archaeological museum and with whom he had struck up a grudging friendship. And when he had discovered Gallert's great wealth as the heir to a realtor who was practically a multimillionaire, he exerted what little charm he possessed to convince his new friend that the financing of such an expedition would be a vastly rewarding investment.
Well, Carl Gallert had put up the capital willingly enough. But the Chilean government officials had perhaps suspected that this time the young Norte Americanos might be onto something really big. So they had drawn up a contract which had to be fulfilled. The government had stipulated that within three months of their setting foot in the locale where the vein was supposed to be located, there must be a mine ready for operations and the first assay samples from the vein itself submitted to the government assayer for inspection. If that condition was not fulfilled, the contract would be void, and Carl Gallert and Edward McKenzie would be obliged to abandon the project.
And now, with only a few weeks left before the deadline, with the mine not yet ready, with the native workers grumbling their discontent over the long hours, the short rations, the lack of women, that son-of-a-bitch Gallert had taken that little slut of an unwashed and perhaps even diseased Indian girl into his tent and had fucked her.
All they would need now, Edward McKenzie thought glumly, was a surprise attack by the Zunatas who had doubtless been told about Tiama's escape from two of their warriors and might even now be planning to ambush them.
The November wind and the snow above them and the discontent of the men who had to dig in the mine were unfavorable hazards enough without incurring this unnecessary danger.
He did not speak to Carl Gallert during that next day, because he was busy thinking what to do. And by nightfall he believed that he had come upon a plan.
Their mineshaft was on the side of this mountain at an altitude of some five thousand feet, reached by tortuous climbing, where only stolid burros could go. They had had to dynamite, and then sink the mineshaft foot by foot, with the most painstaking work. All the damned Indians wanted was their empanadas (meat pies), their chupe de mariscos (shellfish), and their Santa Carolina, the white wine of the country. And of course, women. That lantern-jawed, unfriendly bastard Quitano, the only worker who spoke any English at all, had already told him this.
Maybe if he arranged it so the men could have this little bitch, it would get them back to work in earnest. But first he had to dispose of Carl Gallert, because the romantic fool, now that he'd fucked this little piece of Indian cunt, would probably feel all sorts of heroic nonsense about being her guardian angel and all that sort of crap. Maybe a little accident could be arranged. Maybe he could go down into the mine and pretend he'd found the beginning of the vein that they were all looking for. And then he'd have Carl down there to look and to make some tests-the young bastard was a perfectionist, even though he was an amateur. Then, very carefully, he'd sneak out of the mine and toss a stick of dynamite down there. It would blow not only Carl Gallert to kingdom come, but it might speed up the work of uncovering that hidden cavern about which the old Indian guide had told his father years ago.
But before he gave Tiama to the men, he'd have a piece of her himself, by God! As he sat alone in his tent after supper, he closed his eyes and imagined that he could see again what he had seen inside his partner's tent-the cot, the sprawled and naked girl with her long, thick black hair streaming down to the hard ground, the pink, wet lips of her cunt and the sperm-stickied tangle of curls which framed it, the swollen nipples of her titties and the heaving of her belly and the shuddering of her naked thighs and-oh, Goddamn her!-the spasmodic rippling of her calf and thigh muscles as they had clamped around his partner's bottom when she was about to give down her tidal flow.
He felt his prick aching again at the very thought. He pressed a hand against it, biting his lips almost to the blood. He'd had little luck with women, but that wasn't surprising, considering that old Christopher had been a dour sort of man content with a dried-up shrew of a wife ... yes, Edward could say that about his mother because she'd never shown him any affection. He'd gone to the mining school in New Mexico which his father had recommended, but during the holidays he'd gone back to New York. And his mother's sharp tongue and her questions about what he was learning at school and whether he was wasting his time with stupid girls had made him actually hate those holidays.
Not that he'd been any luckier out in New Mexico. Once, just a week before his graduation, he'd sneaked into town and gone into a tavern and tried to buy the favor of the little half-breed waitress. At first she'd shaken her head and laughed at him, but as he'd shown her more and more five-dollar bills, she'd at last greedily nodded. And that night, in the little room above the restaurant where she worked, she'd been ready for him. He'd gone there trembling with his aching desire, blind with lust, but she'd just lain there in a slip and waited for him, and when he'd finally stripped naked and come to her, a sudden nausea had come over him at the thought that he had had to buy love. And of course he'd been impotent, and she'd laughed at him, and he'd struck her.
And then she told him that she'd known from the start, when he'd kept offering her money, that he wasn't any good, that he was just a gringo who thought that only money could buy love. And he'd almost killed her in his furious hatred for her and her kind.
Tiama had resembled that little bitch in many ways. With the difference that she hadn't laughed at Carl Gallert. And if she was that good, maybe she could give him back his manhood and help him prove that he was just as good in bed as that snot-nosed, know-it-all, black-haired partner of his...
CHAPTER ONE....
Edward McKenzie sprawled back in his comfortably upholstered swivel chair, his eyes closed, at peace with the world and, immediately, absorbed with the delicious sensations which Jennie Stanway was procuring for him. Jennie was the pert, somewhat brassy manicurist from the barber shop in the basement of this very Fifth Avenue skyscraper where the offices of the McKenzie Mining Company occupied the entire thirty-second floor.
His private office was magnificently furnished, with carpeting fully an inch thick, wall to wall. There was a miniature bar at one side of the room and near it a low wide leather couch. His huge mahogany desk was in front of the enormous bay window, the curtains of which were presently drawn. On the other side of the room, to his right, was a huge armchair, and, just beyond, a desk and typewriter stand for his divorcee secretary Nancy Kroll. Framed on that wall was a costly oil painting of the famous Chilean mountain mine which, twenty years ago, had made his name famous throughout the world as a mining engineer and discovered of fabulous wealth. Beside it, were photographs of not only that mine but others in Ecuador, Guatemala and Colombia, as well as one of the latest, just opened on the northern border of New Mexico.
His right hand was soaking in the manicurist's little silver basin, while Jennie worked assiduously on his left. Her long slim fingers were caressing his shorter, stubbier ones, and he had only to inhale to be conscious of the cheap but heady perfume with which she saturated herself. He opened his eyes for a moment to contemplate her as she sat with her head bowed over her work-and it wouldn't be long before she was going to bow her head again in an even more intimate ministration. He shuddered with the pleasure of anticipation, and then closed his eyes and gave himself up once more to the delicious and beatific awareness of the many carnal sensations crowding in upon him.
Jennie was twenty-two, born on the East Side and at best had had two years of high school, but what she lacked in book learning she more than compensated for by her most eagerly servile temperament and the provocativeness of her sexual charms and temperament. She was buffing his nails now, and from time to time her soft fingertips touched his palm with a promise of even more exciting friction. She wore the white smock of the manicurist, dark brown pantyhose and dainty high-heeled black leather pumps; and he knew perfectly well that as soon as she unbuttoned her smock, her naked breasts, bold, young pale-milky pears, tipped with dark coral buds, would jut out in all their licentious offertory. But there wasn't any need to hurry. It had taken Jennie a while to learn this, but she was dutiful and money was always a helpful teacher in such matters.
It was four o'clock on Friday afternoon in the middle of November, and Edward McKenzie was recalling that it was just about twenty years ago today that he had pulled off the coup which had made him more famous than his own father and certainly immeasurably richer.
"I've finished with this hand," she said, "Shall I-you know?" Jennie's somewhat husky hoarse voice broke in upon his thoughts.
"Of course not. Finish the other hand. First things first, Jennie, I have always told you. And the next time I have to answer a question like that, I'll find myself another girl."
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Gee, I just thought-"
"Don't think, just do."
"Y-yes sir," she quavered. He felt her release his left hand, then heard her move her chair over to his right and then he felt her soft hand lift his fingers out of the basin, and place them in her lap. Now he felt the sharp sting of the scissors as she worked on his cuticles. He winced a little. She'd pay for that, the lovely little bitch!
Yes, it was just about twenty years ago today that Carl Gallert had gone down to the bottom of the mine with two of the native workers to make some more tests to find that elusive silver vein. Then he'd come down there in the crude cable car, with a dynamite cap cleverly attached to a detonator and that in turn connected to a timer, everything compactly arranged in a paper sack, as if he were carrying sandwiches. To one side of the crude little lift, he'd found a hollow pocket of shattered stone left by the drill. The sack had been thrust in there, he'd chatted with Carl and wished him luck in finding the vein, and then he had gone back up to the surface and waited. Twenty minutes later, there'd been an explosion. In the meantime, he had given Quitano, the foreman, and all the other workers permission to go back to their village and to take all the next day off.
And he'd found Tiama still waiting in his partner's tent. He'd tried to fuck her, he'd actually got her stripped down naked, till the bitch had knead him, right in the nuts. By the time he'd been able to move, she'd disappeared. But it hadn't mattered at all. Because when he'd gone down in that lift to see what had happened, there was hardly any sign of the bodies. Just fragments. But best of all, that explosion had opened up a side of the shaft and there had been a gleaming silver vein, so of course he had been able to confuse the deal with the Chilean government, and thirty percent of the value of the first year's excavation of pure ore had made him a millionaire.
Here he was now, at forty-seven, perhaps a little paunchier, but still in good condition when it came to fucking-Jennie could testify to that! With a handsome wife who was still pretty good in bed when he decided to honor her with his presence there, and a daughter who was his pride and joy.
Edward McKenzie sighed as Jennie worked diligently. He was thinking of Elinor, who had had her eighteenth birthday just last week. Tall and slim, with a proud oval face, and gray-green eyes and a sweet mouth, coppery red hair in a thick pageboy. And smart as a whip. His own flesh and blood. He didn't have to worry about brown-skinned Indian sluts anymore, not he! He could buy all the pussy he wanted, but what he liked best was the unusual and the spicy and the bizzare. like for example having Jennie up, regular as clockwork, every Friday afternoon at four for the past three months, letting her give him the best manicure she knew how, and then promising her a fifty-dollar bill for fifteen minutes of her time during which he could do anything he wanted to her.
Of course she had figured he just meant fucking, and the first time she had eagerly agreed. She was a greedy little bitch where money was concerned, Jennie was, but well worth it by this time. So he'd fooled her by making her strip naked and stand on top of his desk, her legs spread apart as far as she could, her hands on top her head. For fifteen long minutes. And she hadn't made it, either. So he had just tossed her a five-dollar bill, shrugged and said, "I told you what the bargain was, Jennie. You come back next Friday and see.if you can't earn it."
So of course she'd come back. He had a notion that she was on pot now and maybe about to get hooked from something a lot stronger which would take money to feed the habit. That was just fine, because then she really would come crawling. Luigi, the elevator starter who knew everything about everybody in the building, had tipped him off about Jennie from the start and let him know that the cute black-haired bitch was in a real bind for dough these days.
And so that second Friday Jennie had come up there all eager and ready to earn the full fifty. But he hadn't made her stand on the desk. This time, he told her to take off everything except her stockings and garter belt and crawl under his desk and bow her head down to his feet and kiss them for fifteen minutes straight. She'd got indignant and huffy, so he had just said, "I didn't mean to offend your maidenly modesty, Jennie. Suppose we skip it. I can get my manicures from Marie or Lucy just as well." So Jennie had gone through with it. She'd stripped in front of him and got down under the huge desk which was hollowed out in the middle so that she could just make it on all fours, and he'd watched her, leaning way back in his big chair, seeing those saucy breasts of hers dangle and jiggle as she moved towards him.
And every Friday from that time on, she'd been his bitch, his abject, servile, willing bitch, agreeable to anything he demanded. It amused him to think about it over his Friday lunch at the Four Seasons, to be talking to some important geologist and all the time thinking of some new humiliation and bizarre little game he could make Jennie play at four o'clock that afternoon.
"I-I've finished, Mr. McKenzie," Jennie stammered.
He opened his eyes and glanced at his right hand. "So you have, honey. You still want the fifty?"
"Oh yes, sir!"
"Well, let's see how you're going to earn it for fifteen minutes today. Hmm. We've tried just about everything, haven't we?"
She hung her head as her face flamed, docilely answering, "Yes-yes sir."
"Not quite everything, Jennie. Let me think a minute. Meanwhile, suppose you take off your smock. I'm right in guessing that you aren't wearing a bra or a slip, aren't I?"
The girl bit her lips and unbuttoned her smock. Sure enough, she wore only her pantyhose and pumps. She had a really lovely body, a bit angular at the shoulder blades, but a delightfully dimpled back, very deeply hollowed and parting oval buttocks that fairly yearned to be squeezed or slapped or pinched or-buggered. He'd done that too just two weeks ago. She'd knelt with her face buried in the couch and her bottom upreared with two pillows under her knees while he'd put it into her.
What he really wanted today was to watch her getting it from somebody else. A stranger, somebody who would treat her like a piece of flesh, like raw meat, to be tasted and then cast aside.
He scowled, slowly reaching for the phone, while the half-naked manicurist furtively watched him, her arms crossed over her shuddering pear-shaped breasts, his eyes fixed on the thick black triangle, plainly visible through the gauzy net of the body sheath. She reminded him of Tiama. In fact, she was Tiama for him. Because in his mind's eye, all the humiliations he made Jennie Stanway endure every Friday afternoon at four o'clock were a kind of back payment for what Tiama had done to him and how she had preferred his dead partner to him.
He dialed the receptionist. "McKenzie here, Edith. Is that new office boy still around, what's his name, Alfred?"
"Yes, sir. He just came back from an errand. Didn't you say you wanted to see him at five o'clock and that Mr. Lawrence was to have his separation check ready then?"
"That's right. I still want that check ready at five but I want to see Alfred right this minute. Send him in."
"At once, Mr. McKenzie."
He hung up the phone and turned to stare greedily at the cringing young manicurist. "I'm going to give you a treat," he told her as he opened his humidor and took out a panatela, lit it and relished the first aromatic puff of rich, cured tobacco. "A real treat. Have you ever made it with a seventeen-year-old boy, Jennie?"
"N-no, s-sir."
"I don't quite believe that, Jennie. I bet you were fucking when you were in your first year in high school. Ah, there he is now." There was a knock on the door. "Come in, Alfred!"
The door opened wide and a bespectacled, scared-looking frail youth appeared. He uttered a gasp and his face turned scarlet as he saw Jennie, then he made a move to close the door.
"Come in, I told you, Alfred. Don't mind Jennie there. Now close the door and turn the key in the lock, that's it. Come over in front of my desk."
"Why, yes, sir." The office boy hesitantly approached, studiously trying to avert his glance from Jennie. Edward McKenzie's lips curved in an amused smile. This was really going to be good. This was going to be fun.
"Now then, Alfred, you know why you're here, don't you?"
"I-I guess so, Mr. McKenzie. You-you're going to fire me. Gee, I didn't mean to leave that envelope you had me take-"
"Never mind that-what's done is done. Learn to be a man, Alfred. It's only your first job, and you're just a kid. You'll lose a lot of other ones and a hell of a lot more important ones than this, I can assure you. But don't whine. Stick your chin up in the air and walk out, take your check and do a little better the next time."
"Yes sir. But I didn't mean-"
"I've already heard the story and it bores me to tears. I didn't call you in here for that. Lawrence will have your check ready at five. You can get it from him. Wait a minute, where the hell do you think you're going?" For the youth had turned and was about to leave the office. Startled by the whiplash in Edward McKenzie's voice, he turned back, his eyes widening.
"I suppose you want that check, don't you, Alfred?" The boy nodded. "I know you've got an invalid mother and the money will come in handy. Well, I'm going to add a little extra to it, about fifty dollars. But you're going to have to earn it. Then if you won't then you will get neither the fifty or the separation check. Legally, I don't have to give you a dime except your final pay. You know that, don't you?"
The boy bit his hp and looked down at the floor and then slowly nodded again.
"Fine," Edward McKenzie chuckled. He turned his chair towards Jennie. "Do you see Jennie over there, Alfred?" he asked.
"Yes-yes, sir."
"I want you to take her over to the couch and fuck her."
"Ohh! What-what-Mr. McKenzie-" The youth stared incredulously and his face was violently crimson.
"I told you that if you refuse to earn your money, Alfred, I'll have Lawrence hold back that check. Do what I tell you to do and you'll get fifty bucks besides. Now go ahead, it's all paid for. Jennie won't mind, will you, Jennie?"
"No-no, sir," the manicurist stammered faintly.
The youth was trembling, but now his eyes furtively began to consider the half-naked brunette, and then he gasped and loosened his tie. Edward McKenzie drew on his cigar savoringly, feeling his pulses quicken at this quixotic scene.
"Well, Alfred? I haven't any more time to waste with you, boy. You can take Jennie over to that couch and fuck her, or get the hell out of my office and don't come back, understand?" he growled.
Then he added, with a wink at the trembling manicurist, "I think I ought to tell you that if you turn Jennie down, she doesn't get paid either. And she needs the money just as much as you do. She's got a little habit that's expensive, haven't you, my dear?"
"You-you devil!" the girl said in a trembling low voice, clenching her fists and bowing her head.
"Now, now, Jennie, that's no way to show your gratitude. Who's been paying you fifty dollars every Friday so you can get along in style? And I'm giving you a nice fresh young virgin-I'll bet Alfred never had a piece of cunt, have you, Alfred?"
"Oh no! I mean-can-does it have to-I mean-here-in front of-in front of-in front of-" the boy stammered.
"In front of me, exactly. Get with it. You've got about thirty seconds before I change my mind."
The youth slowly approached the young brunette, glanced fearfully back at Edward McKenzie, and then with a little moan, hugged the half-naked girl as he panted, "Gee, you're-you're awfully lovely-come on-he says it's all right-I-I want to do it to you-come on!"
"Now there's a romantic proposition if I ever heard one, Jennie. Go along with Alfred and show him the way. Give the boy a thrill. It's his first time. Remember how nice it was when you lost your cherry-or is that so far back that you can't remember now?" Edward McKenzie sarcastically jibed.
He watched the office boy grasp the young manicurist by the waist and practically drag her towards the couch. Jennie followed passively, her head bowed, while Edward McKenzie put his hand under the desk and opened the zipper of his fly and drew out his swollen prick. His chair up close to the edge of the desk now, leaning forward and with his right elbow bearing down on the surface, he watched with glittering eyes as the office boy tugged off his suit coat, removed his tie, and then feverishly fumbled with the zipper of his trousers while his stiff young cock emerged.
"Make her take everything off, Alfred," he encouraged him. "Jennie, show a little more cooperation if you want your money ... that's better ... now go to it! Give her a good fucking, Alfred. And you, Jennie, I want to see you really work at it and get every drop of spunk out of his balls. There's bound to be plenty, considering what a punk kid he is!"
His eyes were glistening as he watched the now panting and wildly excited youth mount the stark-naked brunette manicurist, who, her face turned to the back of the couch and averted from him, docilely parted her thighs and held up her arms to her adolescent partner.
In his ineptitude and frantic lust, Alfred probed himself against Jennie's cunt lips but without making entrance.
"Take your hand and show him the way, Jennie. Open up that hot little pussy for that nice stiff young cock!" Edward McKenzie called.
With a whimpering little sob Jennie Stanway obeyed. The youth uttered a cry of ecstasy as he felt himself entered into that warm snug citadel. Then, forgetting the presence of the big boss, forgetting the surroundings, he put his hands under Jennie's naked buttocks and, digging his fingers tightly into those resilient silky orbs, began to fuck her with the rapidity of a dog covering a bitch while Edward McKenzie, chuckling thickly, quickened the cadence of his left hand against his own frenziedly roused prick, timing his orgasm for the moment when the boy's hoarse shout of triumph rose in that soundproofed luxurious office.
CHAPTER TWO....
Alice McKenzie glanced at her wristwatch and decided she would treat herself to one of Helga's relaxing massages. It was three-thirty, and the chances were that Edward wouldn't be home for dinner this evening, since he hadn't told her to prepare anything tonight when he perfunctorily kissed her on the forehead at the breakfast table before leaving for his office.
On past performance, she was reasonably certain that he'd probably go to his club for dinner and then call her about eight or nine tonight and tell her that he was going to stay in downtown Manhattan to see a client who had flown in from Europe and be with him most of the weekend. It would probably be some expensive slut at the Hotel Pierre or the Algonquin, not a foreign client, but Alice McKenzie no longer cared. If anything, she was relieved when she found that her weekend was going to be her own. In the nineteen years of their marriage, she had long since given up hope of finding him either steadfast or satisfying in his erotic manifestations.
Leaning back in the elegantly upholstered chair while Marcel handed her a mirror to study the effect of the new cut he had prescribed. He was such a darling, with the face of a Roman senator and a thick mane of black hair and a slim wiry body-but the trouble was he was a fag. She'd practically flaunted herself at him when her best friend Roberta Estrin, had rhapsodically recommended this wonderful new French coiffeur on upper Fifth Avenue. She'd felt her pussy moistening the first time she'd sat down in his chair and observed his leonine head and felt the touch of his fingers on her hair. And since he'd flirted with her in a very gallant Continental way, she'd purposely made an engagement for the following week which she hadn't needed at all, and had gone to it daringly dressed in a very sheer faille cocktail frock, her sheerest beige nylons, a garter belt and bra and absolutely nothing else. When he'd tilted back the chair so that he could rub in the scented shampoo which he claimed to have invented himself, her short skirt had ridden up almost to her crotch, and the flesh of her pale bare milky thighs had been quiveringly exposed and yearning for him. Then, to her utter disappointment, he'd coughed discreetly and covered her legs with a towel, of all things! And later Rose, the pretty manicurist, had let her know that Marcel talked a wonderful line with all his women clients, but madly in love with a Greek shoeshine boy who he claimed would have made an absolutely marvelous model for Praxiteles.
Alice McKenzie frowned at her reflection in the mirror. Here she was, two weeks after her fortieth birthday, hardly a touch of gray in her light-brown-haired guiche, almost no telltale wrinkles or crows' feet, and a body that was still alluringly firm and desirable, and yet after nineteen years of marriage she was beginning to feel like a desiccated old woman, atrophying from disuse.
It had been at least five years since Edward had stopped having regular sex with her. Since then, it had been only sporadic, and by now she had learned to guess what had motivated him to seek her bed on those occasions. Perhaps he had been excited by standing next to some very slinky miniskirted young bitch in the elevator in his building, and had had practically wet dreams about the creature, so he'd come into her room in his bathrobe, his face red and twisted with lust, and started kissing her shoulders and neck and pushing her towards the bed. And the next thing she knew, he was weighing her down and thrusting himself into her so fast that it actually hurt, and then all of a sudden there would be a sobbing groan and he'd sag over her and then he'd pull himself out and exhale a long sigh, pat her on the shoulder and walk out of her bedroom, and that would be that for another couple of weeks. It was insulting and it was torture. Because here she was nearing the menopause, a time when every woman's sensitivities are keened to the ultimate pitch, a last flair up of youthful passion before the sobering quietus of aging maturity ... and she was merely a possession, a piece of bric-a-brac to her husband, and nothing more.
"It's very smart, Marcel," she complimented the black-haired stylist. "Of course, you've made me much too young. But it is flattering."
"Madame, you mustn't downgrade yourself so," Marcel Leonetti suavely murmured as he deftly removed the hand mirror and turned her chair towards the door of the private little salon which was his headquarters. "A woman of your beauty is much more desirable than one of these giddy young creatures with the abominable long, unwashed hair and the so-short skirt. As a true Frenchman, I shudder each time I see these predatory little creatures, these-how do you call them, Lolitas. But in my country, Madame McKenzie, you would be what they call a grande amoureuse."
Alice McKenzie blushed with pleasure at this extravagant compliment. She sighed again, remembering that Marcel was only words, all pretense and no prick-at least as far as a female was concerned.
She stared at herself in the full-view mirror and Marcel delicately whisked the back of her neck with a soft-feathered brush, her nostrils dilating with pleasure at the smell of the subtle fragrance of the skin-tinted powder he applied. She felt herself impersonally as if from a distance, a still-vivid woman with rounded cheeks, a straight nose with thin, sensuous wings, a full, perhaps overripe mouth, large, widely spaced green eyes. Because the weather was so chilly, she had worn a suit coat-skirt combination of a most becoming dark-brown tweed, with a white satin blouse cut low enough to show off just the start of the valley between jutting, cantaloupe-like breasts, which still were firm enough to go without a bra. She noted that the tight nylon bra she was wearing now emphasized the ripe nuggets of her nipples, which were much too prominently thrusting out against the tight blouse. Marcel behind her, was looking into the mirror too, but his face was impassive. She wondered perversely what he might do if she were dressed like a man, in the now fashionable tailored slacks and short-sleeved blouse with bowtie.
She really, she told herself, should begin watching calories. Lunch at The Four Seasons this noon had been a mistake, because she'd really gorged. And her psychiatrist, Dr. Martin Torway, had told her only yesterday afternoon that eating was a sublimation for sex; that obese people stubbornly gorged themselves as a kind of spiritual punishment for being lustful. Well, maybe it was true. And why not? The face, the body, she saw in the mirror beyond her were those of a woman who should have a lover even now, but didn't. She couldn't force herself to the kind of compensatory promiscuity which she knew Edward had practiced probably from the very first year of their marriage. She'd been a small-town girl from Rhode Island who'd come to New York to be with her cousin Ellen, and she'd got herself a job as a secretary with an investment counseling firm. Her boss had invited her one afternoon to a swanky cocktail party at the Waldorf-Astoria where Edward McKenzie had been the guest of honor and chief speaker. It seems he had discovered a fabulously rich silver mine in Chile and had become a millionaire practically overnight.
She'd never quite known how it had happened, but all of a sudden he was there at the buffet table chatting pleasantly with her, and the next afternoon he'd called her office and asked her for a date. And three months later they'd been married, and then ten months later Eleanor had been born.
At first Alice McKenzie had believed that life had been infinitely bounteous to her: a house in Long Island, charge accounts at Bergdorf-Goodman and Blum's and Saks, instant recognition by headwaiters at the Forum of the Twelve Caesars and the Colony and the Pavilion, a beautiful little girl and a devoted husband. But now, as the fateful chronology of her life neared the fortieth milestone, she felt the utter emptiness and frustration of a Tantalus.
Looking back now, she could see that they had never really made much of a go of it in bed. Oh, to be sure, Edward had always been virile, but by now she'd done enough reading and heard enough conversation from her girl friends to know that just having an erection wasn't enough to satisfy a woman. He'd always seemed to take her in a hurry, until she had come to dread the congested, twisted look on his face, the wheezing breath, the fumbling haste with which he dug his cock between her legs to seek out the soft well of her woman core. And then, almost without exception, an all too brief thrusting and withdrawal, and suddenly the seizure whereby his body would stiffen, would suddenly become immobilized, his eyes bulging, his lips parted, and then a sudden sticky burst would spatter her sheath; and with another despondent groan, his fingers digging ragingly into her naked hips, he would give up his essence. So often, too, it came just at the point when she was weakening, when the churning tides within her pussy were beginning to make a kind of synchronous rhythm with his ... and then his premature abandon would decimate everything, any feeling she ever had for him.
She could feel the tightness of her skirt's waistband, the cling of the skirt itself to her generous hips. Decidedly the massage would do her good. And maybe she'd even stay down tonight, take in a movie-she was still a small-town girl at heart and loved lurid historicals, though Edward detested them-and maybe call up Darlene Chalmers and stay the night with her. Yes, it would be good for both of them, because poor Darlene had just come back from Reno after shedding that big, beefy husband of hers after twelve years of marriage. Ben Chalmers, Darlene had often told her, went at a woman like a bull in a china shop, and might as well have had a piece of liver to content himself, for all the good he ever did his mate. Well, Edward had considerably more finesse, knew much more when it came to technique, but he simply had never had any staying power. Yet she had never been able to bring herself to talk to him about such things.
What they had after nineteen years had been said and done, was a kind of wary compromise between them. It had been that way ever since the week she'd given birth to Eleanor. The nurse in her private room had tried to call him because she'd wanted him to bring a book she'd meant to take with her to the hospital, and a woman had answered. And the nurse had been frustrated and tried to hide it from her, but she'd insisted upon knowing why the nurse had hung up so quickly and then she'd found out the first of his many extramarital adventures. That one had been Clarice, a slim, silver-blonde floozie of about twenty-four years, who was a chorine in an off-Broadway musical revue. Dora Sturtavant, who'd been her neighbor in those days, had told her all about Clarice and how she'd gone over to the McKenzie house, couldn't get anybody to answer the front doorbell, and had gone around to the library window-to see that little tramp wearing just high heels and a sequin bra, kneeling down between Edward McKenzie's legs as he lolled in a swivel chair, his bathrobe yawning wide while she took his penis in her mouth. She'd wanted to die when Dora had come right out and told her what she'd seen. But then, she'd thought about the baby and how important it was for little Eleanor never to have to worry about financial security, and so she'd made her compromise then and pretended it hadn't hurt her.
For the first five or six years she'd managed somehow, and during those years he seemed to want to keep on fucking her with at least a three-times-a-week regularity, even though it never worked out for them both. Of course now she knew why, because the psychiatrist had explained it: when Edward came to her, it was to use her in a kind of vicarious sublimation, pretending that she was this or that slut he'd had or was enamored of. It was loathsome, to feel herself so used and dirtied.
And yet a woman had needs, too. The torment of almost never having an orgasm with Edward had driven her after all these years to the psychiatrist. And to Marcel in the forlorn hope that the leonine hairdresser might be the magical lover who would turn her from a neurotic, aging woman into a passionate shuddering and burning houri.
"There!" Marcel pronounced triumphantly. "And now I think Helga is ready for you. I do hope you have plenty of time for the massage, Madame. When the pores are open, going out in this raw November wind could be very bad unless you rest at least half an hour and then dress very warmly."
"You're so sweet to be so thoughtful, Marcel," Alice McKenzie smiled as she stepped out of the chair, smoothed down her brief skirt, took a last critical look at herself in the full-view mirror. Helga was a new addition to Marcel's staff, having been added to his roster only a month ago. She'd heard the most wonderful things about the girl from Darlene. At least, Helga could work off the extra poundage she'd put on at lunch this noon.
"It does look very nice, Marcel," she conceded as she opened her purse and handed him a five-dollar bill. He deftly pocketed it, managing to kiss her hand in the process. He was really a dear about money, and always sent a monthly bill because, as he was fond of saying, cash was so plebian. She thought wryly that he'd probably spend that tip on a present for his Greek shoeshine boy. Ugh! The idea was disgusting to her, but at least it didn't seem to make him neurotic. Maybe it was better to have a deviation than to be unfulfilled the way she was...
Helga was a magnificent young Amazon, about five feet eight inches in height, with spectacularly jutting round mammaries and robust hips and full solid thighs and calves, to which her tight short-skirted uniform clung as if she were naked underneath ... as indeed she was. Her hair was honey-gold, coiffed in a thick oval bun at the back of her neck. Her face was heart-shaped, with enormous dark-blue eyes and a sensual mouth with ripe lower lip. She had the most enchantingly soft pink skin Alice McKenzie had ever observed.
The massage salon was at the very end of the suite of rooms which Marcel's establishment occupied on the fourth floor. It was really a narrow cubicle, unfurnished except for a black padded-leather massage table, a thickly upholstered armchair, and a tall footstool. There was also a metal cabinet next to the luxuriously tiled bathroom, and the open doors revealed a collection of oils and essences and liniments and cold creams.
"Good afternoon, Madame," Helga spoke with a thick Swedish accent. She was, Alice McKenzie judged, about twenty-five or twenty-six. "Marcel has told me to do my very best work for you. You're one of his most valued customers, Mrs. McKenzie."
"Thank you, Helga." Alice McKenzie couldn't help blushing. She had carried her suit coat along and Helga had efficiently put it on the hanger and hung it up in the little closet next to the bathroom. "I could stand a good rubdown after the lunch I had at noon."
"But Madame has really a delightful figure. I know that many American men seem to like the lean tall girls they show in the fashion magazines, but where I come from, a woman with good bones and flesh is a joy to a man." Helga said with a dazzling smile that showed small, perfect white teeth. "Will Madame be kind enough to undress?"
"Yes, of course. I know, I don't much care for the Vogue models either, and of course I could never get down that thin if I dieted for a hundred years," Alice McKenzie giggled. She unbuttoned her blouse, looked distractedly around for a place to put it, but already Helga was beside her, and she detected the fragrance of a kind of jasmine perfume. "Let me take this. Oh, you are really very lovely, Madame! Such beautiful breasts, if you'll pardon me for saying so, but that really is not the best bra. It is too confining. Here, let me help you with it." Her fingers were amazingly soft as they unfastened the hooks and eyes of the bandeau, then glided off the shoulder straps. Almost with a girlish modesty, Alice McKenzie put her hands to her naked breasts, her cheeks a vivid crimson. Helga laughed softly as she placed the bra upon the footstool: "And how young you are and how lovely you look when you smile and blush, Madame! I would say that Madame cannot be more than thirty, if that."
"Good Lord, what I wouldn't give to be thirty again," Alice McKenzie exclaimed. "I'm not far away from forty, Helga, I'm sorry to say." And again she flushed at this little white lie.
"But that is something to be proud of, Madame, with Madame's figure! How firm and round they are, and they almost don't need a bra. It's true, Madame. And such soft white skin, it's like a girl's. May I help Madame with the skirt?"
She was conscious of the pressure of Helga's hip against hers as the masseuse deftly unfastened the waistband of the tweed skirt, then stooped down and retrieved it. Alice McKenzie stood in her slip, bra and white nylon-pantie girdle, whose narrow tabs tightly snugged the tops of her smoke-colored nylons. At least, she thought irrelevantly to herself, there wasn't any mirror in this room, so that she didn't have to look at herself as if she were a stranger. Unaccountably, the nipples of her breasts had started to prickle with tiny, inexplicable sensations; she felt herself breathe more quickly as Helga again, this time without commenting, drew off her slip.
"If Madame does not mind, it is best to be all naked for the massage. It is a complete relaxation, and that is what Madame's lovely body requires," the soft husky, accented voice of the masseuse created a singular nervous agitation in her being. The jasmine scent grew stronger, now, and Helga's hip brushed against hers as the masseuse very gently unhooked the stocking tabs, then inserted her fingers under the waistband of the sheath and very slowly drew it down. Alice McKenzie closed her eyes as she felt the warm air of the narrow room lave the thick, dark-brown mossy tendrils of her pubic hair, and the flesh of her inner thighs was twitching and shrinking uncontrollably. Suddenly she started and opened her eyes: Helga was kneeling beside her, gently lifting up first one leg and then the other to remove the sheath, and in the process Helga's satiny cheek had brushed against her stockinged thigh. It was an enervating sensation.
"If Madame will get onto the table now, I'll take off her shoes and stockings," Helga proffered. "Shall I help Madame onto the table?"
"N-no, thanks, Helga, I can manage," Alice McKenzie faintly stammered. She clambered onto the table, and the cool, rough rasp of the padded leather at once made her skin prickle and twitch and tingle. Hastily she turned over onto her belly, suddenly shamefully aware of the extremely thick fleece of her pubis, which shrouded the plump lips of her love-mount. Lying face-down as she did, however, made her still more conscious of this phenomenon, and she felt her face grow hot, and quickly closed her eyes. Then she felt Helga's soft fingers caressingly remove her pumps and then slowly draw down, with infinite care, the gauzy stocking-sheaths. Now she was naked as the day she had come into the world, and more conscious than ever of the titillating sensations which pervaded not only her flesh but her mind as well.
"Madame is really to be complimented on her figure. And such delicate white skin, like a young girl's! Surely Madame is fibbing about her age; she cannot be thirty yet," Helga was murmuring as she bent down towards the head of the table. Alice McKenzie shivered voluptuously. How pleasant it was to hear such praise about her body; Edward hadn't taken the time or trouble to compliment her in so many years, she actually couldn't recall right now anything he'd ever said as to whether he liked her breasts or her legs or-or her sex. And thinking of that innocuous, euphemistic word, Alice McKenzie squirmed nervously, for she was distractingly aware of the pressure of the padded leather surface of the massage table against that secret part of her body which, of late, performed only an excretory function and in no way provided the delicious pleasures she had once known as a young bride.
"Now first, an alcohol rub to open up the pores, Madame," Helga was murmuring. Alice could smell the masseuse's jasmine scent, and now it seemed subtly and tantalizingly blended with the scent of warm naked flesh, of all the secret effluvia and distillations which emanate from the flesh of a healthy and desirable young woman. She thought disconsolately to herself that Helga probably had several lovers, with such a lush body, such animal vigor. And she, alas, had none, not even her husband. It just wasn't fair at all! she thought.
Suddenly she felt Helga's hands on her bare shoulders, moist with the alcohol, whose sharp astringency added a new compound to the perfumed aura of flesh and jasmine wafting to her nostrils. Helga's fingers were amazingly soft though strong, as they worked in the liquid, frictioning the soft flesh, moving towards the neck, easing the vertebrae with the pads of her thumbs to create a lulling sensation which was indescribably delicious.
Alice McKenzie tautened her muscles as she stretched her arms beyond her, pressing down with her palms on the padded leather surface of the massage table. She felt Helga's fingertips probing as if to reach her very nerves and sinews, constantly rubbing in the alcoholic moisture, moving now to the column of the spine and down along it to the waist. Now and again the Amazonian masseuse paused to reach for the plastic bottle and to tilt it into her palms, and then Alice gasped at the smacking sting of them as they came down on the edges of her hips, and swiftly Helga's palms energetically worked to rub in the new liquid application from the waist upwards to the shoulder blades. A tingling, warm glow rippled through her naked skin, beatific, relaxing, and she could feel the blood stir in her veins and know that she was pulsatingly alive.
How wonderful Helga's fingers were as they teased and tweaked her milky flesh from waist to shoulders and then back again! Gently caressing the sides, brushing the outer curves of her breasts, but then always returning to the spinal column to attack the knotted muscular clusters which held back her body from its ethereal, totally sensate composure. Gradually she felt her tensions slip away, felt even her unhappy speculations on how her husband might be spending this evening recede into the limbo of unimportance. And Alice McKenzie joyously surrendered herself to the hedonism of sheer bodily gratification.
It had been a wonderful idea to have booked this massage as a kind of afterthought. The only trouble was, it was relaxing her so that she'd want to lie here and just drowse and just forget everything else. Her body quivered and throbbed with a vitality she hadn't felt in years. How lovely it would be to have a girl like Helga in the house, to be able to summon her whenever she felt the need of such complete, ecstatic relaxation!
How marvelous it was, so late in life, to discover the urgent vitality of her naked body, to feel muscles and soft curves of flesh neglected all these years now becoming titillated by the most delicate gamut of carnal sensations!
Helga's fingers were at her waist now, rubbing gently back and forth against her sides and in towards her belly, and Alice McKenzie moaned a little and closed her eyes so tightly that myriad-colored dots seemed to fill her mind, a kind of phantasmagoria whose kaleidoscopic scope projected her out of time and space into an astral world hitherto unknown. She felt as if she were floating far above the clouds, and the air was rushing against her pussy and her nipples and the sinuous crease between her buttocks, wafting against her anus and making the dainty lips of the rosette pucker and twitch with a thousand infinitesimal manifestations. She was a young girl again, long before she had known what fucking was, long before she had exchanged her idealistic freedom for the material security of a marriage to which she had given the hostages of her virginity and a daughter, for which she had exchanged independence for the brusque, inconsiderate naked maleness of her husband and the ruthlessly hasty digs of his phallus between her passively yielding thighs. Now, reborn in this narcissistic rapture, she approached a realm of what the Russian composer Scriabin had once conjured up for all of mankind ... a planetary symphony of color and sound and perfume, blended together into a spiritual unification of the flesh and the soul that would transcend the ephemeral and the mundane existence of mankind.
As she lay on that table, Helga's fingers driving her towards a rapt awareness of what she had never before experienced, Alice McKenzie almost wept with the joy and the torment of this wakening, this transfiguration from prosaic and humdrum reality into the magical fantasy of fleshly immortality.
"How sensitive Madame is," she vaguely heard Helga murmur into her ear. And then again the magical fingers glided to her hips, and began the kneading and tweaking and pressing of her trembling bottom-cheeks. She felt her prudery surge back in a last attempt at traditional indignation, and by her own power of will she banished it. She was safe now from the world of men, from the hairy, coarse and demandingly possessive man-organ that demanded surfeit of carnal flesh as payment. She was Lillith now, Astarte now, timeless in deathless flesh and joy and sensuality.
She could feel the lips of her pussy quivering with a life and an insistence all their own, and only vaguely now was she astounded at her utter shamelessness before a stranger-for such Helga was. But now no more. By the sheer sorcery of fingers to flesh, of scent to nostrils, Helga had become a primate priestess of euphoria for her. She could not explain it, nor did she try. It sufficed that she could feel those soft and yet so strong and knowing fingers make her body come alive so vibrantly, so rhapsodically.
Helga's fingers were now concentrating on Alice's buttocks. It seemed to Edward McKenzie's wife that every cranny of satiny, quivering flesh was besieged by this tactual attunement; first along the curves of both globes, and then towards the centers, and finally towards the crease, along the pouting inner edges of those satiny hillocks. Until now, Alice McKenzie had thought of her bottom only as a sitting-cushion. But now, dimly, troublingly, she began to feel a most curious and devious sensation which she could neither explain nor quite believe. Half a dozen times she was on the verge of gasping out that it was enough; and each time she lay silent, trembling fitfully as the soft, supple fingertips of the masseuse delved a little deeper each time into the mysterious valley which that shadowy crease heralded, near the perineum and the anus, till a kind of shuddering, thrillingly warm contraction of her sphincter muscles made her conscious once again that the lips of her bottomhole were puckering and quaking.
Her face was crimson, and now the smell of Helga had begun to permeate her nostrils strongly. There was jasmine, there was the alcohol, there was the warm moisture of woman-sweat and the even more unidentifiable composite of all those secret chemicals by which a female is composed, merging into the most haunting and seductive aura. It was both cloying and pungent, like the fruit of an overripe mango, and Alice's mouth watered with an unbidden desire to slake her thirst for this incredible distillation.
Now Helga paused, retrieved the plastic bottle, and began to rub vigorously her patient's full, rounded thighs. Here too there was method and deliberate purpose, the upper columns knew the kneading, pressing and frictioning caresses of those skilled hands, and then the sides of the lovely columns, and finally the hollows of Alice's knees. And then it was the turn of her calves, and she could feel her muscles rippling and tightening, then relaxing unbidden as Helga's fingers moved grazing the satiny pale milky skin and creating a thousand twitching and rippling flexions along the delicately grained bare skin.
"You should really walk more, Madame," suddenly Helga's husky voice broke in upon Alice's haphazard thoughts, crystallizing the matron's return to this room, to this cogent space and finite time of reality. Her eyes were regretful as she became aware of this, for she would have liked nothing better than to remain in that dulcet limbo of ethereal lasciviousness which made no demands upon her and yet which wakened inner chords of response such as she herself had never known she possessed. Now the mood was broken.
"I suppose that's true," she confessed, her voice trembling a little. "I do lead a rather sedentary life, I'm afraid."
"Your muscles show that. But you still haven't relaxed completely, dear Madame," Helga retorted. "I think I'll use the vibrator, before I turn you over for the rest of the alcohol rub. Just keep your eyes closed and stretch your arms out ahead of you and let yourself go perfectly limp. It's almost as good as a vacation in the tropics, believe me, Madame."
"You know, I'd sort of like that," Alice McKenzie wistfully said. And it was true. Over the last decade, she and her husband had rarely spent their summers together. He had always been flying to Ecuador or Baja, California or Alaska, off on some new project that would make his company more famous and himself wealthier, never once asking her to come along and see a new terrain, meet new people, eat new foods, discover the smallness of the world which jet planes had made so compatibly close. No, she had been left in her fine, elegantly appointed house, to fend for herself as she wished. There had been an occasional trip to Jamaica, another to Saranac for a week of sulphur baths and bridge and resting, but nothing that she and Edward had shared.
"That's it, Madame, just let yourself go," Helga's voice was soothing now as she returned to the table. Alice heard a faint whirring sound, like a thousand tiny wings beating in unison. Once again, her eyes closed, dreamily surrendering herself, she sought to drift off again to that astral plane where there was nothing to distress the mind and only the most perfect emanations to lull the vibrant, eager flesh.
Now suddenly the cool cone of the electric vibrator grazed her left calf, and rose along the jouncily swelling curve towards the knee hollow, then back down to caress the flesh, to prickle it with a thousand new and exquisite intimations of well-being and pleasure. Alice drew a long breath and exhaled it. She could feel her nipples flatten against the cool padded leather surface of the massage table, and it seemed to her now that each facet of her nakedness became known to her for its separate individuality. It was as if she had been inanimate all these years until now, and now each portion of her being was freed to seek out its own predilections.
She let her fingers go limp and turned her face onto her right cheek, slowly opening her eyes to catch a glimpse of the blonde Amazon. She saw her in profile, as Helga bent towards the lower part of the table, and the thrust of Helga's breasts suddenly made Alice McKenzie's own bosom quiver and her cheeks crimsoned at her own guilty knowledge that she found another woman temptingly desirable. Yet to this point only, that she could not yet affirm this desire consciously or know what it was, only that she sensed a kind of sympathetic yearning for a deeper, less impersonal relationship with Helga. For by the fact that the masseuse was exploring all her body's secrets, Alice McKenzie believed that this imposed upon Helga a responsibility for knowledge and awareness of what she herself was just beginning to feel.
How lovingly the device moved along her flesh! Back and forth, till she almost wanted to cry out and beg Helga to move it somewhere else. And yet the reiterated friction and the dynamic fluttering of its cone against her naked skin intensified the longing that began to creep through her body. Now, as if reading her mind, Helga shifted the instrument to the other calf, beginning at the base, rising over the full ripe swell and thence to the delicate blue-veined hollow of the knee, then down along the side, and back up along the other and then again back and forth as lingeringly as on the other limb. Everywhere it touched, the fluttering and throbbing and the pulsations seemed to lend a kind of infused physical awareness to her senses; again her eyes opened and she saw Helga's jutting left breast bulge tightly against the clinging white uniform, almost ready to burst forth like a ripe fruit for plucking. It seemed to her that she could even see the boldly flinted nipple bud shaping itself out in a kind of phallic protuberance against the adhering white material.
"Already I can see that this is working wonders for Madame," Helga declared as now she moved the vibrator over to Alice's left thigh, just above the knee hollow, and began the slow perfidious ascent towards the top of that milky column. "It's doing you good, isn't it, Madame?"
"Ohh ... y-yes, Helga. I feel so peaceful, so happy and relaxed. It's wonderful."
"Thank you, Madame. Try not to bunch your muscles when you feel the vibrator. Just think of yourself as putty, and let your flesh move as it will without your ordering it to do so. Has Madame ever studied yoga?"
"I'm afraid not," Alice McKenzie uttered a nervous little laugh.
"No matter. The principle is the same. Shutting everything out of the mind, forbidding it to enter, experiencing only sensation of the moment and for the moment. There is so much stress everywhere, ulcers and testiness and ill-mannered people shouting at one another, if they would only learn to give themselves up and to relax. How much healthier and happier they'd all be!"
Helga's husky voice was strangely soothing and yet enervating. Alice felt as if she never wished this moment to end, as if she could will herself to be lodged eternally in this room yet without consciousness of being bound to it, inhaling Helga's scent and the singular throatiness of a voice that stirred deep and forbidden longings within her psyche, of knowing only this pacification of the flesh and nothing more. Vaguely she thought of the book she had read about the Roman Empire in the days when the wealthy matrons were wont to have their slaves do their hair and massage and dress them, without a concern in the world save to be beautiful and regal. A pity she wasn't born in that time, to have been able to summon others to do her bidding!
Now the vibrator returned to the other thigh, exorcising the tension and the lassitude and the inertia by making quivering flesh respond to the whirring cone, to the sleek frictioning that stirred infinitesimal palpitations and made her thighs ripple and shiver uncontrollably. And then at last the cone of the vibrator touched the sloping swell at the base of her left bottom-cheek. Alice uttered a faint "aahhh!" and felt herself almost arch in yearning to attain the vibrator's caresses. She turned her head again, resting on her left cheek this time, but she did not open her eyes. Almost, she was ashamed of the involuntary movement of her behind towards that inanimate object in Helga's hand, for it implied a shameless and uninhibited impulse which she had not realized was latent within her. Again her face crimsoned, and she closed her eyes so tightly that once more the weird myriad-colored kaleidoscope flowered within her mind, under her closed eyelids, encompassing a mysterious universe which she had never before entered.
The vibrator moved to the other buttock now, ascending the base to the rich curve of the summit, veering towards the outer edge of the hip, then diagonally moving back towards the intimate creasage. Alice's toes curled and twisted and she felt a churning, rich and thick congestion in her loins, as if her pussy were suddenly clogged with viscous, clotted cream. It was exquisitely torturing and yet no words could define the intolerable delight of it. She felt her body convulsively press down against the padded leather, and she felt the harsh prod of the table's surface against her cunt. Now the lips seemed pulpier, moister, riper and more open than before, as in those early days of her marriage when she had waited for Edward and been emotionally prepared to taste the glories of a fucking ... glories which had been only psychical and not, alas, much more than hinted at in physical reality. But this time it was as if her own mystic tides were upon her, and that all her cunt was dedicated to the rapturous awareness of passionate eagerness and need, a need which existed quite apart from the male and even without his aid. She could not analyze it, she could only endure it and yearn for its prolongation and intensification.
The vibrator leaped now, and a startled gasp was wrestled from her, and for a moment her eyes opened, luminous and yet unseeing, and she clenched her fists as she felt the muscles of her calves and thighs flex and strain as if about to undertake the coital journey towards that distant and misted-over abyss which is bottomless and endless and timeless and in which all chaos and all joy are commingled. "Ohhhh-ohh!" she sighed.
Helga's fingers kept the vibrator at that excruciatingly sensitive spot for what seemed ages, and now Alice's teeth began to chatter as a sudden urge to move about, to enclasp and embrace, took possession of her. And even when she had begun to think she could no longer bear this, the vibrator moved on, upwards along her spinal column, towards the vertebrae of the neck and thence back to the chinkbone. Now, as if capriciously, the instrument with its faint whirring of unseen wings flitted over her smooth back, the dimpled shoulders, the fleshy upper curves of her bare arms, and then lifted from her body as she lay there shivering and almost undone. And then again the vibrator moved over her buttocks. But this time in a horizontal way whereas before it had moved vertically, leaping the bridge from the crown of both summits over the ambery slit that hid the second temple, the dark dwelling of Sodom, and back again, drawing new impulsions to her trembling flesh, new throbbing to her loins, and new fluttering to the sphincter muscles which commanded the aperture of her anus.
"Ohh-Helga," she breathed, tears welling up to her eyes at the carnal fervor which this inanimate object was imposing upon her flesh through the will of those skilled fingers. "Oh it's good, it's good!"
"And now, Madame, if you'll turn over on your back, I'll resume the rubdown," the
Amazonian blonde huskily ordained.
Alice McKenzie pressed her palms down hard on the table, but she was willess, nerveless, soft and abandoned and without strength. And yet the paradox was that every cranny of her body seemed to quiver and to tingle with revivification which took her back to the days of her girlhood when she had been an eager and impatiently curious virgin without knowing specifically that the man and his phallic weapon must ultimately rend her virgin seal before she could enter upon the domain of womanhood.
"Wait, Madame. I'll help you," again Helga's voice came to her as from a distance. The faint whirring stopped, and then she felt those supple, strong and knowing fingers on her naked waist, pressing intimately into her yielding milky, moistly perspiring flesh, and she arched herself, and felt herself move as on a pivot till her face turned and, her eyes opening, she saw the tall, opulent blonde smiling at her. Curiously, in this moment of awareness, Alice McKenzie could see the moist stains of perspiration at the armpits of the white uniform.
She saw Helga standing there looking down at her, the smile deepening on those red, seductive lips, the eyes darkening with intensity as they gazed down at her naked breasts and loins and belly.
And then Helga laid the vibrator down on her belly and put both hands on her naked titties and, without a word, her smile deepening even more, began very gently to caress and fondle and massage the crests of Alice McKenzie's luscious milky love globes.
CHAPTER THREE....
Alice McKenzie moaned softly, her right palm pressing down convulsively hard against her fleecy cunt. Her other hand was clenched at her side, the fingernails digging into her sweating palm. Her teeth began to chatter, and her eyes were closed very tightly. The vibrator had been turned off, and its cool weight lay on her naked belly to remind her of her shameless nakedness in front of this singular young woman. And she could feel Helga's fingers very lingeringly kneading the globes of her titties, which had begun to rise and fall with increasing agitation, betraying the flux of emotions which was taking over not only her flesh but also her psyche.
"Please-someone might come in-oh, it's so good-oh, Helga, the door-" she whispered brokenly.
"Madame is not to fret or disturb herself. No one will come in, I promise. I gave orders that no one was to disturb us, not even Marcel himself. You see, Madame," all this while the skillful fingers never once stopped fondling and palpating, pressing and grazing the shuddering turrets of Alice McKenzie's titties, "when I am with a new customer, I make it a very definite point that nothing will bother the two of us so that I can devote my best skill. I feel that I am on trial here, being so new, Madame."
There was a gentleness now to that voice, together with its husky overtones, which seemed to lull Alice's apprehensions. Never in her life had she known such sensual, richly carnal awareness of her body; and yet at the same time all the guilty inhibitions back from the days of puberty and adolescence crowded in upon her, telling her that this was wrong and guilty and shameful and that she must not surrender to its temptations. And the hand which she kept pressed so tightly against her quivering cunt was by way of recognition of those old shibboleths of a puritanism which was at oneness with forbidden prurience.
"Then-you're sure-" she breathed, her senses reeling.
"If it will please Madame, I'll lock the door," Helga murmured with a soft little laugh.
"Oh yes! I mean-I'd feel much better-this is so wonderful, it would be dreadful if someone-" Alice stammered, groping for the mot juste.
"Of course, Madame. I understand perfectly. Just relax. You're doing very well." Helga's voice was consoling, and now Alice felt the masseuse's fingers draw away from her swelling titties, and then she heard Helga's soft quick steps towards the door, the click of the lock. She exhaled a long shivering breath. It seemed to her that she could feel the tickling moisture of globules of sweat in her armpits. The room was wonderfully warm, and this utter relaxation was like a marvelous sedative for her jangled nerves. Best of all, it pushed away the years and took her back to her girlhood when her body had been vibrant and untouched, when the dreary monotony of daily routine and marital complacency had not yet arridly conditioned her skin and flesh and nerves and thews. There, alone on the table, the vibrator lying on her naked belly, she almost wanted to cry out now, to implore Helga to hurry back and to bring to culmination what had been so exquisitely begun.
Now Helga reached again for the plastic bottle of alcohol, opened it and filled her left palm with the odorous fluid, and then Alice gasped aloud as both supple hands smacked down on her waist, rubbing in the astringent with it, rubbing energetically so that the warmth of friction was added to the chemical warmth which the alcohol imparted to Alice's soft naked flesh. Now, unexpectedly, Helga's fingers rose up to attack the breasts again, and Alice's eyes opened wide and again she gasped as she felt the exquisite burning sting of the alcohol against her nipples, flattened down by Helga's palms.
"It will seem to hurt only for a moment, Madame," the masseuse told her with a sensual smile. "But you're still so tense, dear Madame. Open your hands and put them out on the edges of the table, palms turned upwards ... that's it. What has Madame to hide?" Alice felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment at that question; reluctantly, she moved her right hand away from her cunt, and instantly she saw that Helga's enormous dark-blue eyes were fixing on that dark-brown muff of hers. Hardly knowing that she was doing it, she clenched her thighs, the muscles tightening under the milky skin.
"Oh, now Madame is being a very naughty girl, when I told her to relax," Helga chided with a soft little laugh. "What does Madame have to hide? She is as lovely as anyone I have ever seen. I don't understand you Americans, thinking that any part of your body could possibly be distasteful."
Alice felt her blushes suffuse not only her cheeks but also her forehead and the lobes of her ears at this unexpected candor. With force of will, she compelled herself to extend her arms out, to turn her palms upward at the very edges of the table, questioningly meeting Helga's gaze as if she were a pupil seeking approbation from a strange new and yet somehow adored teacher.
And she was instantly rewarded by a dazzling smile, which again showed those small, perfect white teeth, and the playfully cajoling words, "Now, isn't that much better? Doesn't Madame feel more at her ease?"
"Y-yes ... oh, yes," Alice McKenzie faintly murmured. And again she closed her eyes, wanting to emobilize herself in time and space and to banish all external and mundane recollections of the past and even of the present. She thought of herself now as an alien who was entering upon life with no previous adherence to the ties of family and possessions and status, It was a comforting illusion.
"Good." Again she was rewarded by the quick almost breathless words of the masseuse. "And now I will continue, Madame."
Now again Helga's strong yet gloriously gentle fingers besieged her titties, and there was still moisture clinging to Helga's palms and fingers to rub over the aurolae and the nipples of her shuddering titties. And she felt her nipples contract and tingle, yet not painfully. It was exquisite torture, that seemed to stiffen and turgify the lovebuds, so intensely that for the moment the churning enervation in her cunt was transferred to her bosom, and all the erotic sensations were lodged for this instant in the flinting darkening and hardening tips of her milky loveglobes.
She felt the vibrator lift from her naked belly, and then she gasped aloud, "Oh, H-Helga-ohh!" as the cone began its whirring against the taut, palpitating flesh of her left tittie, tracing the exact circle of the aureole, round and round, making the nipplebud thrust itself up almost lustfully, as if poutingly demanding its own sweet share of the lascivious caress of a mechanism. Now the vibrator moved over to the other tittie, and here again it followed the halo in whose center the other darkening nipple flourished. Alice McKenzie twisted and curled her bare toes, dug her heels into the padded leather of the massage table, her face turning to one side and she could feel the pulse in the hollow of her throat throb and vibrate almost to the exact rhythmic acceleration of the vibrator.
The whir was noisier now and swifter, for apparently Helga had pushed the regulator lever to a higher speed. Whatever it was, the grazing, feathering caresses of the implement were absolutely devastating, sending series after series of titillatory waves through all the nerve centers of her bosom.
Now the vibrator moved down her belly, tracing its outline, hovering an instant into the dimpled niche of the navel, until Alice could not bear the sweet torment without instinctive reflex, her knees rose up of their own volition, and she half-raised her head and was staring at the Amazonian masseuse.
Helga's face was singularly flushed, the eyes luminous and narrowed, the delicate wings of the nostrils flaring and shrinking. And against the tight-plaquing cling of the white uniform, her magnificent round titties surged with quickened rhythm. Now, abandoning the whirring vibrator on Alice's belly, Helga again resorted to the plastic alcohol bottle, doused a quantity onto the bare belly itself, and then, lifting the vibrator up to place it right in the valley of Alice's loveglobes, began to rub in the astringent liquid, her thumbpads frictioning Alice's navel, working the burning fluid down to the lower abdomen, where the dark thatch of pussy hair began to luxuriate.
"Ohhhh-ahhhh-ohh, Helga!" Alice moaned. Her body quivered and shook with uncontrollable tremors. She clenched her fists because the imponderable waves of sensation were lodged everywhere now except in her pussy, and she yearned to be assuaged.
"The alcohol doesn't burn Madame's tender skin too much?" Helga huskily demanded.
Unable to speak, the milky-skinned matron shook her head, her eyes appealingly fixed on Helga's exotic, sensual face.
Alice glanced at the throbbing instrument lying between her breasts, a white, gleaming phallus, and she shuddered at the sexual symbolism which it represented, translating it into her emotion-flooded mind as the actuality of prick against her naked skin while at the same time a woman's ardent fingers massaged her lower abdomen; and now, eyes widening, her blood thickening in her veins, she felt the lascivious contact of those fingers into the tangled silky curls of her pubis.
"Ohh-H-Helga-please-you-you don't have to-" her voice was choking, almost unintelligible. She clenched her thighs, trying to diminish the lovely, but plump mound of her Venus.
"Shhh, dear Madame," Helga purred, "you mustn't be embarrassed, really you mustn't. I have the feeling that so much of your tension is lodged in the pelvic region. You have hostilities and frustrations, and they must be freed so that you can be your true self for the first time. Look already how younger you look, Madame, with your skin glowing and quivering from the rubdown and the vibrator massage! That's proof that you're still very young. Your body is, and it demands its needs and its fulfillment. Don't you admit that's true, dear Madame?"
Alice McKenzie was hypnotized. This blonde sorceress had incredibly exorcised the demons of boredom, rebelliousness and nervous anxiety by this amazing chance meeting of what was to be nothing more than a physical tone-up bestowed by, after all, a paid menial, upon an important customer. Yet already it had far transcended that ephemeral relationship; now it was much, much more. Oh, so much more! For Alice McKenzie felt all her body quiveringly towards that imposingly Amazonian young woman in that molding white uniform who had become for her a kind of Freya, Nordic goddess of mystery and evocation, and who beckoned her into an hitherto undreamed of cosmos.
Now, leaving the vibrator where it was along the satiny moist valley of Alice McKenzie's titties, Helga stealthily advanced her satiny fingertips down into the tangled thicket of dark-brown lovecurls and at last touched the pulsing, fleshy, soft pink labia of Alice McKenzie's cunt.
Once again the imposing tradition of guilt and shame, so difficult to break as the years advance, motivated the naked woman to dart her hands towards those of the masseuse. She clutched Helga's wrists, her eyes imploringly fixed on that seductive, flushed, sensual face, and her trembling lips formed the traditional words of yearning shyness, "N-no-oh, you, you-not-not there, not there, Helga!"
"Yes, there, dear Madame," the masseuse huskily insisted, her dark-blue eyes fixing compellingly on Alice's scarlet, consternated face. "Please don't fight me, dear Madame. In reality it's yourself you're fighting and you know it is. I know. Trust me. Though I've never met you before, I already know more about you than you think you know about yourself. You've been unhappy, you're bored with life, and the man who was once your lover no longer seems to care for you. And what a fool he is, dear Madame, to neglect such a magnificent body, such deeply rooted emotions as that body has! So trust me. Let me give you the relief you long for. You will go out of here a new woman, reborn and remade, no longer feeling yourself inferior to any man. Take your hands away, open your palms and turn them up on the edge of the table and trust me."
Alice McKenzie shivered, wetting her lips with her tongue, for her throat had suddenly gone dry. Her heart was pounding madly, and the throbbing at her temples was like the crashing of a coming tidal wave upon the shore of a distant beach. Her nipples were hard and dark and flinted, and they rose and fell with an erotic cadence, and her belly and thighs felt knotted and tautened, smitten with an agonized expectancy that knew neither name nor description. She could feel the lips of her cunt twitching as from a nervous tic. She felt herself congested there almost beyond endurance.
She stared into those dark blue eyes as she felt herself sinking and drowning in them. Then, turning her face to one side, scarlet with a new wave of blushes, she panted feebly, "Oh ... y-yes ... yes!"
Then Alice McKenzie lay still, closing her eyes and abandoning herself, but she could not control the twitching of her fingers as they lay limp along the edges of the table, now the subtle palpitations which rippled down her body, most of all along the satiny valley between her titties where the still whirring vibrator lay, and thence down the belly-goblet, till all her flesh was so exquisitely keened by this perfidious attunement that even the shallow niche of her navel seemed to vibrate with a thousand minute titillations and became as sensitive as lower down, that secret temple where Helga's fingers lingered and cajoled.
For by now the masseuse had begun very gently to caress the outer labia of Alice McKenzie's cunt, and the naked matron had to grind her teeth together to keep from crying out and betraying her frantic excitement at these incredible caresses. Her thoughts no longer mattered; all that did was the gradually moving crescendo in her loins, which now felt so richly vibrant with new life where before and for these past years they had been so quiescent. She did not even dare to open her eyes to look at Helga, lest she reveal the stricken longing that now assailed her, making her shameless, turning her from rational, sedate and poised matron of affairs and family into sensate flesh that craved the most lascivious assuagement. And, now, stronger than ever, there came to her nostrils the curiously cantharidic perfume which was made up of the alcohol and Helga's perfume and body-scent and sweat and her own naked body's effluvia, as intoxicating as the strongest of liquors, maddening in its potency which drove out all reason and logic-and inhibition too!
With just the tips of her supple fingers, Helga seemed to trace the circle of that orifice, and the crinkly, fleshy labia quivered and palpitated to those grazing touches which roused a veritable host of carnal longings, longings which pierced the empty and neglected womb of Alice McKenzie. And she who thought herself invulnerable to lust after all these years, after having spawned for her ruthless and self-centered husband a single issue, her beautiful daughter Eleanor, and thereby believed herself done with passion for all time, now turned her head back and forth as her nipples swelled and ached with yearning now quivered with every cranny of her sweat-moistened flesh that begged for solace and for the magnificent culmination of this exquisite Tantalus.
Now, she almost whimpered with unhappy surprise as Helga's fingers moved on to the inner surfaces of her straddled thighs and began to rub insistently. Her mind was inchoate, as a thousand flashing lights and stars and vague, unidentifiable images began swirling through her body as unconsciously she arched up her loins to implore the final coup de grace which would release her from the shuddering, hot thickening that had lodged within her cunt. She was on fire, and yet she felt abandoned like a child in the dark because there was no appeasement yet for all this longing. And she did not know how to beg for its termination, not from this mysterious and yet omniscient Amazon who had known how to kindle the giant flame inside her being.
Once again Helga had resorted to the alcohol bottle, splashed the astringent liquid along both thighs down to the rounded, dimpled knees, and then swiftly rubbed it into the milky flesh. Momentarily, this new sensation distracted Alice McKenzie from concentrating on the exciting torment which was going on inside her wakened cunt; but all too soon the longing returned, sharpened and redefined. And now Alice could no longer hold back her needs; craven and dependent on this stranger who was no stranger now, she opened her eyes, humid and dilated, in an imploring look that spoke an eloquent language to the Amazonian blonde.
Helga uttered a soft husky little laugh, and reached for the vibrator. When she lifted it from the valley of Alice's titties, the naked matron uttered a choking sob of pleasure ... it sounded like that of a victim who had been subjected to the most imaginative of prolongations until the moment of final torment, and yet masochistically implored the executioner to have done with nuances and to begin with cogent pain and suffering.
Now Helga's left thumb and forefinger parted the thick dark brown curls of Alice McKenzie's pubis, and as Alice raised her head, smitten with an indescribable curiosity and longing which became one and the same palpitating emotion, she saw the masseuse direct the phallic cone of the instrument against the twitching, exposed labia of her slit.
Not knowing what to expect, for all this was new and incredibly wondrous terrain in her renascence, she stared as one mesmerized while Helga directed the device against the sensitive mucous membranes of the lovelips. And then, as for the first time the nose of the vibrator moved down like a miniature gyroplane upon her pink and quivering and moistened citadel, her nostrils flared and her teeth began to chatter as the most intoxicatingly thrilling feeling was imparted to her ultra-sensitive cunt.
And over the whirr of the vibrator, it seemed to her that she could hear her own child-like whimperings, and there were tears in her eyes as the dynamo-like hum of this artificial phallus-as such did she identify it now-nibble and rasped and lovingly gouged along the pink lovepetals of her cunt.
She felt Helga's fingers separate the labia even more, as she gasped at the sharp sensation which seemed to open her to her very marrow. Then the vibrator disappeared, and she uttered a shriek.
It had touched her clitoris, that secretive nodule hiding in its protective cowl, and all of a sudden her body was shaken with a thousand anguishing and yet blissful tremors, such as the ringing of a gong makes of the waves of air within an enclosed belfry.
Her head had risen from the table, the cords of her neck standing out against the perspiring, milky skin, her mouth was gaping and her eyes were bulging, and her fingernails had dug into the edges of the table. But this time Helga said nothing to restrain her, and the masseuse's back was towards her as, bending to that awakened female oasis of passion, the Amazonian blonde continue to brush and flatten, to touch and prod and caress, the stiffening turgescent button, the very touchstone of Alice McKenzie's frantic, yearning life.
"Oh-oh my God-Ohh, Helga, Helga!" she cried in her delirium. Her toes twisted and clawed the air, she felt her heels digging savagely into the padded-leather surface of the massage table. Every part of her was wakened; even the groove which led between her cunt and ass-hole, an area of which she had never before been conscious, now was tingling and quivering with animation as she felt her muscles stress and seek to arch her hips off the table to follow the goading of the vibrator.
And now, almost with refined cruelty, Helga drew the implement back and paraded it along the inner thighs, and again Alice McKenzie sobbed aloud, "Oh my God-oh please-Helga-darling, dearest Helga, finish it-I'm going to die-I'm going to faint-I can't bear it-oh please, for God's sake, don't leave me like this!"
Suddenly she heard her own voice, raucous and sobbing and shuddering. The whirl of the vibrator had ceased. And Helga had turned to her, a strange, enigmatic smile on her red lips, and her dark-blue eyes were burning coals of ardor.
"Does Madame wish me to give her pleasure, then?" came the tempting words. And Alice McKenzie felt herself spellbound before this blonde sorceress who could by such unknown magic distill within her the most demanding and frenziedly burning lust, a lust which made her glory in her womanhood as she had not once done before in all these years as wife to Edward
McKenzie. No, not even once in all those years.
"Yes, yes, anything-do it, oh God, now!" she breathed.
As in a dream, she saw Helga's fingers seize the hems of the clinging white uniform and loft it as one would a smock, over head and shoulders and let it fall to the floor and her masseuse was naked, those magnificent titties of hers preening their wide dark coral aurolae in whose centers rose and fell the tumescent dark pink nuggets of her nipples. The deep narrow cleft which indented the flawlessly smooth goblet of her belly was like a tiny amorous eye, and then the thick triangle of dark blonde pussy-hair which did not hide the plump, inviting, sensual mouth of Helga's voluptuous cunt!
As Alice McKenzie stared, unable to move or to speak, her eyes fixed on that love temple, and she saw that the lips were moist and quivering. Nimbly, Helga seated herself on the edge of the table, and swung her legs up across Alice's thighs. Then, swiftly and dexterously, the naked Amazon loomed over her, on palms and knees, her big round titties pendant like ripe, swollen fruits of love, and the dark-blue humid eyes stared deep into Alice's, draining and devouring Alice's very soul.
Intuitively, Alice McKenzie reached up her arms towards this hypnotic vision of naked woman flesh, and her hands felt the cool satin of Helga's bare shoulders. And then she groaned as Helga's titties merged on hers, and she felt the stabbing ecstasy of nipple-friction against her hyper-sensitized naked skin. The sweet slithering of Helga's belly on hers, and the scissoring of Helga's naked long lithely curved legs against her shuddering and straddled thighs cumulatively besieged her.
With a whimpering sob, the brown-haired matron wedded her panting body to that of the masseuse, and imploringly her lips parted to receive that longed-for kiss.
It was as welcome as a benediction: it was more thrilling than the kiss of any man. The warm moist lips were parted, and as they encompassed Alice's eager, shuddering mouth, Helga flicked in her dainty pink tongue. Alice whimpered with the maddening, tantalizing touch of that supremely intimate caress. And then she had no time to moan or to articulate, for her body had become a cauldron of burning lust, of sensation crowding in upon sensation. She could feel the wet pulpy lips of Helga's cunt rub against her own, she could even feel a tiny rigidity gouge into her gaping cunt, not knowing in her innocence of Sapphic play the prick-envy of the female which leads her to employ her aggrandized clitoris in lieu of the male organ.
All she knew was that her body was jubilant as it had never been before: that everywhere Helga's nakedness thrust and rubbed on hers, her flesh and nerves were inflamed with passion.
Her belly ground against Helga's, and now her naked thighs clenched over the Amazon's bare, ripely curved pink-sheened legs as with a wordless, prolonged cry of ineffable rapture, Alice McKenzie felt her life-juices burst their long-suppressing dam and meet the torrential creamy flow of her initiatress's orgasmic bounty...
CHAPTER FOUR....
Edward McKenzie was glad to be in San Francisco, even if Thanksgiving was only a day away. Somehow, holidays meant very little anymore back in his Long Island house. It was just as well, because Alice all of a sudden seemed to have gone in for beauty parlors and reducing salons and now the latest extravagance-a Creole mulatto maid with the unlikely name of Cecelia Dufours. Cecelia had been engaged just last week, out of a clear sky and without his having been consulted on the matter. Matter of fact, she was a sexy, prick-stirring little bitch, something he might look into when he got back to New York early in December. Of course, Alice would have to be out of the house when he started learning more about Cecelia's background. And it was perfectly within his right, because any servant in a millionaire's house deserved investigation.
Come to think of it, the only person he would really miss not being with tomorrow was Eleanor. Edward McKenzie leaned back against the comfortable luxuriously velvet-draped back of the dining-bench at Ernie's, and waited with growing impatience for the maitre d'hotel and the sommelier to come to him. Ernie's was his favorite restaurant in San Francisco, with its elegant Victorian setting of red wall coverings, antique chandeliers and mirrors. It suggested all the colorful past of the days of the Barbary Coast, when the very wealthy would take their mistresses to dine in intimate splendor at the most fashionable gourmet rendezvous. There would be champagne and truffles, and food to stimulate the erotic senses, so from a place like that one would adjourn to an ornately furnished little apartment on Knob Hill to make long and passionate love.
The decor here suggested to him some of the exotic bordellos he had visited in Paris, Munich and Mexico City. Here service was impeccable but never hurried, the food superlative but never vulgar. Glancing at the magnificently sumptuous menu, he decided on the specialty of the house, the Selle d'Agneau Farcie Aux Aromates. With it, a lordly Peaune or a fine strong Pommard.
He let his right hand glide slowly over his custom-tailored new tweed suit, which he had purchased just before leaving New York. He frowned slightly. That damned tailor had made the trousers just a trifle too tight over the belly. And after such a repast, such a feast as he was about to enjoy this evening, he would feel uncomfortably squeezed in. When he got back to New York, he'd give that fellow the very devil. One didn't pay three hundred dollars for a suit without some leeway for expansive living.
Now the suave maitre, was beside him, and on the other side of his table the sommelier with his key of office dangling from the golden chain about his neck. Both were breathlessly attentive, and Edward McKenzie felt the stirring of pleasure in his being, the kind which comes to a man who understands that he is admired and appreciated for his good taste as well as for his wealth. Pursing his lips, he ordered a crabmeat souffle as an appetizer, then a rich potato soup with just a hint of leek, the saddle of lamb and a mixed green salad with only a touch of garlic. With the lamb, a Carton Clos du Roi, of the year 1964. The headwaiter deferentially bowed in recognition of his selection from the menu, while the wine steward beamed his approval of the choice: "A noble wine, Mr. McKenzie. It's a pleasure to serve a person of your discriminating tastes."
Yes, he thought to himself as he watched them move away, skilled flunkeys to do his bidding, the old arts and crafts were falling into disuse. Everything was hectic, brassy and contradictory these days. Most of the beautiful people, the jet set and the golden youths, the people who would fly from Cuernavaca to Aruba on a whim, had the most abominable table manners and knew absolutely nothing about either wines or gourmet food. Theirs was a diet of pills and too many cocktails and crash diets to keep young and beautiful and vivacious. Well, thank God, he still enjoyed good health, a robust stomach that could finish off a canard a l'orange and baked Alaska and a fifth of Burgundy at a single meal with no ill effects.
He had come to San Francisco to confer with James Enderby, the vice president of a growing mining company with interests in Baja California, New Zealand and Alaska. Enderby had paid him the compliment of calling him up across country and inviting him to fly out here to talk about merger. James Enderby was a man in his early sixties, bluff and blustering, worth a neat little fortune, controlling a good deal of very high-potential property tied up with all sorts of unbreakable government contracts. It was a good chance to broaden the portfolio and the holdings of the McKenzie Mining Company, he thought. Besides, a week or two in San Francisco would revive his jaded spirits. He was frankly bored of it all, the almost predictable life at home with Alice sitting at the table and having hardly two words to say to him, the petty and colorless dealings with bitches like that manicurist whom he'd had his gawking young office boy fuck. Even that hadn't really set him off too much. What he needed was a change of scenery, something really unusual, something bizarre. One reason he liked to dine at Ernie's was because this atmosphere plunged him back into the past when a man of means and imagination could act like a feudal lord. Why, in the days of the Barbary Coast, you could have a man shanghaied and put on a ship that would never touch port for the next couple of years if you had an enemy you wanted dispose of; you could go down to Market street and for a few gold coins watch a pretty teenager take on a Shetland pony, or three huge Chinese stevedores (one in each orifice). Or you could lock yourself up in one of the fine little plush apartments near Coit Tower with a grande courtesane like Lillian Lorwell, the legendary Frisco belle who kept a huge Borzoi and a parakeet in her apartment and paraded naked except for a feathered hat and button-on knee-length calfskin boots. Those were the good old days when clandestine love or lust-and they were then interchangeable-could be purchased freely. Yes, those days, you could even ask a bell captain or the headwaiter of a fashionable restaurant where to find a little alluring pleasure, and a discreet tip would guarantee that your night would be unforgettable.
But in the San Francisco of today, it wasn't quite so easy anymore. The previous mayor, George Christopher, had driven out the easy girls, so that only a few syndicate-controlled expensive bitches in carefully unidentified apartments were around to service the knowing and the rich. He had a horror of anything controlled by the syndicate, because all of it would become blackmail or even the old-fashioned badger game and mugging. But tonight, he wanted something unusual, something to cap this night before Thanksgiving, this clandestine night to himself across the country and away from Alice.
If only he could find a girl as lovely as his own Eleanor! Some young man was going to be extremely happy and it wouldn't be too much longer. Let's see, Eleanor was eighteen now, finishing her first year at Columbia, and taking journalism of all things. With a face and body like hers, he was willing to bet a small fortune she wouldn't be graduated; some handsome, well-to-do young man would snap her up and give her a baby in nine short months. Then he'd be a grandfather, and really feel old. But here he was now, at forty-seven, in his prime, on top of the world, with all that money could buy, and yet he was horribly bored.
The damnable thing about it was that going to bed with an attractive woman didn't work for him any longer. Wherever he traveled on business, Chicago or St. Louis, New Orleans or St. Paul, Boston or Los Angeles, he somehow managed to find an attractive bitch to fuck. And almost every time, even with all the imagine preludes and the fine conversational talk which followed a good dinner and good wine, the bitch fell short of expectations. Almost without exception, the minute he put his prick into her hot slit he felt himself begin to lose interest, to lessen and finally ejaculate before he even worked himself up into a furious shattering climax that was so vital to good health and a proper balance of nerves. It was becoming irritating, and he did not know the solution.
Lately, he'd got a great deal more pleasure out of watching others do it. But even that had its limitations, like the manicurist and the office boy. They were too contrived, too terrified and too humble; he owned them and they were husks without personality or meaning. He would do better to read a vicious book, something by Alan McClyde or the master of sadism, Jean de la Beuque. Those writers back in the thirties could evoke the most lubricious and exotic scenes ever written of carnal passion in its diverse forms of rape and the lash, of exquisite torture and Tantalus so vividly portrayed that you immersed yourself in the reading, saw yourself as the protagonist and experienced his furious desire and the whetting of his lust until its shattering culmination.
But in those days, you could go to the Sphinx in Paris or the Konigsbann in Hamburg, rent a suite of rooms, have champagne served you by a beautiful naked young Negro girl of thirteen or fourteen years, wearing only high-heeled pumps and opera-length hose with flouncy rosettes, her dainty pointed titties giggling as she moved towards you with a meek and docile look on her face. In the Konigsbann, one of his father's cosmopolitan friends had once related during an evening in which he'd eavesdropped outside his father's library, this friend had visited one memorable evening and the pretty little Negro had had the silver handle of a leather riding crop thrust up her ass-hole; and after she'd served the champagne, she'd turned around and bent over and grasped her ankles and asked whether he'd like to whip and then bugger her for beginners. But these days, it was impossible to find in this puritanical country-all the more puritanical because of its frantic sublimation by erotic books and magazines and films-any such gloriously uninhibited maisons de luxe. Nowadays people cared more to read about fucking than to do it in all the perverse and delicious ways of the Victorian period. Now there was an era, when a woman like Mrs. Berkeley would earn a hundred thousand pounds for inventing a whipping horse on which a pretty girl could be postured in a thousand different lascivious ways for the lash and where, after flogging her, you could compel her as your slave-girl to suck you, to give you a trip around the world, or to let you fuck her wheelbarrow style.
He was savoring his soup, and thinking of Eleanor again. At once he felt a certain guilty sense of impropriety at associating his beloved daughter, his only child, the only issue from his own loins, with his thoughts of rut and of a night in an elegant bagnio. Yet the fact remained that he had seldom seen any girl as attractive as his own daughter, and she was a joy. She was in awe of him, unfortunately, and they didn't have the right rapport he'd really like. On the other hand, he traveled so much that he could hardly expect her, of college age and occupied with her studies and her new friends, to be really close to him. And of course that sneaky bitch Alice had alienated her against him a long time ago.
Eleanor McKenzie was five feet seven inches in height, with svelte, felinely supple body. To watch her walk was a joy in itself, on the balls of her feet, perfectly balanced, with her head held high and a disdainful little smile playing round her somewhat overripe red mouth. But she had a cameo-like face, with delicately penciled eyebrows lining large, widely spaced dark brown eyes, and she wore her auburn hair in a feather bob which had a kind of provocative boyishness to it in the way it left her nape and dainty little ears so vulnerably bare. Her breasts were solid young pears well separated and high set on her fine chest, and her waist narrowed to flare out like a Greek amphora into the succulent, oval-shaped haunches cleft by the most sinuously narrow of creases. Her long lovely slender thighs and sleek calves were bewitchingly fluid as they moved, and he had more than once secretly glanced at his daughter's legs in their diaphanous nylon sheathing. If he could meet a girl like Eleanor far away from New York when he was on one of his interesting little foraging expeditions, he was quite sure that it would cure his impotency, his premature ejaculations, his frantic fumblings to preserve the keenly rutting lust with which he had begun the adventure only to feel it inexorably, helplessly, slip away and dwindle into nothingness.
Strange, he mused, that Eleanor thus far had found no steady boyfriend. At eighteen, she was ripe. The marvel was, for a man in his position with all his wealth and newspaper fame, that some fortune-hunter hadn't already tried to make a killing by getting Eleanor emotionally hung up, introducing her to her first piece and then putting the bite on him for an annulment. No, on that score he had to give Alice grudging credit where credit was due. Just the same, that girl of his with her auburn hair cut in a long youthful pageboy just below her shoulder blades, framing the clear oval of her face, and with that pale creamy skin flecked here and there with tiny rosy spots, was enough to give a virile, cocksmith the most frustrating of wet dreams unless he could find and hold and cram himself into the tight sweet channel of a girl exactly like that.
The lamb was magnificently cooked, with a sauce that made his mouth water. The maitre d' hotel carved with beautiful exquisite economy of movements, and his plate appeared before him elegantly garnished with vegetables cooked in butter sauce and a delicate browned potato which had a distinctive flavor all its own. The wine steward was beside him, gently tilting the bottle, filling the goblet with about an inch of the ruby-red wine, stepping back to await his gustatory pronounciamento. His ego flattered by this breathless reverence, Edward McKenzie slowly lifted the goblet to his lips, took a sip of the wine, rolled it about in his mouth, frowned, then nodded. "Robust," he said crisply as he set down the glass.
"Merci, M'sieu McKenzie," the wine steward thanked him as he filled the glass. "Bon apetit!"
He sighed with pleasure. There was no doubt that in this restless, frenetic materialistic world, the old leisurely joys were still the most rewarding ones. A leisurely enjoyed gourmet dinner in one of the really great restaurants like this, with its intimate setting and the feeling of privacy to make it more of an event, was the way to expand your soul. To any man who was downhearted or felt the melancholic stab of remorse or the urge to suicide, Edward McKenzie would unabashedly recommend the haute cuisine of such a restaurant as this. The most dejected man alive could not enter a restaurant like Ernie's and emerge without having quite forgotten his longing for the grave, his Schopenhaurian Weitschmerz to return back to the womb and to forget life. No, the morale-building stimulus of this evening had already made him forget the disappointments of his marriage. Again he lifted the wine goblet and stared at the great Burgundy and then put it to his lips with relish.
For dessert, he felt adventurous, and chose crepes Suzette, prepared with the noble Grand Marnier. Even to watch the preparation of such a dessert was to derive a kind of erotic pleasure, and the wafting fragrance of this magnificent Gallic orange liquor merging with the light fluffy pancakes became a kind of canthoride. This and demitasse, and finally a good panatela and a final pony of the Grand Marnier, and Edward McKenzie felt himself come alive again, casting off his lethargy. In three more years he would be fifty, but tonight it really didn't matter. With the good food and wine comfortably digesting, he felt his blood warm and rich and young. Dammit, if he could only go from here to the soft, soundproof apartment of some incomparable whore, who would have some new method, some sweet nuance of prick-teasing, to make him reach the longed-for fulfillment which had been denied to him so many times in all these years!
He took out a wallet bulging with twenties and fifties and left a lavish tip for the maitre d' hotel, the wine steward and his waiter. He did not leave until he had finished his cigar and had another demitasse and then he left amid an accolade of bows and flattering queries as to whether everything had been to his complete satisfaction.
The night air was seductively warm, in the near-seventies, unusual for November in San Francisco. What fog there had been when he entered Ernie's had lifted, and he could even see a moon. Here on Montgomery Street, not far from the tall buildings where the big insurance companies and advertising agencies made up the financial center of the city by the Golden Gate, Edward McKenzie felt himself a mysterious stranger, an adventurer come by stealth to take part in the forbidden pleasures of an era that had long since died. He felt nostalgia seize him as he looked around, wondering where among all those tiny pinpoints of light which dotted the hills of Twin Peaks, of the Marina and of North Beach, some flawless, incredibly imaginative houri waited on a chaise lounge for a man like himself who could give of himself only if the woman were perfection. He put his hand to the thick wallet which he had tucked in his lapel pocket; there was enough there to buy many such women. But the trick was to find them. If this were the turn of the century, before the great earthquake, there would be no problem at all. And then too, there was the little matter of his own importance. Let him be jailed or picked up in a raid in some brothel however elegant, and the financial sections of the newspapers all over the country would shriek the downfall of the McKenzie Mining Company and the investors and their stocks would suffer an irreparable loss. There were times, he thought bitterly, when he wished to God he could dress in the common garb of a laborer and go into some crib and void his spunk between the hearty, muscular thighs of some young bitch who knew how to drain a man's sap from him with the sucking verve of her cunt alone. But so far, alas, he'd never found one quite like that. His women were imagine and expensive, and rarely were they much more than, when all was said and done, prickteasers.
The doorman respectfully tipped his cap, asking, "Shall I call you a cab, sir?" Edward McKenzie thoughtfully frowned. Going back to his hotel now would be an anticlimactic finale to such a night as this. It was a night of freedom, almost a continent away from his office and his home, and this anonymity should certainly be put to use. On the other hand, he wanted something new, not just a shabby repeat performance by some of the attractive hookers he had already fucked in this city, whose addresses and telephone numbers he already had inscribed in a little black memo book tucked in the same pocket as his bulging wallet. He hadn't been to San Francisco in six months, and so new contacts weren't at once available. An independent cabdriver might be some help, if the man were persuaded that he wasn't a snooping investigator or plainclothes man. He turned to the doorman, "Thanks anyway, but I think I'll walk. Good for the digestion, you know."
He felt replete with superb food and wine, almost resentful of leaving the plush surroundings of the magnificent restaurant to come out into this night scene in which he had no part or identity. In the Roman era, if you were the guest of a wealthy nobleman, he would offer you a beautiful Greek or Circassian dancing girl to share your couch after the feast. Or he would take you on a visit to his torture chamber where his steward would apply a little whip of tiny knotted cords to the statuesque ivory-sheened body of a magnificent Persian slavegirl who had rebelled against her master's wishing to enter her temple of Sodom. What a titillating spectacle it would be, to see her bound against a black marble pillar, the contrast of her ivory nakedness causing that maddeningly delicious ache in the testicles which is always the prelude to memorable fucking. To hear her fluted cries, to see the tears pearl and glisten in her enormously dilated dark eyes, and to hear at last her sobbing capitulation, then to watch her freed of her bonds and forced to kneel on all fours with her head bowed to the stone floor while the master knelt behind her and brutally took that which was his by right and which she had not wished to yield save under the persuasive caresses of the whip!
But in this decadent modern civilization of the twentieth century, Edward McKenzie bitterly reflected, there was no such certainty of pleasurable sport, no exotic bordello to which only the cognoscenti were admitted. The paltry, tawdry experiences one stealthily bought here and there were too mechanical, too sordidly commercial. He was bored and weary of the business of opening his wallet and tossing a sheaf of bills onto the boudoir table of a pretty whore, then seeing her instantly automatic smile as she divested herself of her garments and wheedlingly and sinuously moved towards him, winding her arms about his neck and grinding her furry crotch against his, plying the all too artificially calculated method of seduction so that he would quickly void his gism and make her onerous task the more swiftly done so that she might repeat this shabby wooing again and again with ample profit before the night waned.
He decided to walk down toward North Beach, unofficial home of the flower children, those purveyors of free love. But his own fastidiousness halted him with the thought of contamination; free love was, to be sure, better than commercial sexual peregrinations, but these unwashed and unkempt teenaged madonnas, these lovely young high priestesses of peace and prick-appeasement, had, alas, more than their untrammeled souls and bodies to communicate: the bane of hepatitis and venereal disease had already become a terrifying statistic which, some mournful critics declared, made San Francisco the Sodom and Gomorrah of the age.
No, let it be an expensive whore, then, competent in her craft, meticulous enough in her livelihood to give him reasonable assurance that her person would not be contaminated. He felt the itch of his gonads at the thought of congress with a young, sophisticated, college-graduated slut. The carnal contrast between a poised and cultured bitch for hire and her rutting expertise beneath the sheets would at least rouse his appetites. And perhaps, if fortune smiled upon him this evening, those appetites could be sated instead of thwarted. Edward McKenzie was like the inveterate gambler who, caught up in the throes of a disastrous losing streak, nevertheless yearns for the unexpected coup that will wipe out all the losses and the memory of them as well.
His ambling walk had taken him down towards Taylor Street, and in the neon-brightened, unreal panorama of the streets, he could see the vague outlines of the Cost Plus Imports warehouse. Here tourists and native residents alike flocked to browse over a fascinating multiplicity of exotic artifacts, bric-a-brac and foods, from Shoji screens to cans of pickled squid. What a pity, he thought, that there was not a kind of universal warehouse for lust, shadow-boxes along the aisles before which one might stop and select this or that imaginative carnal adventure and be free to delectate over it at one's leisure.
Lost in this thoughts, he hardly noticed that a cruising cab had drawn up alongside the curb, and was suddenly startled to hear a low voice call, "Maybe I can help, Mister?"
In instinctive surprise, his hand moved to his lapel pocket to ascertain the safety of the bulging wallet as well as the memo book. But the latter was of very little value now, containing only the chronological inscriptions of stale passions, febrile and inane couplings. And his own ingenious code of ciphers which told him, but no one else who might come upon this book of the physical propensities of those women of easy virtue and exaggerated cost, had little power to stiffen his prick even at their sight. In that book were scores of names and addresses and phone numbers throughout the country, in every major city to which he had traveled. He had lain with all of them, and each time it had been the same: disappointment, disgust and fury at his own premature, schoolboyish defeat.
"Are you looking for something, Mister?" the cabdriver chuckled with a knowing wink. "Maybe I can help you find it."
Edward McKenzie stared at the man. The cab was orange-colored, and on the door in black letters were the words "Ruby Cab Co." It was an independent, probably belonging to a firm that had at most ten or a dozen cabs throughout the city. Hope flickered in him, because often cabdrivers like this who prowled the night and could not compete with the major taxi firms "moonlighted" by running girls and even drugs. Of course there was the danger of blackmail or physical harm, but the ache in his prick was overcoming even this fundamental caution. He moved slowly towards the curb. The driver was gray-haired, with a broad Roman nose, fleshy lips, bold dark eyes, a muffler round his throat to protect him against the raw San Francisco night air.
"I saw you come out of Ernie's, Mister," the cabdriver said in a confidential tone. "Figured to myself you'd like to top the evening off with something special. And you looked heeled enough to pay the tab."
"Possibly. What have you got to offer?" Edward McKenzie's voice trembled, and he compressed his lips in anger at his own weakness. Just as in business, it was a mistake to show somebody else you wanted something, because that immediately raised the price.
"I'm pretty sure you're not a dick, Mister, but a little identification would get me in a helpful mood," the driver then insinuated to him.
Impressively, Edward McKenzie took out his wallet, yawned it for the driver to see the thick sheaf of green bills, then pulled out of the compartment his business card with his New York address and phone. The driver nodded: "Plenty good enough, Mister. But this is going to cost you."
"How much and for what?"
"Fifty for me, and two hundred for the young lady. Now before you say no to that, this is choice stuff. Sort of an amateur, you might say. A swell society babe, nice and young. Her folks are off in Europe and she hates their guts, hates the whole Establishment. She-likes the feeling of making her own dough and doing it this way to get her kicks. Nobody else is running her, Mister, so you don't have to worry any."
"Oh? Then how is it that a fellow like you knows a society girl well enough to pimp for her?" Edward McKenzie warily demanded.
Again the cabdriver gave him a knowing wink. "I met this trick, Mister, a couple of months ago. Went out to San Mateo to pick her up on a call that came in to our dispatcher. She just wanted to go for a drive along the Bay Shore Freeway, just to cool off. Told me she had a row with her folks, they were lousy squares. By the time we got to Candlestick Park, she told me to take her on down to Sausalito and she'd see a couple of pals she had there. Then we got to talking, you know how things are in a cab, and first thing I knew, this chick told me to pull into a motel. Then she gave me the hottest piece I ever had in my life, and I've had plenty, Mister. She was really something, I'm here to tell you! Then she asked how I'd like to get her some really imagine Johns, because she had a notion to try the life a couple of times a month just for kicks. So that's how it started. All I'll have to do is make a phone call and see if she's around and available. This is about her night to howl, anyhow, and, like I say, her folks are in Europe. Want me to make the call, Mister?"
Edward McKenzie's prick was aching so that he could hardly stand. A young society girl, maybe a girl like his own Eleanor, but inhibited, rebellious against all the institutions of convention and smug complacency, a girl whose fiery lust given in 'anger and hostility could perhaps purge him of his own thwarted longings.
He took out his wallet again and plucked out a fifty-dollar bill. "Go make the call," he said hoarsely.
CHAPTER FIVE....
It was a twelve-mile ride to San Mateo, and Edward McKenzie rolled down the window and leaned back, letting the cool air whip at his perspiring forehead and clear the seething, clotted passions that twisted in his viscera and in his brain. It was always like this. Each time he was in route to some new alluring as yet untasted houri, he would fortify himself with the most lascivious fantasies, telling himself that this time the woman was going to be the epitome of carnal seduction, that her blandishments would gradually and lingeringly draw him step by step towards the bottomless abyss of savage and felicitous fuck-fulfillment. Only then would come the moment of meeting, and he would see the realization of all his illusions. Sometimes she was even more beautiful than he had dreamed; most of the time less exciting by far than his fancies had made her be. At times, there was the surging excitement at the first few moments of cohesion and of nakedness, of feeling that at last this was perhaps the dream-reality, the be-all and the end-all of his aching prick-yearnings. And then, as he strove with her towards that astral sphere in which the limitless eons of time and space had vanished into the cogent flesh-embrace of man and woman, of prick and cunt, there would be the hideous decrescendo, the awful diminuendo of nothingness and of self-disgust.
Half a dozen times along that ride, he was on the verge of asking the cabdriver to tell him this society girl's physical specifications. Was she blonde, brunette or red-haired? Was she svelte, or Venus-plump, was she a combination of precocious intellect and vulgar harlot, or simply avidly lubricious and possessive? Yet he suppressed the urge to ask this question, preferring again as he always did to augment the aching of his balls by sheer conjecture.
The cab swung off the freeway and headed down the main business street, then took a right turn for about a mile and headed westward for another two miles. His palms were clammy with sweat and his forehead throbbed, and his throat was dry with the wanting, the longing, the impatience of knowing what he was going to get out of this expensive grab bag. He tried to tell himself that he mustn't expect too much, because after all this cabdriver had appeared out of nowhere and promised him the moon and stars, and for all he knew it might be simply a clever con game. Maybe there wasn't any society girl at all, maybe the cabdriver was taking him out to this lonely suburb to turn on him and mug him. He'd been a fool to show him that wallet. But it was too late now.
And then suddenly the driver stopped at the very end of the block in front of a two-story psuedo-Gothic house with gables, a long driveway made of red brick along which ivy clambered in profusion. There didn't seem to be a single light in the house or even the garage, which had living quarters above it. "Here we are, buddy," the driver looked back with a friendly grin. "Go right on in.
You're expected. Oh, one thing more, give her the two hundred the minute she lets you in. She doesn't like to think about the money, wants to get it over with fast so she can have her kicks. When you're finished, I'll take you back. Just tell her that you want to get back to your hotel. Well, thanks for the business. Have fun."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His throat was choking now, and as he got out of the cab he felt the agonized thrust of his half-stiffened cock against the fly of his expensive tweed trousers. But there was one thing he did want to know, and he turned back to the driver, who was starting up the motor. "What's her name?" he croaked.
"Rae, that's all you have to know. I told her you were Mr. Mac. I figured that's close enough for both of you."
"Th-thanks." But that stammered appreciation was lost in the roar of the motor as the cab swirled off down the street and disappeared. Edward McKenzie stood on the sidewalk facing the house, his hand automatically going to his lapel pocket to ascertain that he hadn't left his wallet in the cab. No, it was there. Her name was Rae. He'd never had a Rae before. Maybe this one would be something special, the divine succubus who would free him from the torture of ineptitude. If only there could be another girl there too and he could watch the two of them delicately undress, kiss and touch, their flanks and breasts brushing together in naked promise, while he watched and filled his eyes and glutted his mind with the fierce beauty of their naked bodies in pre-coital embrace. Then he would be empowered to perform, he knew. But it wasn't ever that way. And the one time he tried to pay for two girls to put on a dyke act, it had fizzled out so miserably that he'd walked out without even trying to knock off a piece. So obviously artificial and mechanical and contrived without any zest or imagination, though both the girls had been beautiful, as he recalled.
He went up the stone steps to the porch, put his finger to the doorbell. Faintly, he heard the sound of soft chimes rather than the buzzing of a bell. He liked that, it was in keeping with his mood. The air had become cooler for he was near the ocean now. It was good, laving his sweating forehead, for his bodily heat after that rich dinner and all that wine had made his armpits damp, yes, and his crotch too. But that last dampness was thrillingly perverse, for it seemed to chafe his aching cock into a greater hardness than he had known for some years now at the outset of a spicy erotic adventure such as this.
Suddenly, without warning, the door swung open, and a husky voice whispered to him from the dark interior, "Come in, hurry!"
He crossed the threshold, took out his wallet, squinting in the darkness to find the requisite number of bills. The fifties were always at the front. He extracted four, folded them neatly, held them out, and felt them taken from his hand, the husky whisper closer to him now: "That's Fine. Come with me, Mr. Mac."
He heard the movement of her feet, and he could just make out the vague outline of her body in the darkness through a huge living room and down a narrow corridor. There was a tiny floor light which suddenly illumined the hall and his eyes widened with delight to see at last his taciturn interlocutress. She was as tall as his own daughter, her back was to him, and her thick dark brown hair tumbled in shimmering waves nearly to her hips. She seemed to be dressed in a black leotard and, incongruously, gym sneakers. That was why he had scarcely heard her.
Her lovely calves were high set and sinuous, beautifully muscled, as were her long slender thighs. Her beautiful buttocks were arrogant ovals, high-perched, and compact as a boy's. Yet with each springy step she took, he could see the gluteal muscles flex and tighten, creating an exquisite undulation that made the throbbing of his prick increase as he followed her. She stopped suddenly, opened what seemed to be a closet door, and he heard the click of a light, "Down these stairs. Be careful, it's very narrow," her husky whisper warned him.
He went down the stairs carefully, holding his breath, while she seemed to float with assurance, vanishing at a turn to the right. At last he reached the floor level, and he heard another click, and then he found himself in a kind of recreation room. The ceiling was low but the room was spacious. There were throw rugs scattered everywhere. In the center, was a billiard table with thick green felt top, and a wooden triangle held neatly a set of gleaming balls. On a rack beyond, were cue sticks, and at the left was a miniature bar. To the right was a built-in black-leather-padded couch alongside the entire wall. Near it a ping pong table with a net already fixed, two paddles and a ball lying in wait for the next game. He walked in through an open door, and the girl in the black leotard and sneakers turned to greet him, reaching beyond him to pull the door to and to turn the key in the lock. "Hi," she said noncommittally.
He caught his breath at the resemblance between her and Eleanor. The same oval face, the same high arching forehead, almost the same small insolent mouth, the slantingly set cheekbones. But her eyes were gray-green and set closely together, with enormous lashes that had much too much mascara, so that they seemed to gleam and threatened to drop their exudation into those flexing, feline orbs which appraised him impassively and coldly.
The leotard was like a second skin and it hugged the small oranges of her titties, widely spaced but with surprisingly large nipples shaped out by the clinging black stuff. Her belly was lean and flat, and here too the leotard caressingly molded out the wide shallow navel-niche. It delineated, too, the apex between those long, sinuous, nervously quivering thighs. Her pelvic basin seemed almost bony by comparison with other women he had fucked. Yet there was a tantalizing, provocative suppleness and competence to her which suggested the most cataclysmic of sexual pleasures. He wanted her, and he could feel his prick expressing that need as it continued to stiffen. God, what a good find this was! There must be nothing to destroy it!
"Like a drink first?" she asked. Her voice no longer a whisper, was still husky and insolent. He judged her to be at most twenty-two or twenty-three. She had excellent teeth, small, flawlessly white without even the hint of a filling so far as he could tell. He hesitated, then nodded:
"Sure. A small brandy will be fine." Then, feeling that he had been accepted by this token mark of hospitality, Edward McKenzie took off his light overcoat and placed it over the back of the heavy loveseat near the door, then carefully unbuttoned his coat, neatly draped it over the overcoat. He remembered that he had left his wallet in the lapel pocket, but he dismissed the thought of having it stolen. This house was much too luxurious, the girl much too patrician, to suggest so crassly vulgar a thing as theft. Nor did he even think of the possibility of knockout drops in the brandy. She advanced to the miniature bar with that same quick, springy step, went behind it, reached for a cut-glass decanter and poured out half a pony. Then she took a full pony for herself, and came back to him, proffering his drink. He clinked glasses with her, "To us," he boasted.
She pursed her lips, studied him casually with those impersonal eyes, then sipped from her glass like a connoisseur. She waited until he had finished, then she said calmly, "Why don't you undress?"
"I-I'd like to know you better, Rae," his voice had a hollow cheerfulness to it; it was like a little boy whistling in the dark afraid of the shadows and the wraiths. But the girl stood there coolly, the pony of brandy still in her hand, and her left hand began to stroke her svelte hip as if stating its firmness and resilience. Or, he had the irrelevant thought, as if she were making certain that the machinery of her body was lubricated and well-geared towards this not so habitual action.
"What would you like to know, Mr. Mac?" Her tone was airy, mocking. She took another sip from the pony and gave him a long, deliberate look.
"Well," he hedged, "two strangers ought certainly to know something about each other's-likes and dislikes before they-shall we say-indulge in intimacy?"
She tilted back her head and laughed. It was an unpleasant hoarse laugh and there was no humor in it. She took another sip of her brandy, and then said coldly: "Look, Mr. Mac, what Jimmy told you about me is all you have to know. I'm a big girl, you won't go to San Quentin for fucking a minor, if that's what you're worried about. And my parents are in Europe, and I'm in my senior year at a pretty well-known college-you don't have to know which one-and neither of us is going to make a lifelong habit of it. Now, do you want to undress? Shall I help you?"
He bit his under lip, because his prick was starting to detumesce and then he realized all the horrible signs. She was too matter-of-fact, too cocksure-and he wasn't punning when he thought of that term for her. She was cold, antiseptic, and perhaps she had some private little war she was waging against either the Establishment or the narrow world of her parents and perhaps an unwanted eligible suitor her parents wanted her to bed down with. Thus she was proving to herself viciously that she could service a man and make money doing it, make much more money than the average call girl. All right, if that was her game, he'd go along with it. He had invested money and time, and she did have a maddeningly desirable body. It didn't have the ripeness of curve that Eleanor's could boast, and yet there was something about her face and her hair-
His face flushed hotly as he fumblingly removed his tie and shirt. It wasn't healthy to think of Eleanor, not at a time like this. There were very few like Eleanor, and girls like that belonged on a pedestal, and you didn't think about fucking them. Besides, Eleanor was his own daughter. He ought to try to-liken this snotty piece of ass to one of the broads he had bought back in Pittsburgh or Miami, Lois or Terri, or maybe Delores. But not Eleanor. He must try to forget that name, not even let it come into his mind when he had his prick in this cool, self-confident society tramp.
He was down at last to shorts and socks, but she had still made no move, standing there with a half-finished pony in her right hand, her left still mechanically stroking her hip and upper thigh.
Then, studying him a moment, she put the pony to her lips and downed the rest of the brandy the way a sailor might have downed a shot in some cheap bar, turned back to the bar and set down the empty glass, and then moved over to the billiard table. He watched her wonderingly as she stooped, reached under the table and seemed to touch something. And then suddenly the table was whirring, and the green felt surface was actually quivering. It was a vibrating table.
Then very calmly she drew off the leotard, kicking off the sneakers first, but she wasn't naked. His eyes bulged to see that she had a kind of halter, a gusseting G-string of red satin which took her between the cheeks of her behind and covered her cunt, connecting with a tight cinch-like belt around her supple waist. She put back on her sneakers, put one palm to the table and lightly vaulted onto it, and then knelt up, her hands cupping her small orange-like titties, her thumb pads fondling the dark coral buds in their narrow aurolae. "Come on in, the water's fine," she said jocularly, a faintly derisive smile curving her red mouth.
As in a dream, Edward McKenzie moved towards the table and clambered onto it. "You won't need your shorts," she rebuked him with a flicker of amusement in those gray-green eyes. Turning red with confusion, he unbuttoned them, and hastily tugged them off, and let them drop on the floor. The vibrating crispness of the billiard table top was strangely exciting. He felt his prick begin to stiffen again.
"Like me to get on top, or do you want to be the man this time?" she asked.
"Do you have to be so damn frank about it, Rae?" his voice was hoarse and angry.
"Sure, why not? Hypocrisy is the thief of time, Mr. Mac. I think you're the prone type. Lie down and relax, your arms at your sides, and I'll give it to you. The vibrator will do you more good than me anyhow," she told him.
He was half tempted to strike her and dress and walk out. But the taunting look of that oval face, the long dark brown hair falling in thick waves over her shoulders and down her supple back, stopped him. Her skin was tawny, and just above her breasts much darker from the sun. So were her lower thighs and calves, so that she seemed to be a two-toned lithe boy-girl. There was a kind of embittered lewdness to her svelte hips; the red satin halter hid the lips of her pussy, but it also told him that she had surprisingly little hair there, for he could see none at all edge from the sides of the tight strap which shielded her mount.
She got on all fours over him, advancing until her loins were exactly above his. Then, lowering herself, an enigmatic smile on her face, she began to rub the satin crotchpiece against the head of his prick. Edward McKenzie caught his breath and closed his eyes and groaned softly. The reiterated vibration of the table against his buttocks and back and shoulders, the friction of the warm smooth satin against his straining meatus had begun to restore to him the optimism he had known during the drive to San Mateo. He opened his eyes and saw her bosom-oranges dangling over his face, and he reached up his hands to cup them, to caress their buds with his fingertips. "Do-do you like that?" his voice was again hoarse and angry.
"It's your two hundred, Mr. Mac. Amuse yourself if you like," Rae drawled. Her eyes were staring beyond him toward the bar. She was lending him her body, or rather, giving him the illusion that she was with him. Was it an act or was it a part of her inimical hostility towards men? Maybe she hated her father. Maybe he was some eminent judge or the president of a big electronic firm whose entire career could be destroyed by a single rumor of his daughter's sluttishness. Maybe this was her revenge. But for whatever reason, Edward McKenzie agonizedly sensed that he would never obtain this girl, that he could take a whip and flog her to the blood without drawing more than a mocking cry and a sneering, contemptuous expression from her haughty face. She was almost an androgyne in her sexlessness.
Wanting to hurt her, he dug his fingers into her titties. He had the pleasure of seeing her wince, but her voice was quite as cool as before as she remarked, "I know I'm not a Carol Doda, but a lot of men prefer legs and bottoms to titties, you know. I'm sorry if titties are your thing, Mr. Mac. I'm afraid I don't have time to grow a suitable size for you tonight."
"All right, you little bitch," he snarled, "get down on me then and fuck, if that's all you're good for!"
"Why, you really care, after all," she taunted him. "That's what I'm here for." She knelt up, reached behind her, moved her hands this way and that, and the red satin gusset-cinched halter fell to the table. His eyes fixed on her cunt. It was almost shorn, and the labia major was thin and of a pale coral tint. He could even see the tiny nodule of her clitoris, and the wide gaping offertory in which she knelt with legs astraddle. His balls ached with desire, but his prick was not yet in full giant erection as he yearned it to be.
She put her hands to his cock, fondling it between her palms, rubbing it swiftly, and then very lingeringly. Then she lowered herself, and he felt the rasp of the sparse cuntfleece against the taut skin of the meatus, and he groaned again. And then he felt her pry open the lips of her cunt and with the other hand guide his twitching ramrod towards the inlet, felt her sink down and absorb it within the lobby of her love chasm. "Just relax, Mr. Mac," she murmured huskily.
He tried to banish every other memory out of his mind, to give himself up to the constant vibration of the table under his naked body. He felt her tight hot cunt taut along his prick as she descended, stretching out over him, her hands cradling the back of his head, but her face turned away to one side. Then he felt her hips arch and lower, and he felt the friction of her vaginal sheath.
It was tighter than he had dreamed it could be. It made his cock ache with its persistent clenching. He uttered a groan again as he felt her rise from him, drawing him out of her till his cocktip trembled at the very brink of her orifice.
Then, suddenly pulling her hands out from under his head, she put them behind her, and drew forward the thick shimmering mantle of dark brown hair, letting it fall against his chest and face, tickling him, caressing him, as she kept his cockhead just inside her hole. He felt the pulsations of her womb conveying down along his not entirely rigid phallus all the myriad, infinite emanations of lust. And with a sobbing, savage cry he knew himself unmanned and undone once more. He suddenly exploded, and he burst into her womb. With a sobbing groan, he turned his face to one side and swore viciously: "Son of a bitch! Goddamn you for a teaser!"
"Sorry, Mr. Mac, but you can't blame me for that. I've been told I've got one of the tightest cunts in San Mateo County. Even Daddy's chauffeur, and he's honked at least fifty girls I know, including a couple of my best friends at college, thinks I'm the champion when it comes to a tight box. Most men like that. I'm sorry you weren't up to it, Mr. Mac. Tell you what, I'll refund half the fee. Fair enough? I never like a fellow to go away mad."
But Edward McKenzie was clambering down off the vibrating billiard table, his face pale and drawn, his prick limp and greasy against his hairy, plump thighs. Without answering, he dragged his clothes back on, made sure the wallet was still in the lapel pocket, and then he left.
CHAPTER SIX....
Alice McKenzie shivered deliriously under the soft silken sheets of the huge double bed as, propped up against the pillow, she watched Cecilia Dufours approach carrying her breakfast tray. What a treasure this lovely mulatto was! And what a marvelous piece of good luck it had been to have dear Helga recommend the girl just at the time when old Mrs. Edwards, who had been the McKenzie cook for fifteen years, had suddenly and quixotically decided to retire and go live with her sister in Redding.
The brown-haired matron had visited Helga the very next week after her first thrilling introduction to the Amazonian blonde masseuse. Edward had come back to New York and stayed exactly two days, and then gone back, this time to Denver, on another one of his incessant business trips. She had felt really guilty about the unexpected and yet devastatingly exciting clandestine adventure she had had on the massage table in Marcel's elegant salon de beaute, and so she had tried to make it up to Edward by offering herself as a dutiful and loving wife. He'd actually stayed home that first evening, and Mrs. Edwards had served his favorite dinner of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and had even baked him a chocolate Ambassador cake. Dear Eleanor had had dinner with them too, and Edward had been so gracious to his daughter that Alice had felt a sudden surge of affection for her husband, the kind which she had rarely experienced during the last few years.
Accordingly, after dinner, when he'd gone to his library to work on a prospectus for his forthcoming trip, Alice had gone upstairs to her room and bathed, scented her armpits and belly with an especially exquisite French perfume which Helga herself had suggested as "just the thing for Madame's unusual hidden personality." Then, excitement rising in her mingled thoughts of what she was about to do and what she had already done without his knowing, Alice McKenzie had put on a black satin negligee and fluffy mules, and about eleven-thirty at night when she had heard him come upstairs and go into his room next to hers, she had waited a few moments and then gone in to him, her heart pounding erratically.
In a kind of girlish caprice, the kind which rarely occurred to her anymore, and yet which made her feel daringly youthful-for Helga had told her that her body was still young and beautiful and that inwardly her emotions were still those emotions of an eager young woman in her twenties-Alice had flattened herself against the wall beside the door, wanting to surprise him. He'd gone into the bathroom, and she'd heard the sound of the shower. She'd closed her eyes and thought of his maleness; the memory of that phallic vibrator which had edged along the quivering satiny columns of her inner thighs and advanced with a tantalizing calculation towards her cunt was replaced by her yearning for the hard, gristle and cartilage reality of prick. She had no wish to take a secret lover, because Edward McKenzie had been her first man, her initiator, and even after all these years she couldn't forget that it had been he who had made a woman of her. If only he would do it again, now that she had been so magically wakened!
He'd come out at last, naked under his bathrobe, scowling, not seeing her. She'd felt the lips of her pussy twitch and moisten with her anticipation for the hot, salacious desire to be fucked. Her guilty pangs had assailed her the same night of her experience in Marcel's salon; she had been shocked to think back how perverse she had been, letting that blonde servant talk to her so intimately, caress her and then-and then bring her to climax with an instrument. It was abnormal and shameless, and the only way to purge it out of her mind was to give herself with passionate eagerness to her rightful mate, to Edward.
As he'd approached the bed, she'd moved from the dark hiding place between the door and his dresser and huskily murmured, "Edward, darling!" He'd turned with a gasp, and then roughly retorted, "Oh, it's you, Alice! You gave me quite a start there. What is it?"
Alice McKenzie had blushed violently at this peremptory and impersonal affront, but at the same time it had given her a kind of secret thrill; she had pictured herself as a submissive slave girl stealing into the bedchamber of a mighty pasha, intent on winning him back to her embrace after his long dalliance with a younger favorite. She had woven a kind of erotic fantasy about this bold adventure-for her, it was almost unthinkable, for even in their happier bed cohesions in the earlier years of their marriage, she had been the passive partner, yielding and sometimes with great inner joy but too inhibited to let him know how much she desired him.
So she had come towards him, put her arms around him, pressed her ripe, quivering body against his and murmured, "I want you, darling. Is it so unusual for a wife to want her husband, especially when she so seldom sees him anymore?"
And then her heart had leaped with joy as his strong hard fingers had dug into her shoulders and his eyes had narrowed as they fixed her with an appraising and questioning look. And then he'd said roughly, "You mean you've come here to make love, Alice? I must say, it really is a surprise. All right, I'll just call your bluff. Let's go to bed."
She'd tried to tell herself that this was the way a man acted to hide his emotion, to show himself aloof and masterful. Perhaps with it there would be roughness, the kind that would lash her quiescent flesh into the fierce hot yearning which the blonde Amazon had so singularly evoked. And so she'd nodded, though her eyes had filled with tears at the almost contemptuous way he'd spoken to her. He'd flung off his robe and was naked, and in the darkness of the bedroom there had been the illusion of harsh masculinity and fierce possession, and again her heart had begun to thud with a wild eagerness.
He had unbelted her negligee, shoved it off her body, and then his hands were nuzzling her swelling titties, his mouth came down hard in the hollow of her milky throat. "You smell good," he'd muttered thickly. And then he'd pressed himself against her, only his thing hadn't been hard at all. "Get into bed," he'd ordered.
And she'd obeyed eagerly, sliding under the sheets, feeling their coolness on her twitching buttocks and thighs, and her nipples had flinted. Oh, if only he'd take her, fulfill her, then she'd never need the distraction which had been so wicked and so unnatural. And then suddenly the fear of blackmail had risen in her mind; what if that Helga talked to Marcel or the other employees about how shameless she'd been there in the massage room? Or what if Helga used that knowledge to approach her and threaten to tell Edward? But in her need, in her desperate search for assuagement and for some token that the marriage wasn't completely destroyed after twenty years, Alice McKenzie had resolutely shoved away that fear and waited for Edward to take her.
He'd come into bed beside her, turned to her, his hands playing with her bubbies and belly, he'd pressed his face against her shoulder, and his breath was hot and quick, and then his hand had swiftly gone between her thighs and begun to rub her muff. "Yes, darling, love me," she'd breathed.
She'd put her hands to the sides of his head, as a mother might to a wayward child to summon it back to the gentle maternal ties of affection and forgiveness and compassion. She'd closed her eyes and waited, feeling the sweet thickening of her blood, the prickling stab of her yearning that made her nipples swell and harden. Then she'd felt his forefinger prod the lips of her cunt, dove between them, and move this way and that. She'd winced at his harshness, for there was no calculated tenderness or love play, simply a scornful usage of her flesh. And still she'd hoped that even this would waken her into the normalcy of eager, surrendering womanhood.
Then suddenly he'd flung himself over her, panting, gouging his prick over her furry cleft. His hands had reached under her to squeeze her bottom and he'd begun to mutter obscene invectives which at first had inexpressibly thrilled her and then frightened her: "I'm going to fuck you, you cold, unfriendly bitch! I'm going to ream you out, Alice, and find out if you're still as frigid as you always were down inside that box of yours! Now then, you fine society lady, get those legs open and get your hole ready for servicing, since that's what you want! Oh you bitch, you teasing, torturing bitch, do you feel me?"
And he'd begun to rub himself back and forth over her, as in the act of fucking, only all the time his cock had been limp and soft. Even so, even that friction had begun to make her insides churn with her need for him. And she'd panted back, "Yes, Edward, give it to me, I want it, I'm your wife, I need you!" And she had conquered her own shame in such an admission, out of both mingled guilt and desire and perhaps desperate fear that all they had ever had between them was a pale wraith, the kind that perhaps never really existed after all.
"Help me, you bitch," he'd groaned, and dug his fingers hard into her buttocks, making her gasp with pain and arch against him. Her arms had locked over his shoulders, and she'd whispered encouragingly "Oh yes, my darling, do it to me now, oh now, Edward!"
And then very suddenly, with a loud, angry shout-"Goddamn it! It's no good!" he'd flung himself to one side, got off the bed and walked back into the bathroom and came out with a cigarette. "Thanks for trying," he'd said curtly.
"You better go back to bed, Alice. I've got a long hard trip ahead of me and I guess I've got my mind on it. You're not so bad, I guess. I'll see you in the morning."
Thus he had dismissed her, like an untried virgin who hadn't pleased her master. She'd fought to hide the tears as she'd slipped back into her negligee and, without a word, gone back to her own room and cried herself to sleep.....
And so, a few days after he'd left, she'd gone back to Marcel's, phoned in advance to have an appointment with Helga. And this time, quivering like a naughty schoolgirl who's about to be summoned to the private office of the directress for a birching, already feeling the hot sting in her thighs and flanks and buttocks and in her pussy too, Alice McKenzie had entered the massage room where the tall Amazonian blonde had welcomed her with a knowing smile and, to her excited amazement, a long and passionate kiss on the mouth.
She had even helped Helga undress her, gone to the massage table with a trembling anticipation that fairly made her swoon with lust. This time, Helga had used the vibrator only on her nipples and belly and inner thighs, and then, doffed her uniform and, resplendently naked, clambered upon the table to merge over her and to grind the dark golden thatch of her pussy-hairs against Alice's, while her fingers stroked the curves of Alice's swelling titties and her tongue explored the nectared recesses of Alice's mouth until the brown-haired matron fairly swooned away in a transport of lustful excitement.
And then, when Alice McKenzie had known herself to be defenseless before this singularly compelling woman, Helga had murmured into her ear, as the two women lay naked on the massage table, caressing each other, "Madame needs someone with her always who will understand her moods, who can lift her depression and make her happy when her husband neglects her. I know such a person. She is a dear friend of mine, and she has just come to New York and is looking for work."
That was how Cecilia Dufours had come into the McKenzie household.
Alice had been a little worried about having her outright as a maid without consulting Edward, but then Mrs. Edwards had given her notice and things had worked out just wonderfully. And by the time Edward did come home from one of his eternal business trips, the dinner which the lovely mulatto served him was so good that even he couldn't find fault with it, though he had had a word or two to say to Alice later that evening about her becoming just a little too independent for his tastes.
Cecelia was twenty-one, and she had come from New Orleans, where her parents had died a few years before. She had been living with an old grandmother who could no longer support her, and so she had written to Helga, remembering that the latter had vacationed in New Orleans for Mardi Gras this past year where the two women had met and become fast friends. Helga had stayed at a little hotel near the Creole quarter where Cecilia had been working as a maid a few days a week, and that was how she knew the mulatto so well and could recommend her to Alice. It was just miraculous, too, that this lovely, graceful, quiet and talented girl had come into Alice McKenzie's horizon just about the time when she needed her most.
And now there was nothing that Edward could do about it, Alice knew triumphantly, and she felt a flicker of desire in her loins as the smiling Creole girl approached with her breakfast tray.
"I've some cantaloupe and bacon and crisp toast browned just the way you like it and black coffee, Mrs. McKenzie," Cecilia said gently. She had a soft, slurred voice, not unlike Helga's. Five feet seven inches in height with glossy black hair which fell to her shoulder blades and which, when Alice's husband was at home, she wore primly tucked up in a bun at the back of her head, she had an enchantingly willowy figure, and her skin was like dark honey. This morning she wore a maid's lace cap, a tight-fitting black silk dress with a lace apron over it, smoke-colored nylons and black pumps. The sinuosity of her body never failed to draw Alice's gaze. She often wished she could have a figure just like Cecelia's. And after last night-Alice had had an atrocious headache, and hadn't been able to sleep. She'd got up and gone to the kitchen, being very quiet so as not to wake Eleanor who had the room across the hall from her on the second floor of the house. She had thought of heating some milk, a girlhood remedy for headaches, and all of a sudden the kitchen door had opened and Cecilia had entered in a sheer white nylon nightie and high-heeled slippers, her hair unbound and floating about her lovely body. Sympathetically the young woman had inquired as to the reason for Alice's sleeplessness, and then she murmured, "Please let me take your headache away, dear Mrs. McKenzie. I know I can do it. Will you let me try?"
Wonderingly, Alice had nodded, and gone back to her room. Cecilia had made her lie back in bed, arms stretched out in a cross, her eyes closed. And she had felt Cecilia's long slim cool fingers caressing her temples and her earlobes, her cheeks and nostrils, brushing her lips, and suddenly the headache had seemed to recede. She had sighed with pleasure at the girl's gentle caress, and then she had opened her eyes and seen Cecilia's magnificent titties, bold, closely spaced, ripe pears with dark tips thrusting lasciviously out against the sheerness of the white nylon nightie, and her eyes had laved that supple body, down to the sleek, flat belly with its tiny narrow kiss-dimple which was the navel. And then the crisp black triangle shaped out by the hollowing of the nightie against Cecilia's loins. And a fit of shivering had seized her, and she could not help staring mutely and longingly at the lovely Creole girl.
"Let me make you happy, dear, dear Mrs. McKenzie," Cecilia had whispered, leaning over her and brushing Alice's cheek with her full moist red lips. A soft perfume from the girl's body had tantalized Alice's sharpened senses. To her astonishment, the headache was gone, and a kind of enervated expectancy had taken possession of her flesh and spirit. She felt herself willess, unable to move upon the bed. And Cecilia had taken this silence, this passivity, for assent.
CHAPTER SEVEN....
The Christmas holidays were happier than any Alice McKenzie had known in at least the last decade. Eleanor had her college vacation, and mother and daughter were thus reunited without the chilling presence of the preoccupied mining engineer. Perhaps because the holidays meant so little to him and because he found so little actual pleasure at being home, Edward McKenzie had spent only a few brief days during the month of December and was in Tulsa, Oklahoma, having accepted an expected invitation from David Fenderson, with whom the McKenzie firm had done business for several years.
David Fenderson was fifty-five, florid, paunchy and nearly bald, but he enjoyed playing the role of sexual adventurer in an understandable effort to forget the advancing years and the imminent time when he would no longer be able to participate actively in the game of two-backed beast.
He had been a widower for the past twelve years. His two sons were married and living in South Dakota, hence his oil company and his nocturnal prowling in search of pussy were his main occupations. He owned a lavishly furnished two-story house in an exclusive residential suburb of Tulsa, and he had half a dozen expertly trained servants to provide every comfort for luxurious domesticity. His cook, for example, had once been an assistant chef at the famed Waldorf-Astoria in
New York City, and his buxom housekeeper had for two years been the governess of the daughter of a United States senator whose term was expiring at the beginning of this new year. There was a gray-haired dignified valet who could also double in the role of butler when David Fenderson gave parties for his cronies and business associates. The other servants included a chauffeur who was invaluable to the portly oilman because he had an unerring knowledge of where both white and black pussy was to be found; and an attractive quadroon named Betsy who served as maid, and, Edward McKenzie at once suspected, as bed partner when his host was ready and too lazy to look elsewhere for a sweet hot piece of cunt.
Edward McKenzie had never fucked a Negro, and he had secretly coveted Betsy's body from almost the first moment he was ceremoniously ushered into his host's handsomely furnished house. She was, he estimated, about thirty, with golden-tanned skin, of medium height, an impudent face and knowing, large dark-brown eyes with very heavy lids and thick lashes. She wore a black silk dress whose hem just reached her knee hollows, and snugged with mouthwatering tightness over an upstanding, sumptuous, wonderfully firm bottom and high-perched, widely spaced solid round titties that made Edward McKenzie's hands itch to squeeze, knead and fondle.
She had a richly vibrant contralto voice and her diction was elegantly demure. But there was always an innuendo-or at least he sensed-of sexual reminiscences between her and David Fenderson. The very first evening when they were in the library, enjoying a good cigar and brandy, she had entered after a discreet knock, and moving slowly toward her master, primly inquired, "May I be of any further service to you gentlemen?" Then she had glanced with a roguish little smile at David Fenderson, who had coughed and flushed and finally waved his hand to indicate that he and his companion were quite at their ease. She had gone out lingeringly, halting at the threshold, to look back a last time, and then she had turned to stare at Edward McKenzie and her smile had deepened before she had finally closed the door. He had felt that unmistakable itch of lust which always tantalized when thoughts of promiscuity assailed him. Frankly, he had decided to spend the Christmas holidays with Fenderson because he knew of the latter's eagerness for debauchery, and hoped that perhaps he would be invited along to some of the most excellent whorehouses which Fenderson was reputed to patronize. But what he would have liked even better would have been to have had his host invite a few carefully screened young women for an orgy in which the visual pleasures which most roused him would be paramount. He had begun to believe that perhaps by exhibitionism and a participation with a friend who shared his lascivious tastes, he might regain his maddeningly lost virility. For the episode with his wife which had ended so disastrously still rankled in his psyche.
Two days before Christmas, to relieve his bad conscience, Edward McKenzie put in a long-distance call to his private secretary in New York and instructed her to go to Carrier's and buy a silver bracelet set with amethysts for his daughter-February was her birth month, hence the selection of that stone-and a black pearl necklace for Alice, the jewels to be delivered by bonded messenger on Christmas Eve to his Long Island house with his enclosed card wishing each the very happiest of holidays and expressing his regret that imperative business kept him from sharing the holidays with them.
Only half an hour before that call, he had been overjoyed to have David Fenderson knock at the door of the guest room in which he was quartered and, with a sly wink, "Ed, how'd you like to spend Christmas Eve at Lucille's? You've been moping around here and I've noticed it, and I think I know what the prescription is for perking you up. Besides, I feel like a little whoring around myself."
He'd been too overcome by delighted surprise to express himself properly, but the way he had flushed and nodded had made the heavy Oklahoma oilman chuckle and clap him on the back and say, "Then it's all settled. We'll have a real night on the town, Ed boy."
A liveried chauffeur drove David Fenderson's white Cadillac to the little residential suburb of Elteria, about five miles to the southeast of town. Edward McKenzie felt the old, delicious fever of anticipation prickle his loins and inner thighs, with the gnawing hope that this time, somehow, away from the glacially restraining influences of his wife and chaste daughter, he could finally obtain release.
It was an old-fashioned house, built with red brick, two stories, with shuttered windows on the first floor and gables peaking at the top of the roof for a miniature kind of attic which lent a curious
Gothic air to the edifice. There was a huge yard, surrounded by a red brick wall taller than a man's head, and ivy was everywhere. Even the snow had not decimated the tenacious green tentacles of the ivy runners along the walls and edging toward the gables. There was even an old-fashioned brass knocker in the form of a lion's head, which David Fenderson grasped with zest and struck three times to announce his presence.
The door was opened by a pretty miniskirted coppery-haired adolescent, not more than sixteen, with breathtakingly long showgirl like legs sheathed in charcoal-brown panty hose, wearing red leather high heeled pumps, and a blue ribbon anachronistically tied at the top of her head, while her shimmering tresses flowed in vivid waves almost to her waist. "Hi, Mr. Fenderson!" she brightly greeted the oilman, then glanced at Edward McKenzie and nodded in a friendly way: "Glad to meet any of Mr. Fenderson's friends. Want me to tell Mama you're here? She's got the parlor room all ready for you."
"We'll just go right up there then, Stella," the gray-haired oilman chuckled. "No need to disturb her now. Much doing tonight?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Fenderson. It was a good thing you called this morning because just about all the girls are busy. Lots of out-of-towners this time."
David Fenderson chuckled again, put out his hand and chucked the pretty teenaged redhead under the chin. "One of these days, baby," he said huskily, I'm going to see if Mama will let you take a trick. I've got a yen for sweet young pussy with such lovely long legs around it, Stella."
"Go on, Mr. Fenderson," she said mockingly, "you say that to all the girls. Anyway Mama saved Daphine and Sue for you and your friend."
Edward McKenzie's heart began to pound loudly again, and he could feel beads of sweat standing out on his hot forehead. He watched entranced as the miniskirted redhead turned and walked slowly up the thickly carpeted stairway to the second-floor landing, and he and his host followed. Their eyes instinctively moved upwards to lave Stella's slender, nervously muscled thighs and sinuous, rippling calves. They could see also the saucy boyishly tight compact ovals of her bottom shaped out alluringly by the one-piece sheath. He glanced at his host and whispered, "I'd like one like that right now, Dave."
"So would I, Ed. Know how old she really is? Fourteen and a half, and very precocious. She gets a charge out of playing receptionist and hostess this way, when she's home for the holidays. Lucille indulges her."
"Home for the holidays?" he echoed.
"Sure. Lucille happens to be the best Madame west of the Mississippi, but she sends Stella away to a very swanky boarding school in Atlanta most of the year. Even has a very trustworthy chaperone to look after her down there, a widow whose virtue is beyond belief. Everybody who has ever patronized Lucille's hopes that someday he'll strike her in the mood and just greedy enough to be tempted by an offer of two or three thousand dollars for Stella's cherry. But that's not likely to happen. The fact is, Stella happens to go for girls, and Lucille prefers it that way. It's a good background for the little bitch when she becomes a madame some day herself, and don't think she won't have plenty of capital to set up her own shop without having to worry about interference by the boys in blue. Lucille kicks in about ten grand to the local sheriff, and since all her clients are screened and there's never any rowdyism, nobody complains." He clapped Edward McKenzie on the back again and affably added, "Let's go. Daphine's my girl, but I think you'll like Sue."
The "parlor" was at the very end of the second-floor landing and to the right. With the air of a man who knows his way around, David Fenderson led the way, opened the door and beckoned to his guest. Edward McKenzie's eyes widened with surprise at the elegant furnishings. The room was enormous, and it was divided by a pair of purple velvet drapes on metal tracks set into the ceiling. In front of the drapes, in this sectioned-off half of the chamber, which was carpeted in red at least two inches thick to muffle the sound of footsteps, stood two young women, of excitingly different physique and attire. One was petite, about five feet one inch in height, with harlequin glasses, her dark brown hair styled in simple bouffant with a thick wavy curl over the right side of her forehead. She was stark naked except for white calfskin boots rising halfway up her delightfully rounded white milky thighs, smoke-colored nylons, held up by a black nylon-elastic garter belt. Her face was heart-shaped, her mouth small and sensually ripe and carmined lasciviously so that it looked moist and gleaming with desire. Her eyes were cat-green, with very short lashes and primly penciled brows. She wore white calfskin gloves drawn up to the elbow, and her gloved hands cupped her jutting arrogantly pointed gourds of widely spaced titties, ornamented with orangish-coral aurolae and saucily pointed nipples.
The other girl was about five feet eight, with raven-black hair falling over her face in the style Veronica Lake had made famous in the movies. Her face was a patrician oval, insolent and supercilious, with aquiline nose, graced by delicate, thin, widely flaring wings, high-set cheekbones, and a high-arching forehead. Her skin was olive-warm and she wore a garment remarkably like the "teddies" of the roaring twenties: wide legged, with a gussetting piece between the cheeks of her buttocks to shape off the lower half of the garment as utilitarian panties, shoulder straps like a chemise made of expensive black crepe de chine. Though it was not transparent, and had obviously been handcrafted to order, it shaped out the brunette's close-spaced small but tantalizingly firm titties, her shapely, slender waist and the bold flare of lasciviously rounded hips. She was bare-footed, and her dainty toenails were tinted purple as were her fingernails.
In this fore section of the parlor, there was a low wide double bed and, near the door, a black leather-upholstered divan. A champagne bucket stood on a little table beside the bed, a bottle of Bollinger cooling in it.
"A nice Yuletide welcome, eh, Ed?" David Fenderson gave his guest a broad wink. "Daphine's mine, but I don't think you'll have any reason to complain about Sue's technique. Come here, Sue dear. I'd like you to meet an old friend and business associate of mine, whom we'll just call Ed." The naked bespectacled brunette came forward with a gracious smile and curtsied, her titties giggling lubricously in the elaborate maneuver. "A pleasure, I'm sure, Ed," she cooed in a little girl voice. "Shall we have some champagne first to warm us up for the action?"
David Fenderson had moved towards the velvet drapes and taken the stately brunette by the wrist. With his other hand, he reached for the pull cord of the drapes, tugged at it, and they slid to the sides, revealing the rest of the room, equally as spacious, with two huge bay windows looking out into the garden and, far beyond, to the distant state highway. A majestic four-poster bed with canopy and Jacob's ladder was placed alongside the windows, and at the very back of this part of the room was a low wide backless couch also padded in black leather. Another champagne bucket reposed on a little tabouret beside the couch.
"Well, Ed, don't do anything I wouldn't do," David Fenderson chuckled as he pulled the draw cord and at once disappeared from view.
"Leave them open," Edward McKenzie protested, feeling the itch in his balls tantalizingly increase at the thought of being permitted this voyeuristic fillip.
"Not a chance. And I might as well tell you, no swapping. Daphine's been my girl for some years now and I don't like sharing her the same night. I can't help the fact that she shares herself with plenty of others the rest of the time when I'm not here, but tonight is special. Anyhow, you'll be able to hear everything that goes on and that should help break the ice. Between that and Sue, you oughtn't to have any trouble."
Edward McKenzie flushed at this last remark, savagely wondering if by any chance the oilman knew anything about his physical block. No, of course David Fenderson couldn't. He'd never been that intimate with any man, never revealed his innermost lust secrets to even his senior assistant back in New York, Douglas Allen, and Doug was just as fond of pussy as he was. Just the same, he would have given a lot to have left the drapes open and to watch that tall raven-haired bitch work on the gray-haired oilman. He turned back somewhat disappointedly to the naked brunette who was standing patiently beside him, a placid little smile on her ripe, petulant mouth. "You like me this way, Ed?" she murmured.
"You're fine. Let's have some of that champagne first, like you said," he proposed as he ran his left hand down her smooth back and then, shuddering with growing desire, over the hillocks of her milky naked bottom.
"Let's have our drinks on the couch first, and then we can go to bed afterwards, unless you prefer it on the couch," Sue was whispering. He looked down at her and watched the fascinating way her big firm boobies bounced and jiggled as she walked. The top of her head just came up to his chest, and he suddenly felt paternal. The exotic nakedness and the paradoxical intellectuality of those glasses made her most enticing. From the other side of those velvet drapes, he heard whisperings, and then a soft husky laugh which was evidently Daphine's. Then he heard the creaking of the couch and then, his pulses quickening, the unmistakable suctioning sounds of moist oral caresses. That tall raven-haired slut was probably Frenching Fenderson right now!
Sue turned her back on him and bent to the champagne bucket, letting him feast his eyes on the luscious melon-like rotundities of her behind. The groove between them broadened, was mysteriously shadowy, and let him see the surprisingly thick dark brown fleece which ran from her pussy to her anus. As she leaned forward a little more, he could glimpse the crinkly petals of the twitching rosette. He had never buggered a girl, but maybe tonight he'd try. Maybe that would help achieve the release he had to have. He moved towards the girl, and his trembling hand caressed her bottom as she slowly straightened, looking back over her shoulder with innocently wide eyes behind the glasses, a brimming goblet of champagne in each hand. "You like my bummy?" she murmured seductively. "Maybe you'd like to spank it a little to get it up for you, hm?"
His lips twisted in a vicious disillusionment; if only someone would train these whores what to say and when to say it! A single remark like that could destroy all the illusions, because it twisted the knife in the raw wound of propinquity and made him all too conscious that this girl was simply bought flesh to appease momentary sexual cravings, with not the slightest semblance of affection or desire that could be shared and savored.
Not trusting himself to answer, he took one of the goblets from her hand then drained it. "My! That's not Coke you're drinking, Ed. You'll get tight too fast drinking that way, and then you won't be able to take care of poor little old me."
"Just shut up, and do what you're told," he hoarsely muttered.
The young prostitute frowned, then shrugged. "You're the boss tonight, Ed honey. Lucille told Daphine and me that this is Mr. Fenderson's big treat and to be awfully obliging. Don't get mad."
But her remark had infuriated him even more. It wasn't bad enough that she had come right out and asked him matter-of-factly about what he would have preferred to do on impulse, but the bitch had to go and draw a diagram about Fenderson's paying for it. He felt his cock lose its aching stiffness, and he could cheerfully have strangled the bespectacled whore.
"How old are you, Sue?" he at last managed. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Oh, not you, Ed," the bespectacled brunette laughingly protested as she moved over to the couch and sat down on the edge, spreading her legs wide and letting him see the thick pussy fleece which shrouded the pouting pink lips of her soft quim. "I thought you'd at least be different. Why is it that every fellow has to ask a girl what got her into this business and so forth and so on, huh? Well, if you have to know, I'm twenty, and I've been turning tricks for Lucille for three years. Before that, I did it free for a year in high school till they kicked me out. That all you want to know?"
Already Edward McKenzie felt dejected. He wished to hell he hadn't come along, because maybe if he'd stayed back at Fenderson's house, he could have fooled around with that luscious golden-tan quadroon Betsy. Maybe he could have played the role of master and she that of slave, forcing her to shuck down and come crawl at his feet and suck him off and then beg for a good whaling to punish her for not having offered herself to him the very first night he had been a guest. And that thought restored his anguished, aching desire all over again. Oh God, if only there was some sure way of tasting the sweet prolongation of passion, spinning it out until every thew and fiber ached with hunger, and then knowing the volcanic eruption of total orgasm in which his writhing, harpooned love partner would participate with all the tumultuous frenzy of her wakened cunt!
He seated himself beside her, almost reluctantly now, till the flamboyant offering of her nakedness could not but excite him, accentuated as it was by the boots, the sheer hose and the clinging garter belt. She brushed against him, like a kitten wanting to be cuddled, smiling now with an ingenuous eagerness, quickly ready to please, doubtless sensing-for even whores have feelings, he thought-that she had somehow got off on the wrong foot with him. But he couldn't help thinking that his host was paying the tab, and that made him a beggar at the feast, who should be grateful for any crumbs tossed to him however contemptuously. If he had bought this brown-haired slut, he would have full power over her, he could whip and bugger her, treat her with the contemptuous violence which her kind deserved and teach her some respect for who and what he was. But to do such a thing here would be unthinkable because this was Fenderson's town and he needed Fenderson's business association badly. It was too bad there wasn't a kind of club, very special and private club for people like himself, where you could let yourself go and not have to worry about the consequences. Maybe a hundred years ago in Europe things like that were possible. But here everything was too swift, and sex was like a drugstore luncheon, hastily partaken of, blatantly brazen just for the sake of showing off. As such, it was overpriced and superficial, and it didn't begin to touch his real needs.
The sounds on the other side of the drapes grew louder now, interspersed with groans and muttered profanity from his host. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to picture the scene. Fenderson would be lying on the couch, perhaps pillowing his head in his arms, and that tall black-haired piece would be crouching between his legs, her mouth boggling up his scrawny cock, rubbing her tongue all along the head and shaft, prodding the lips and drawing up the bubbling sap that would soon well into her greedy little cunt. She pressed against him, whispered, "Your friend's having a great old time, Ed honey. Want me to blow you the way Daphine's doing him? He-likes to start with that. Why don't you lie back and let me work on you, hm?"
Again his lips curled in a vicious rictus. He resented this bought and paid for slut's even trying to dictate to him what he should or shouldn't do. In the olden days, a concubine was summoned to the bedchamber of her master and she didn't open her mouth or else she'd be strung up by the thumbs and given the whip until her creamy bottom was striped with weals. She'd do whatever she was told and be grateful for the privilege. But this was a material, commercial age, and even the whores were emancipated and had opinions. If this was scientific progress, he wished he could go back in time to the happier eras when there were just the lords and masters and the slaves. Even buying an expensive girl and setting her up in an apartment didn't have the same thrill anymore that it did twenty years ago. The girl would probably be a college graduate, and talk her head off about civil rights and Vietnam and probably cheat on him besides. With all the sex there was these days, it was like being on a desert island and starving to death because it was all so mercenary and meaningless.
She left the divan now to bring back the bottle of Bollinger and replenish his goblet. She smiled playfully at him, wanting to make up, standing there a long while bent over towards him so that he could see her bubbies dangle like ripe melons waiting to be plucked. Her perfume was a cloying lumeria, an imported scent from Honolulu. He liked it, but she'd used too much. It was just like a master chef putting in a whole clove of garlic instead of just rubbing the bowl with it. Subtlety, nuances, refinements, all these things were bypassed in this frenetic age.
He sipped at his goblet, closing his eyes and trying to summon up images from the past. How many there were over these years, all so different and yet all of them adding up to the same nothingness. What he really should do next year, if he could arrange it, and if Alice and Eleanor wouldn't get suspicious, would be a lengthy trip to Europe, to cities like Hamburg and Amsterdam and Barcelona and Florence, ferreting out with the help of a really knowing native guide those few elegant maisons de luxe which still existed and which preserved the classical antiquities of lust.
He took another sip of his champagne, put his left arm around the plump milky-skinned naked body of his girl for the night, his fingers pressing and squeezing the rondure of her swelling titties. With a soft little murmur of pleasure-but pleasure only in this difficult customer was beginning at last to make some of the gestures of a normal predictable "John"-Sue snuggled close to him, her right arm around his waist, her left hand gliding over his trousered thigh towards the crotch, her forefinger at last resting against his quivering cock and pressing it delicately as she looked intently at him with a practiced smile. "Relax, we've got all night," she whispered.
There was suddenly a loud raucous groan from the other side of the draperies, and then a soft triumphant giggle, and then Edward McKenzie heard David Fenderson gasp, "Christ, have you got a talented tongue, Daphine! Now just for that, you can get back to work all over again and get me hard enough to put it inside your hot little box! You'll get a bonus if you do, baby!"
His fingers closed over the crest of Sue's tittie, his face tautening, his eyes narrowing. He'd have given anything to throw aside the drape and stare in upon those two. And then he froze because David Fenderson was calling out in a smugly contented voice. "Say, Ed, don't tell me you took the vows of a trappist monk and decided just to talk to the young lady? I don't hear any action over there. Get with it, boy!"
"Sure! Any time now," he called back, wishing his host in hell in a slow roasting fire, "just enjoying some champagne and the audio show you put on for us, that's all."
"Don't tell me you're a little kinky at your age, Ed," came his associate's laughing rejoinder. "If you want to know, I picked Sue for you specially because I saw how you've been giving Betsy the eye back home. Only Betsy's got juicier titties and a bigger ass than your girl there. Tell you what, I might just let you watch me operate on Betsy some night soon-that is, if Daphine here doesn't milk me of all the savings I've stored up." And then there was a boisterous jeering laughter, smothered off by the sudden sound of a moist sucking kiss and the creaking of the couch beyond. Edward McKenzie shuddered and his fingers nearly snapped the stem of the champagne goblet. Unnerved, he drained it and set it down on the tabouret, then almost savagely turned towards the bespectacled, booted, naked brunette beside him, His hands on her shoulders bore her down onto her back onto the couch, as he knelt between her instantly yawning stockinged thighs. "Take out my cock and stuff it into your crack," he growled.
"Sure, Ed. My goodness, I was just going to work on you nice and slow and make it better for you," she placatingly murmured.
"Do what you're told, you cheap little whore!" he snapped.
Her face reddened at the insult and her eyes narrowed like a cat's stalking a canary. "No need to be insulting, Ed. I'm not going to cheat you, if that's what you're worried about." She put out her right hand and dragged down the zipper of his trousers, reached inside and pulled out his half-stiffened cock. She squinted at it through her glasses, made a little face. "I told you I wanted to work on you, you're not ready yet."
"Just keep it up," he snarled, "just keep on talking, spoiling everything, and I'll belt you!"
Her lips tightened. Then she squenched down closer to him, began to pull at his cock, hastily masturbating him to draw him towards rigidity, in a sullen acquiescence. Edward McKenzie mounted the booted brunette, felt his organ rub against her hairy cleft, and put his lips in the dimpled hollow of her shoulder as he tried desperately to punish her, to silence her coarse palaver with a good reaming. Accommodatingly, she ground herself against him and he could feel his meatus rub back and forth over the pouting lips of her crack. Setting his teeth, keeping his eyes tightly shut, his hands clamped against her titties, he gouged himself ruthlessly at her. But again it was useless.
"Take it easy, honey," she whispered, suddenly contrite. "I can fix that. Just let me-"
"I told you to keep your trap shut, you little bitch," he growled. He rose from her, seated himself on the edge of the couch, grasped her by the elbows and flung her across his lap from left to right.
"Hey, what are you gonna do?" she squealed, taken by surprise.
His right hand pinned her neck down, his left rose and clumsily he flailed at the milky, plump upturned buttocks. Angry crimson splotches sprang at once on the finely grained skin, and Sue kicked her legs up and down as she wriggled tantalizingly over his lap. Glancing back at him, she smiled artfully: "Sure, if that'll help, but not too hard, huh, Ed honey? I don't go for dumpers as a rule. Only 'cause you're a friend of Mr. Fenderson's, savvy?"
He wanted to hurt her, make her scream for mercy. He should have taken her across his lap the other way, he knew, because he was right-handed, but there was a certain satisfying joy in feeling his lingers sting her saucily resilient buttocks like the thongs of a whip, hearing the crisp intonation his palm made against the jouncy upturned hemispheres, watching the milky skin turn an angry and vivid crimson, and to see her boot-shod feet flailing the air.
He groaned with delight to find himself furiously rigid now, tumescent and ready. His hand rose and fell more swiftly, clumsily smiting her here and there over her buttocks and hips and thighs.
"Hey, that's enough," she protested, trying to wriggle away. But he was ready for her this time. The fingers of his right hand twisted into her hair, yanked her back, made her scream with pain, as he flung her down to his left on her back, then swiftly grabbed her by the sides and twisted her over onto her belly. Then, crouching over her, his prick swollen and throbbing, he thrust it between the palpitating globes of her bottom, against the crinkly rosette of her ass-hole.
"Now!" he panted exultantly.
"Oh no you don't, Mister!" Sue angrily cried out as she twisted herself and rolled off the couch, coming up on her booted feet and planting her hands on her hips, her eyes sparkling with furious anger: "That's one road I don't go, not for no matter how much, get me? Now either you be nice and let me blow you and then you can top me, or I'll get over you, but none of that." She put a hand back and rubbed her bottom. "If you've got trouble with your pecker, go to a headshrinker, not to me, Mister. I just take care of guys who can do it. Now your friend Mr. Fenderson, he never has any trouble-"
Edward McKenzie staggered from the couch, his face haggard, his penis limp and dangling. He drew back his right hand and struck the naked brunette across the cheek, tumbling her onto the couch with a cry of pain. Then, stuffing his cock back into his trousers and drawing up the zipper, he reached for his suit coat and donned it. "I'll wait for you downstairs, Dave," he called in a voice that was almost a sob.
CHAPTER EIGHT....
Alice McKenzie had wanted to take Eleanor out for a gala New Year's Eve celebration, seeing that the girl's father wouldn't be with them. But the auburn-haired young beauty felt completely out of sorts. Alice was a little worried about her, because when Eleanor had come back home for the holidays, she had seemed introspective and melancholy. And the brown-haired matron, try as she would, couldn't exact any information as to the reason for this passive and reticent behavior.
What she didn't know was that Eleanor McKenzie had experienced her first serious encounter with male lust, and it had left the luscious virginal daughter of Edward McKenzie shaken, a little confused, and secretly horrified at the discovery that in spite of her disgust and revulsion over the aborted attempt at taking her cherry, certain aspects of the struggle had excited her.
To be sure, Eleanor wasn't a completely ignorant virgin. Back in high school, several of the bolder boys had rubbed up against her in the hall between classes, squeezed her bottom and thighs, and whispered obscene suggestions in her ear, suggestions whose meaning she even then understood.
"Come sit beside me, darling," Alice McKenzie said lovingly to her auburn-haired daughter. "That's my lamb. I've been worried about you, dear. You've not been yourself the past few weeks. What's troubling you?"
"Nothing, really, Mother. I guess-well, maybe I'm just a little bored with school." Eleanor wore only her beige slip and blue satin bathrobe and pumps, as she quietly seated herself beside the brown-haired matron on the couch before the fireplace in the huge living room of the Long Island house.
"I know, baby. In a way, I'm glad we both decided to stay home and celebrate New Year's Eve all by ourselves, aren't you? It gives me a chance to be with my little girl, to have her all to myself. You're growing up so fast, Eleanor darling. One of these days, you'll be married and then you'll leave me-"
"Oh, no, Mother!" Eleanor's eyes closed and she involuntarily shivered, pressing closer against the handsome matron who was similarly clad. "I don't ever want to get married, really."
"But that's silly, darling. There, rest your head on my shoulder, and let's talk. You and I used to tell each other everything, Ellie dearest, when you were a little girl. But it hasn't been like that for so long. I guess maybe I'm foolish, just like every other mother who wants to keep her little girl with her all the time. But you're so beautiful and grownup and going to college and all, I know it isn't going to be possible much longer. And that's why, on this the last night of the year, before the New Year comes with all its unknown joys and sorrows, I'm so very glad we are by ourselves."
Eleanor bit her lips and reached for her mother's hand, and the two women exchanged a silent moment of affection. They did not speak, but perhaps what they thought of was the unseen presence of Edward McKenzie, who had altered both of their lives perhaps even more than he knew.
"You know, we really ought to have gone to some really swanky place to see the New Year come in," Alice McKenzie resumed, gently stroking Eleanor's shimmering rich auburn pageboy curls, while her other hand clasped Eleanor's right. "There'd been something loud and noisy and colorful which would have been just the thing to drive our dark thoughts away. Because I know you're worrying about something, dear."
"Oh, Mother, I'm really not, you're making something out of nothing," Eleanor protested. "I've just been preoccupied with my studies, that's all, and maybe this holiday break is just what I needed to recharge. That's all it is."
"There's nothing else you want to tell me, honey? You're not-well, I don't want to pry, but are you maybe having love troubles?"
"Mother!" Eleanor protested, her cheeks turning scarlet. "Of course I'm not. You know perfectly well I don't even have a steady boyfriend."
"I know, darling, I know." Alice McKenzie tenderly stroked the girl's hair and gave her hand a little comforting squeeze. "Nobody could ask for a sweeter, more wholesome girl, nobody. Sometimes I wish your father and I had had more children, so that you wouldn't have felt so alone. It isn't good to be an only child, believe me. I know, I was one myself. And your father and I seem to have grown away from each other. He's so occupied with his business, and of course it's true that he is the head of a very important company with operations and projects all over the world. But it isn't always fair to either of us, dear."
"I like Daddy and respect him, but I'm always a little afraid of him. I don't know how he's going to act. Sometimes he seems so absorbed with what he's doing that he doesn't even notice I'm around," Eleanor thoughtfully observed.
"I know it seems dreary and lonely not to have your own father here for Christmas and New Year, baby. But don't try to think of that. You've another week before you go back to school, and I just want you to rest and relax and think about the future we're going to have. Maybe in summer, we could both of us take a cruise. I know your father has mentioned that he thought it would be a good idea if I had a little vacation. It would be ideal then, and we could go to the Bahamas or maybe even down the Mediterranean. Would you like that, Ellie?"
"Oh yes, Mother!"
"Well, we'll think about it, then, darling. Oh, here's Cecilia with our little celebration snack!"
The Creole maid had just entered the living room with a tray on which were a plate of freshly baked individual spice cakes and cups of steaming cocoa. She set this down on the glass-covered coffee table before the couch and smilingly remarked, "It's just half an hour till midnight, Mrs. McKenzie. I've taken the liberty of putting some champagne on ice so that you and Miss Eleanor can toast the New Year."
"How very thoughtful of you, Cecilia!" Alice McKenzie exclaimed, somewhat embarrassedly disengaging herself from the auburn-haired girl beside her, and her cheeks turned a lovely rosy hue. "I-I-just wanted to tell you, Cecilia, how very much Eleanor and I appreciate the wonderful cooking and service you've given us over the holidays. It's helped make things very cheerful around here."
"Thank you, Mrs. McKenzie. I try to please. Now I'll be back a few minutes before midnight with the champagne." The girl wearing a black silk dress, her lithe legs deliciously sheathed in smoke-colored nylons, a trim lace cap atop her glossy bluish-black hair, inclined her head in a deferential acknowledgement of her employer's thanks, and left the room.
"Isn't she nice?" Eleanor said warmly as she reached for her cup of cocoa. "She's really a marvelous cook. I wish I could cook like that, Mother."
"Now there's a splendid idea, darling." Alice McKenzie reached for her cup and took a tentative sip. "You know, maybe we could spend some time in the kitchen next week and try out some of the easy things. And then you could get to the point of baking your own cake or pie or making a quick casserole dish when you come home from school late some afternoon and it happens to be Cecilia's day off. It would be a lovely new hobby for you, dear."
"Now, Mother," Eleanor smilingly answered, "don't you think I can see through that? You're just trying to take my mind off my being out of sorts, that's all. But it would be fun, at that. My, this is good cocoa, so rich and thick!" She drank almost greedily and finished half the cup before setting it carefully down on the saucer.
"It is good, isn't it! I tell you, Cecilia's a treasure. Though I'm not so sure your father liked the idea of my hiring her without consulting him," Alice McKenzie said uneasily.
"I really don't think Daddy would care that much. Besides, he's outvoted, because I like Cecilia too. The only thing is, when Daddy comes back and sees that we've let Cecilia keep her dog here, he might really raise the roof," Eleanor averred as she broke off a piece of the rich, moist individual spice cake and tasted it. "Mmmmm! This is wonderful, Mother! I don't care if Daddy doesn't like Prince, we aren't going to lose Cecilia, not when she can make cakes like this!"
The logs in the fireplace crackled, and sparks danced in the air in the stone fireplace. The wind howled mournfully outside driving the snow into grotesque whorls. And the clock over the mantelpiece chimed a quarter hour before midnight...
Just a few minutes before the stroke of midnight, Cecilia had returned to the living room with two goblets of champagne on the tray, and had stood with her mistress and Eleanor to welcome in the New Year. Then, after the two women had drunk the champagne and exchanged a long affectionate kiss to wish each other a Happy New Year, the Creole took the empty plates, cups and goblets and silently disappeared.
Alice McKenzie turned on the combination TV stereo console in the corner, and she and Eleanor watched the celebration of the milling crowds in Times Square for a few minutes. Then suddenly she yawned and laughed self-consciously: "Good gracious, all of a sudden I feel so sleepy. That's certainly no way to be on New Year's Eve, Ellie honey!"
"I-I'm a little drowsy too, Mother," the girl confessed. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes humid. "I guess it wouldn't do either of us any harm to get a good night's sleep."
"No, perhaps not, darling. I do so hope that this New Year will bring Us closer together than ever before, Ellie. That's my only wish, because I want you to be happy."
They arose from the couch, turned to each other, and once again Alice McKenzie held her daughter in her arms. A fitful shiver ran through the brown-haired matron at the feel of her daughter's supple, vibrant young body. Almost feverishly, she kissed Eleanor's mouth, and then, with another shiver, released the girl. "Goodnight, my darling. Sweet dreams."
Very slowly she turned and went upstairs to her room. Unbelting her bathrobe, she went into the closet and hung it up, then entered the bathroom. She saw herself in the mirror of the medicine cabinet, her ripe, voluptuously mature body clad in only a chaste white nylon slip. She could see the pouting dark coral buds of her nipples pressing against the thin filmy stuff, and she shivered again as she slowly put her hands to her titties, pressing her palms against the swollen buds.
Her bedroom seemed to filled with a soft, diffused light that was warm and embracing and benign. She pressed her fingertips against her nipples, staring at herself unceasingly, and the mirror seemed to blur before her eyes and to show her back the face of an ardent eager young woman in love. Her lips were moist and full and quivering, her nostrils dilating with the subtle advent of passion, and even as she breathed it was as if her warm breath upon the mirror added to the misty blur and to the haze which made her feel herself carried back to the time that she had first become a woman ... when she had first become a wife to Edward McKenzie and even just before that transfiguration. For the woman she saw in the mirror reflected back to her was her own self-conscious yearning self, uninhibited and eager, jealous without scruple, with dilated and humid eyes that sought the face of a lover and, like the lovely sorceress from Thessaly of whom Pindar writes so glowingly, sought by incantation and by spell to evoke the countenance and the reality of the beloved one in the mirror beside her own face so that they might be joined inseparably.
Her slip had become too warm, her body was perspiring under it; her body cried for freedom, and she felt her own fingers lifting the slip and tugging it almost impatiently over her head and shoulders to let it drop upon the mat near the washbasin. Now she was only in her high-heeled pumps, naked and glorying in her nakedness, and the aura of her room enfolded her in its invisible arms like those of many lovers and laved her with a thousand unseen but seeing eyes. From a distance there came a kind of subtle drumbeat, and even as she pressed her fingertips against her swelling nipple buds the beats began to enter through the pores, through her very veins. She felt the sting of sweat globules forming in the silky tufts of her armpit hair, along the cords of her inner thighs and up into the thick triangle of her bush. She felt the exquisite, salacious exacerbation of warmth and of a creeping moisture between the cheeks of her buttocks, and she felt those firm fleshy globes tighten and contract and spasm, and she heard her own faint whimper as she kept staring at that blurred image which was her unleashed, rightful self.
Through the nostrils there came a curious fragrance, pungent and yet flowery, indescribably sweet and yet with just a hint of bitterness to titillate her reeling senses. Her hands tremblingly moved down her belly and towards her crotch; she felt her fingertips move through the tangled curls of pussy-hair and brush at last the twitching avidly pouting lips of her churning cunt. "Ohh-ohhh!" she moaned, and took another step towards the mirror till she felt the blunt cold of the washbasin against her naked belly. It was thrilling, this sudden chill in that tender region of nakedness while all the rest of her was warm and tingling and alive and vibrant. She gripped the sides of the basin and bowed her head, and she felt her spine shivering with myriad tremors that raced down her buttocks and thighs and calves. By a supreme effort, she blinked her eyes and tried to strain them and to see herself once more in the mirror. But this time there was the face, the face which the sorceress of Thessaly had summoned, the smiling evocative face.
The face of Cecilia.
"Ohh-you-" she choked, half turning, her hands groping, and they encountered warm naked golden flesh, glistening with a scented oil, and to her nostrils again there came the stronger and persuasive perfume of that oily scent and of the woman-odor which mingled with it.
For Cecilia was naked, and from her earrings there dangled silver pendants which ended in tiny phalli, the symbols of male power and domination. And Alice's hands rose up to cup Cecilia's boldly thrusting titties, and her palms felt the flint-hardness of those dusky nipples.
"Come, darling, come to me," the Creole girl huskily murmured. And now her hands reached behind Alice to fondle the brown-haired matron's quivering bare buttocks, and to draw the woman's body shudderingly against her own glistening, perfumed, quivering flesh. Alice felt her titties brush against Cecilia's felt their nipples rasp together, and she groaned and closed her eyes and her arms enfolded the young mulatress. They stood thus, their pulses throbbing and pounding, till Alice felt within her blood the rhythmic fervor of Cecilia's.
Drunk with desire, shuddering with the intoxication of this overpowering urge, she could feel the lips of her pussy quivering with longing, burning for assuagement. And as she neared her own bed, she saw that the sheets were drawn, and that on the night table just beyond it there rose the winding, curling blue smoke of an incense burner.
"Come to bed, dearest Alice, come," Cecilia crooned, and the girl's teeth nuzzled Alice McKenzie's earlobe. They stood entwined beside the bed, and Alice felt her very life surging through her naked flesh into Cecilia's, passionately questing this cohesion which should be timeless and unleashing after all these years of arid frustration.
About her, the hazy aura of smoke from the incense burner rose, entwining its ghostly fingers about both naked bodies, the one golden-tanned and supple, the other milky and opulent, and yet both ardently united, rubbing and pressing, till Alice felt the thick crisp curls of Cecilia's black pubis grind into her own tender pussy.
She felt herself sink down upon the bed, and then Cecelia was stooping, her titties dangling and swaying, as she lifted her mistress's bare legs up onto the bed. Alice lay, her face turned to one side, her magnificent titties rising and falling violently. The bed creaked as Cecilia clambered upon it, and then suddenly Alice uttered a hoarse cry: "Oh yes-oh my darling-yes, do that, oh it's so wonderful, oh Cecilia, yes, yes, don't stop-oh my God in heaven-oooohhh!! "
The raven head of the girl was buried between her straining, straddled thighs. Alice twisted haphazardly, the muscles in her calves and thighs flexing savagely as she felt the maddening stab of Cecilia's dainty soft warm pink tongue prying open the lips of her quim and finding the dainty nodule of her love button. Almost intuitively, her arms reached up to enfold Cecilia around the hips, and she drew the Creole's loins down to her own panting mouth. Shuddering, as the smoke of the incense crept into her every breath, she pressed her mouth greedily against the moist soft pink-lipped slit, almost whimpering as she felt the silky love hairs tickle her mouth and chin and nostrils. The woman-scent, the scented oil and the incense merged into an overwhelming cantharide, and now Alice McKenzie could no longer contain herself. Her knees rose up, flinging hugely apart, arching up her mount so that Cecilia's tongue might delve as it would and where it would. She felt the rasping of the Creole girl's loving lingual caress over the rims of her pink pussy petals, then back against the stiffening clitoris. Tears stung her eyes, as she tried in her amorous gratitude to reciprocate; untutored but yearning, inhibited still but impatient to be rid of all such barriers now, the naked wife of Edward McKenzie dug her fingernails into Cecilia's svelte hips, and her own tongue at last gouged deep into the girl's soft, sweetly odorous cunt.
The two naked bodies on the bed were entwined, and now Cecilia had slipped her hands into Alice's buttocks to lift her mistress up that her tongue might dig the more deeply into that awakening chasm. Inchoate groans and sobs exuded from Alice's panting mouth, as her tongue frantically gouged deep this way and that above her, finding Cecilia's most secret, tenderest spot, and under that feverish stimulus Alice could feel her maid's love-nucleus turgify and throb as if it actually were the replica of a tiny male prick ... a prick like unto those figurines which dangled from the earrings of the lovely, sinuous naked girl.
Eleanor opened the door of her bedroom, yawned, and moved towards the bathroom. A good shower would relax her, she thought. Yet all of a sudden she'd become so sleepy, so languid, it was as if she didn't care what day or time it was. Mother had been so sweet, it had almost made her cry. She owed Mother a lot, and they really ought to be friends again the way they had used to be when she was a little girl. Mother never showered her with gifts and tried to win her love, not the way her Daddy had done so many, many times.
She remembered. She walked back to her dresser, opened the chaste black-velvet-lined case from Cartier's in which the silver bracelet studded with amethysts lay. It was a very costly gift, and he had obviously taken some pains to have it chosen for him. But it hadn't been something he'd done himself. If she knew Daddy, he'd phoned his secretary and had her order it. And that wasn't really a proper gift.
Silver, perhaps because Daddy had made his fortune from that metal so many years ago in South America; that was why he had chosen it as the setting for those birthstones of hers. It was really too flashy, she could never wear it to college. It would draw much too much attention. Pensively, she put it onto her wrist and stared at it, then moved back into the bathroom, and turned on the shower tap, kicking off her pumps and cautiously extending her dainty bare foot to test the temperature of the spray.
She liked the water warm, almost hot. It relaxed her beautifully for sleep. The mirror had begun to steam from it, and she drew back, looking back into her bedroom. Then she sniffed, curiously rapt as an unrecognizable, yet delicious aroma came to her sensuous nostrils. What could it be, she now wondered. Unbelting and unbuttoning her bathrobe, she drew it slowly over a chair just outside the bathroom, and stood in her clinging beige slip. She closed her eyes and tilted back her head, and the pure sweet cameo of her face was shadowed with a curious intensity as if she were waiting for something. Her magnificent titties had begun to swell voluminously, and she inhaled deeply, letting the mysterious scent have its way with her.
Her lovely nipples had begun to tingle, and wonderingly she put her palms against them. How very strange! It was almost the way she had felt that evening when-when Jason had tried to make love to her. Her face turned scarlet at the memory, for the images were still furiously vivid. And now they seemed still more graphic, and as she stared at her bed, it almost seemed that she could see herself struggling there, her head flung back against the pillows, her eyes upturned imploringly at the ceiling, with Jason's head buried between her legs!
She shivered, and she slid her hand down to her crotch, smoothing the slip against the thickly thatched mound of her virgin pussy. Once again she picked up the bracelet her father had given her, then almost thoughtlessly let it fall to the thick carpet as she turned and walked back to the bathroom. Back before the shower stall, she drew off her slip, stretching her arms luxuriously, and the superb pear-contoured globes of her titties thrust out their coral tips as if imploring a thousand invisible kisses, a thousand worshipping fingerings and tweakings.
She moved into the stall, and gasped at the warmth and sting of the spray against her bare skin. It made her nipples ache as it kissed them viciously; and as she arched her body and closed her eyes and looked up into the spray, she felt it lave the curls of her cunt-hole, part them as with determined fingers, expose the pink quivering labia of her virgin slit. She reached for the perfumed bath soap with one hand, and began to rub it against her bosom, then her belly and finally against her cunt. She turned slowly on the rubber mat, lifting up her arms so that the spray might bite her sensitive armpits, turning again so that it lashed the sides of her panting breasts. Then again, so that it whipped the saucy jutting edges of her naked behind, even insinuating its insistent biting into the secret, intimate cleft between her buttocks.
Oh, how good it was, how her body quivered with vibrant life, and yet all her nerves were so deliciously languid. There was no longer any fear and guilt and shame over what Jason had done. Why, she could even think of it without horror and shame now. Why had he tried to do just that to her?
Stepping out of the shower stall, she reached for the huge Turkish bath towel, and began to dry herself. When this was done, she sat down on the little hassock beside the laundry hamper, crossed her legs, and stared critically at her toenails. They really should be cut. But she was much too relaxed, too near sleep to want to do it now.
Then there was a curious sound, and she slowly lifted her eyes and she saw the young police dog standing on the threshold of her bathroom. Between its jaws was the silver bracelet which Daddy had given her. She gasped, then giggled: "Why, you sweet boy! Here, Prince, bring it to me!"
The dog barked softly, a muffled sound, and quietly advanced, tendering the bracelet. Eleanor uncrossed her legs and reached for it, taking it from the animal's mouth and slipping it onto her left wrist. The curious, sweet smell, the hazy smoke from the bedroom, had now reached the warm bathroom, and her nostrils were filled with it.
"Do you like my bracelet, Prince?" she asked softly. The dog cocked its head and looked at her, its brown eyes large and intense, unwavering. Eleanor laughed again, and held out her arms to it. "Come here, boy," she crooned, "you're so beautiful, and we're such good friends. Only, when Daddy comes home, I'm afraid you won't be allowed to stay. But maybe, if you're very nice, I'll try to talk him into keeping you. Would you like that, Prince?"
The dog suddenly reared on its hind legs and put its front paws on her bare creamy shoulders. Its long pink raspy tongue laved her chin and cheeks, and then her mouth. Eleanor giggled, and hugged the animal. Then it bent its head and suddenly she gasped as she felt its tongue rasp against one of her nipples. "Prince, you naughty boy!" she chided, trying to push the animal away. But strangely, she didn't have the strength, and it was more of a caress than a push that she gave the animal. She was so very tired. And so at peace and so happy. She leaned back against the hassock, and the police dog lowered its head and now its tongue began to rub against her soft belly, scraping the dainty niche of her navel.
"Oh-oh, you mustn't do that-no, bad dog-please, Prince, you tickle so-when I've just showered, that's naughty-go away now, that's a darling-no, stop it, Prince!" she moaned. The hand which wore the silver bracelet rubbed against the top of the dog's head, and it was still not with the force of repulsion but rather in a feverish kind of caress.
And thus encouraged, with a low whine, the young police dog suddenly delved its cold black muzzle against Eleanor McKenzie's cunt, and its tongue darted out and began to lick and rub and graze and caress.
"Ohhhh-Jason-I don't want you to-you mustn't-oh darling-what are you doing to me-Ooooh-Aaaah-oh Jason-oh you darling, yes, oh, oh, it's so good, I'm going to faint, Oh Jason-now, yes, aahhhhh!"
Her eyes glazed, her head fallen back against the tiled bathroom wall, her legs sprawled, her creamy naked body abandoned, Eleanor McKenzie gave herself up to the noisy snuffling warmth that frictioned her most intimate nook and drew her inexorably beyond the power to halt the onrushing tides of wakened sensual passion. In her frantic paroxysm, her bare calves clutched the black-maned flanks of the young dog, as she arched herself unknowingly but yearningly towards the finite crux of her attenuated nerves...
CHAPTER NINE....
Edward McKenzie leaned back in the thickly upholstered armchair in the handsomely furnished library of the Argonauts Club, which occupied a two-story brownstone house on East Seventieth Street, and beckoned to the elderly red-coated waiter to take his order for a whiskey sour. It was a wretched evening, with a blizzard threatening, and he had decided to stay in town tonight rather than go back out to Long Island. His chauffeur was down with the flu, the Cadillac was in a Long Island garage for extensive motor overhaul, and he never had cared for the commuters' train. There were private rooms at this luxurious and exclusive club, and he had often spent the night or even several nights after a long business trip.
He had prolonged his stay in Tulsa with David Fenderson, long after their deal had been consummated, in the added hope of enjoying some of his sophisticated friend's special entertainment. He had told Fenderson that his wife and daughter were away in Europe and that he wasn't especially fond of going back to an empty house for the holidays, so the oilman had shrugged and said, "Well, you're certainly welcome to stay here with me, Ed. I owe you a little hospitality after the handsome profit you just worked out for me. I don't mind telling you that the tax benefit I'm going to get out of this merger is going to pay for my pussy chasing for quite a number of years, at least until I'm beyond the ability or even the inclination to track it down."
And so he had had a couple more visits to Lucille's elegant bordello, each time hoping that this would be the one occasion when everything would go right. Since Fenderson had vouched for him, the madame had greeted him like an old friend, and he'd gone there by himself on New Year's Eve, paying a thousand dollars for the privilege of reserving a room. And another thousand for having two girls at his disposal. But even that hadn't worked.
As he sipped his whiskey sour, he saw one of the club members approaching, in the company of a tall, stoop-shouldered white-haired man whose appearance struck him at the very outset. He had never seen this man at the club before, but the latter was evidently a person of some consequence and wealth, for he wore hand-tailored Scotch tweed trousers and a magnificent smoking jacket whose collar was made of rare Vicuna fur.
"Sorry to disturb you, Ed," Spencer Dalworth stood before Edward McKenzie's chair, an apologetic smile on his thin-lipped weather-beaten face," but my guest tonight asked especially to meet you. This is Carlos Sathanas. Mr. Sathanas, this is Edward McKenzie, the famous mining engineer, head of the McKenzie Mining Company."
Edward McKenzie set down his drink and rose, extending his hand. The stranger's face was curiously youthful, his cheeks pink and smooth as a baby's. As he smiled and reached his hand out to meet the mining engineer's grasp, Carlos Sathanas smiled to reveal excellent white teeth. His nose was broadly Roman but his eyes were a singular, compelling green, almost like an animal's. "A real pleasure for me, Mr. McKenzie," he said in a deeply sonorous voice. "I've always admired your many ventures throughout the world in search of precious metals. You really should write a book about your experiences."
"That's very kind of you to say, Mr. Sathanas. That's an unusual name."
"It is, I confess it," the stranger smiled again showing strong white teeth. "Actually, my real name is unpronounceably foreign, and I took this as a professional name, so to speak. You see, I'm the head of a traveling stock company. We finished our tour of the States, and I'm stopping in New York for a month or two before taking my company on to the Honduras, Guatemala and then on through South America. Mr. Dalworth," here the newcomer turned to his host, "was kind enough to invite me to the Argonauts Club this evening and I told him that I simply must see you."
"That's very kind. Spence, is Mr. Sathanas going to apply for membership? You know our rules," Edward McKenzie eyed his friend, who had won quite a reputation a decade ago as a big-game hunter on African safaris and was now the vice president of a major engraving plant which printed a great many trade journals and regional magazines.
"I've told Mr. Sathanas what our rules are. I think he can qualify, though of course he has to be in residence for at least six months while his application is being processed," Spencer Dalworth explained. "I'll leave him here to chat a bit with you, if you don't mind, Ed, and then we'll all go in to dinner. I hope Walter, our noble chef, is going to keep his promise of giving us some real venison this evening. I'd hoped to go deer hunting myself, but we just took on another big magazine job and I've had to give up my vacation until this next spring. I'll be seeing you, Mr. Sathanas."
"Sit down next to me," Edward McKenzie invited the tall stoop-shouldered stranger. "So you're an actor?"
"Something like that," Carlos Sathanas adjusted his Vicuna collar, picking off an imaginary spot of lint. "As well as playwright, producer, traveling secretary and printer's devil. In a stock company, Mr. McKenzie, you have to double in brass and do many things. But we've been moderately successful."
"Oh, I must confess I'm not much of a avid theatergoer myself," the mining engineer explained. "I do a good deal of traveling, and when I do have a little time to spend in a strange town, I sometimes take in a movie. Never a play. I get a little bored with all these angry young men who are writing plays and howling to the heavens about causes, most of them not worth fighting for."
"That's perhaps because you've never had to fight for a cause yourself," Carlos Sathanas quietly suggested.
Edward McKenzie's face flushed with anger. "You speak as if you've known me for some time, and I hardly think the remark is called for."
"No, no, Mr. McKenzie, please don't take offense. You misunderstand me entirely. I mean, Spencer Dalworth has told me of your remarkable success, your positive genius for ferreting out unknown lodes of precious minerals where everyone else had given up hope. For you it came as if by magic, and so an outsider can only judge and say that you have never had to fight for any cause. That's all I meant, outward appearances, sir. And they of course conceal the true man."
"Well, yes, you're right about that much," Edward McKenzie was mollified. "But I can assure you that it took a great deal of study and many years of expeditions to find those lodes."
"Your first real strike was in Chile, wasn't it? Spencer Dalworth was telling me."
"That's true. But I can't take too much credit for that."
"Now, Mr. McKenzie, you're being far too modest."
"Not in the least. My father had been dealing with the Chilean government, and the contract was arranged just before he died. All I did was to find a location, start the excavation, according to very detailed maps already in his possession, and a good deal of help from loyal workers, and there it was."
"You make it sound so simple," Carlos Sathanas observed with a wry smile. "I wish I could have the same success myself with my audiences. But that is enough of business. The question is, what pleasures most interest you in life?"
"I don't know. I suppose that every normal man wants. Sex, good food and wine, conversation, good clothes, pleasant surroundings and accommodations-" Edward McKenzie shrugged. "I'm not especially hard to please."
"No, on the one hand I should think you are not. But on the other I think you could be a most discriminating man who hides his real feelings under the mask. All of us wear a mask, Mr. McKenzie. Now I may say that I have a very small but most exotic hobby, which, if it were known to you, might dovetail exactly with your own secret interest in unusual pleasures."
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Sathanas? Damn it all, I'd much prefer to call you Carlos."
"As you wish, I should be honored." The tall stoop-shouldered man inclined his head with a faint smile. "On a stormy night like this, what would you give if you could watch the most unusual sexual adventures, something which the average person will never live to see, colorful, full of beauty and a haunting realism which projects you into the very setting?"
Edward McKenzie stared uncomprehendingly at his interlocutor for a moment, then he uttered a short braying laugh: "You're a confoundedly unusual fellow, Carlos! I think it would amuse me. But let's be explicit."
"By all means. There are those in life, Mr. McKenzie, who derive their pleasure and their sport and sometimes, even their obsessions, from participating, from being active. Conversely, there are others who watch in secret and who thrill to the conjecture of supposing themselves to be in the role of the hero, of the protagonist who accomplishes great deeds. Why, this is nothing new, it's true, because the entire American philosophy of sports and competition is based on this premise that we are voyeurs at heart. Take a football game or a baseball game. The throngs who crowd into the stadium go there for the one purpose of pretending that they are the individuals at bat who drive the ball over the fence and win the game, or the helmet-wearing halfback who runs through the broken field ninety yards for the winning touchdown. In these games, they sublimate then-own frustrated desires and they reach back to their golden youth when anything and everything was possible."
"You're quite a philosopher, Carlos. Will you have a drink with me."
"Why, thank you, yes."
Edward McKenzie beckoned to a waiter nearby, and with a grandiose gesture, said, "Bring my friend whatever he wishes and put it on my tab, Amos."
"Of course, sir. What would you like?"
"A good dry sherry, if you have it."
"Of course, sir. We have a La Ina."
"Admirable. A large glass and, if possible, a few biscuits."
When the waiter had departed, Edward McKenzie stared at his new companion with roused interest. "You're something of a discriminating man yourself, Carlos," he chuckled. "Now tell me more about this little hobby of yours. In what way is it a hobby?"
"What I have to say will be in the strictest confidence. Understand me, I don't go around indiscriminately talking about such a thing. But as I've already told you, I've followed your career from the very outset with considerable admiration, and during the years it has been possible for me, thanks to an inheritance left to me and some good luck in speculation, to provide for myself and a few trustworthy and very discriminating friends some of the unusual pleasures which so many of us miss because we haven't the daring or the imagination or the curiosity to try them"
There was something in Carlos Sathanas' voice which made Edward McKenzie lean forward in his chair, his drink forgotten. "Go on, man."
"To put it bluntly, for all this talk about the newly found sexual freedom, I for one fail to perceive it save in the huge dissemination of titillatory books and magazine and movies, which are nothing more nor less than pure psychic masturbation. They depict fantasies which are not in existence, but perhaps were in another century."
"Do you know, I've felt that same way myself," Edward McKenzie broke in. "Here's your drink. Amos, I'll take another of the same."
When the waiter had retired, Carlos Sathanas went on, after tasting the sherry and smiling appreciatively, "That is why I formed what I perhaps immodestly now call The Sathanas Club. After my own stage name, you see. But because that stage name is the Latin equivalent of Satan and since to our hypocritical minds Satan represents all that strikes against our smug Puritanism and belief in what they call the good and the moral, many of my friends prefer to call it The Satan Club."
"Ah? What does this club of yours provide, what is the fee for membership and how does one join?"
"You are a direct businessman and it is easy to see how you have so easily succeeded," the stoop-shouldered man laughed softly, "the initiation fee is large, but when one is bored-if one ever is-one pays a final fee to dissolve one's membership. As to what it provides, I am to have your word of honor that what I'm to tell you will never be expressed to any one of your associates or friends."
"You have my word. What is it, man?"
The gray-haired, stoop-shouldered guest of the Argonauts Club looked around quickly to make certain that no one was in the vicinity. Then, leaning closer to the mining engineer, he said in a soft, calm voice: "There is no man or woman living, Mr. McKenzie, who does not have hidden sexual desires which are never capable of realization because of the times we live in, the general belief that morality depends upon conforming to the most stultified of conventions. This is one reason we have abolished legalized prostitution, if, indeed, we really ever had it; why one has to journey to Europe or South America or Mexico to find the elegant brothels of yesteryear; and why so many are content with resorting to sublimated passion via literature and films and perhaps the stealthy little adulteries and perversions which can be committed without too much risk. You agree?"
"But of course I do. I can tell you that when I travel, I've the devil's own time finding a really competent companion for the night, one who'll do for me in bed what I want her to do," Edward McKenzie chuckled.
"Exactly! But once you are a member of The Satan Club, Mr. McKenzie, once you have been carefully initiated into its pleasures, once you have discovered your deepest desires, each new experience will bring you closer to the fulfillment of those yearnings which perhaps you yourself do not even know exist deep within your psyche."
"That's quite an order, Carlos. You're a very clever actor, so perhaps you're making all this up to hold my interest."
"Not at all. I'm quite prepared this very night, to take you as my guest to The Satan Club and let you test my formula for yourself."
"Are you joking?"
The man shook his head. "I have never been more serious in all my life, Mr. McKenzie.
"You mean, right here in New York, you've worked out some sort of private whorehouse where all things of kinky goings-on can be enjoyed?"
"I would not quite put it in those words, Mr. McKenzie, but the answer is yes."
Edward McKenzie stared incredulously at his new friend. Then, taking his unlighted cigar out of his mouth with a hand that had begun to tremble, he said hoarsely, "I'm going to take you up on your offer, Carlos. Let's have a look at this Satan Club of yours."
CHAPTER TEN....
Outside the Argonauts Club, a black limousine was waiting. Somewhat to Edward McKenzie's surprise, the man beside him, now wearing a heavy winter overcoat and a peaked brown Astrakhan cap, moved towards the rear door, opened it and gestured for the mining engineer to enter.
"Nicholas has been good enough to wait for me," he explained. "It isn't too far a drive, but I should certainly not care to try to find a taxi on such a night."
Edward McKenzie was impressed despite himself. The limousine was soundproofed, the upholstery was very thick and sumptuous and extremely expensive. The chauffeur at the wheel wore impeccable livery, and he seemed to be Mexican or Puerto Rican, judging from his swarthy complexion and stolid, rounded face, which the mining engineer had seen as he clambered into the back of the car. A glass partition separated the chauffeur from its riders, and Carlos Sathanas picked up the speaking tube and said succinctly, "Nicholas, to the Black Mass."
At these words, spoken clearly and distinctly, Edward McKenzie caught his breath and turned to his companion who met his gaze unflinchingly and with a faint little smile. "Black Mass?" he uttered.
"Why, yes, Mr. McKenzie. The worship of Satan is not limited alone to my club, and it is mere coincidence, indeed, that my club should be named after the pseudonym which I have adopted for my acting and producing career. But in Puerto Rican Harlem, you will find that there are many superstitious newcomers to New York who still cling to the voodoo and pagan worship of their ancestors, and who because of the oppression of this complex civilization of ours, a city of impersonal high-rises and towering buildings and madly rushing vehicles and very unfriendly, uncommunicative neighbors, seek to crawl back into the shadows of the past. So, to revive their flagging spirits before the age of materialism annihilates them completely, they hold at times these amusing little rituals. Tonight, you will see the sacrifice of a virgin to propitiate the Master, who is known by many names, as Lucifer, Beelzebub and, according to your excellent American poet and novelist, Stephan Vincent Benet, Old Scratch. You recall, of course, his masterpiece, "The Devil and Daniel Webster,' which I believe also was made into a highly effective opera by the gifted American composer Douglas Moore."
Edward McKenzie stared at his companion, spellbound at the man's imaginative, quick mind. It was mystifying, to say the least, and yet there was a curious flattery to Carlos Sathanas' having sought him out and rousing him from his jaded apathy on such a stormy night as this. It had been by all odds a most discouraging year, the one just ended. True, his company had shown a handsome gross profit of several million dollars, but his own personal life had been like ashes in the mouth, a nothingness that was growing steadily more wearisome and exasperating. He had been home briefly for a few days after New Year's Day and stormed out of the house to take refuge at his club. Alice was absolutely impossible. Not content with having engaged that pretty slut of a Creole who seemed to have become her closest confidante, she had actually let the bitch bring in a police dog and use his yard, so well tended by the gardener. And when he had objected, his own Ellie had stood up for her mother and indignantly told him that she liked the dog and that she felt lonely and she wanted to keep it there as a pet and also as a watchdog.
Women! What good were they, when the chips were down? They provided at best a transient and all too temporary relief from stress and exhaustive endeavor, and even then they were tawdry and shallow, lacking any spark of understanding. If only the world could go back to the age of slavery when women might be used as concubines, summoned to one's presence when one's prick was hard and needed solacing then sent back into their dungeon-like cubicles and kept in chains and gags until they were needed again! Now here he was in his own house, after so many arduous and distressing business trips all last year, only to find his own daughter and wife turned against him! And Ellie hadn't even thanked him for the present. Worst of all, she had practically insulted him that last day, just before he'd come over here into the club, by letting that damned Prince come right into the living room, the silver bracelet which he'd given her for Christmas linked around its collar! And when he'd remonstrated with her, she just giggled and walked over to the dog and patted its muzzle, then unfastened the bracelet and languidly put it on her wrist and said, "Cecilia says that February's also his birth month, too, Daddy!"
"But perhaps," he said falteringly, "what you're going to take me to is faked, staged."
"No, Mr. McKenzie. Nicholas, my chauffeur, you see, is himself from Puerto Rico and a member of the secret society which meets tonight at the time of the full moon to perform this homage to the Fallen Angel. For such Lucifer was, if you recall both your Bible and your Milton, Mr. McKenzie. In some ways, he was more fascinating than God Himself, and he dared to challenge God. Thus in our own time, against the abuses of what you may please to call science which lets innocent people starve, become imprisoned and die unjustly, there are still enough individuals left who have the courage to side with the Fallen Angel in rebelling against the established order." Why, the gray-haired man beside him chuckled reminiscently, "I sometimes see in all these college campus disorders a kind of symbol that this insurgency against what they call scornfully "The Establishment' is really, when all is said and done, a protest against heaven and its established order. Do you not agree, Mr. McKenzie?"
"I hadn't really thought of the matter. My business affairs take me all over the country and out of it most of the year, Mr. Sathanas. Oh the devil, there I go calling you by that ingenious pseudonym of yours. I mean, Carlos, and I've little time or patience with dissension."
"I suspect that you are not the kind of man who would have," was the smiling answer.
It was a long, tortuous ride, until at last the limousine stopped along a darkly lighted street, narrow and squalid, and before a ramshackle two-story frame house, hemmed in by dingy red brick apartment buildings. Across the street were little stores, as dingy and as unattractive as the residences. Only a few lights flickered in the windows along this block for it was nearly midnight. Glancing at his wristwatch Edward McKenzie marked the hour: twenty minutes before that fateful time. And, against his will and better judgment, he felt himself suddenly cold with a shiver and presentiment, for though he had scoffed at such a thing as a Black Mass, the hour of midnight was that associated with the unholy and supernatural.
The swarthy chauffeur opened the door for them, and the stoop-shouldered owner emerged first, then held out his hand to steady Edward McKenzie as he set foot on the slushy curb. "We shall let Nicholas go ahead and prepare the way for us," Carlos Sathanas explained to the mining engineer. "The limousine will be quite safe here, because Nicholas is one of the high priests of this Puerto Rican cult of worship. He is also a superb boxer and talented in karate, the French savate and ju-jitsu. And he is also an excellent marksman with a knife, as you yourself shall see presently. We will enter and wait in the vestibule until the sign is given to us."
There was at least the atmosphere of the unusual, the unexpected, the bizarre to titillate Edward McKenzie's bored and distraught senses. Perhaps the worst blow of all to his own ego and his self-esteem had been his farewell to his host in Tulsa, David Fenderson. They had shaken hands, and Fenderson had promised to accept his invitation to come to New York and be his guest at some of the swankier restaurants and nightclubs. And then the gray-haired oilman had smiled and nodded and walked back to the rear of his spacious living., room and the housekeeper, Betsy, had suddenly come forward with a sinuous, fluid movement, to confront him there at the door. And she'd smiled at him and murmured, very softly, so that only he could hear: "Did you have fun in the closet watching me take care of my master, Mr. McKenzie? I surely do hope you did. Have a happy holiday, sir." And then she had closed the door in his face with a soft mocking laugh which had made him grind his teeth and want to batter down the door with his fists. So the bitch had known all the time, and now he had had to go back to New York wondering if she'd tell Fenderson, or whether it had been Fenderson, the sly old fox that he was, who had found him out.
The vestibule was cold and drafty, and there was a dirty, tarnished brass panel for mail slots and doorbells, and only two names, scrawled in pencil and almost undecipherable. As they moved to the back of the vestibule, behind the heavy old staircase with its worn-out, faded gray carpeting, the actor-producer lowly murmured to Edward McKenzie, "You'll be welcome here because I pay the rent for both tenants. The family downstairs happen to be Nicholas' mother and father and sister and cousin. Sometimes I use the second floor for my own troupe when the family who usually live upstairs go back to Puerto Rico, as they did for these holidays. That was why Nicholas chose this place for the celebration at the full moon which begins the New Year."
"You don't mean that a virgin is actually going to be sacrificed right to the death?"
"You're thinking of the Stravinsky Sacre de Printemps, Mr. McKenzie," the stoop shouldered man smilingly shook his head. "No, only her virginity will be sacrificed. It will be the little death, so to speak. The death which is the beginning of life, and the life which is dedicated to the Fallen Angel, for should she spawn, the child would be dedicated to the service of the Lord Lucifer, of course, in his Puerto Rican name of Sathana. It has a certain melodramatic quality to it, I admit, and perhaps this is one reason I adopted the name I bear."
"What's your real origin, Carlos? I can't quite place your accent."
"I have spent much time in South America, Mr. McKenzie. I was born in the United States, however. Perhaps my accent, as you call it, is a conglomerate of the Portuguese, the Spanish, and the Indian dialects which I've had to learn in my own career."
"I see. What's that?"
Just then there had come the sound of a horn, harrowing in its discordant and long-drawn cacophony.
"That was the sign that the ceremony is about to begin. Come, Mr. McKenzie."
They ascended the stairs, which creaked beneath their weight. The stairwell was dry and rickety, and it seemed to give way to his grasp, but Edward McKenzie climbed with pounding heart and quickening pulses, for he had never seen the ritual known as the Black Mass. And what his host had told him indicated that there would not be bloody death by violence to fear but instead the lascivious orgy of the taking of a virgin maidenhead by the worshipers of this exotic cult.
They were on the landing of the second floor, and the man who called himself Carlos Sathanas led Edward McKenzie to a narrower door at the very back. Turning the knob, he entered, gesturing for the mining engineer to follow.
They were in a kind of alcove, raised from the floor, and covered with a transparent white curtain, which seemed to be made of nylon. From this vantage spot, Edward McKenzie could see into the large living room There were two windows, and the shades were drawn. The only light was from candles, long red wax tapers pressed into brass candlestick holders which perched atop the mantelpiece of an old, unused fireplace and were set on a rickety table in one corner of the room, and held in the hands of the sycophants who formed a semicircle half a dozen feet from the fireplace itself. There were a dozen men, dressed in black flowing robes which fitted them from the neck to ankles, their feet bare, their heads shaven, and grotesque white paint upon their bare skulls in curious symbols. To the left of this group stood the actor-producer's chauffeur, Nicholas, and he wore a red robe, there were white threads sewn in the symbols of a goat's head with rampant horns. And on his head, which alone of all the men's remained unshaven, a curious metal clasp circled, to which were affixed a pair of actual goat's horns. Opposite him stood a woman with long black flowing hair, oval face, exotic and beautiful, the high priestess of the cult. She was naked but for a red loincloth and a necklace of cowrie beads. Her figure was magnificent, and her naked titties were bold uptilting heavy pears with dusky, flinty-hard nipples set in narrow purplish-coral aurolea-On each of those titties was daubed in white paint the symbol of an inverted cross.
Edward McKenzie trembled, feeling his prick harden at the sight of what was just in front of the fireplace. At the same moment, he felt his host's hand touch him, and when he turned, gestured behind him. Glancing around, he saw a wooden stool, and promptly seated himself, which maneuver his host emulated on another stool. Then, his face flushed, his eyes burning, he stared through the transparent, filmy cloth which concealed their little hiding place.
There was a low bare black wooden table, and on it lay a beautiful Puerto Rican girl who could not have been more than eighteen, her ripe, voluptuous young body filmily sheathed in a diaphanous white tunic from neck to knees. She lay with her arms at her sides, and her dark liquid brown eyes were wide with apprehension, yet she had bravely forced a smile to her full red lips.
Now the high priestess began a chant in words that Edward McKenzie could not understand, raising her long, slender arms high above the girl and then, suddenly, thrusting down median and forefingers of both hands towards the sacrificial virgin's round full swelling breasts. Then again she lifted her arms, her fingers describing the V's towards the ceiling, and she knelt, and bowed her head, continuing to make that sign.
"The sign of the horns of Lucifer," Edward McKenzie's companion whispered. "The hour approaches. They now invoke the Lord of Mysteries."
And suddenly the twelve robed acolytes blew out their long red tapers and dashed them down upon the wooden floor.
The high priestess moved to the head of the table, up against the fireplace, and bent down over the quivering young girl, drawing her forked fingers, first the left hand and then the right, over the satiny forehead, then the lips, and then each breast in turn. Finally she moved back and with each V of each hand, slowly grazed the plump mound of that virgin cunt, whose thick black crisp plump curls could be seen outlined against the gauzy tunic. A low murmur came from the Acolytes, who then began to chant again, this time more quickly, and loudly as they knelt to face the virgin. It was dim in this room now, with only the candles from the mantelpiece and the little table to one side by the window casting a flickering, weird illumination. And by now Edward McKenzie's hard prick was pressing savagely against the fly of his trousers, and his brows were damp with his sweat.
Now the high priestess moved back towards the end of the room, into the obscure shadows which enfolded her, and Edward McKenzie heard a grating sound, and then the frantic clucking of some fowl. But as the woman emerged out of the shadows back towards the fireplace, he saw that it was a rooster with blood-red comb which she held in her hands and which she now held up before Nicholas, who in his turn held out first his left hand with the inverted cross above the rooster and then, flat in the air, the gleaming knife.
The high priestess began a new chant now, and
Edward McKenzie breathlessly comprehended that it was an offertory of this rooster to the Evil God. When she had finished the chant, she walked towards the window, knelt, and, holding the rooster by its neck in her right hand, made the sign of the cross backwards with her left hand over her forehead and left breast, and then blew out the candle on the table. Now only the tapers on the mantelpiece illumined this ghostly old room, and the guttering flames cast gargoyle-like shadows on the old, faded window shades and on the walls. The high priestess returned towards Nicholas, and seized the rooster by its claws in her left hand and its comb in her right and held it high, while the acolytes resumed a louder chant. The man who had been Carlos Sathanas' chauffeur drew back, balancing the knife in his right hand and then flung it with unerring aim; Edward McKenzie could not stifle his gasp as he saw the point of the sharp gleaming blade bury itself in the rooster's throat. There was a dying gurgle, and the rooster slumped in death. One of the acolytes now crawled forward on his knees, holding an earthen bowl to catch the blood, and partook of it, as did all of the others in that semicircle. And then the high priestess, flinging down the carcass of the rooster at her feet, took the bowl and herself drank of it and then handed it to Nicholas, who-likewise drank. And what was left they spilled out upon the white tunic of the virgin on the table, over her cunt, deftly to form the shape of a triangle which was her mount of virgin love.
Edward McKenzie glanced quickly at his host, whose eyes were fixed unwavering on the scene beyond. Surreptitiously, he put his left hand between his thighs, and clenching his legs together, began to frig himself, leaning forward and putting his right arm over his knees to hide this stealthy onanism. It was midnight. It had seemed long hours since this ceremony had begun, and yet it had actually consumed only a few minutes. But the mining engineer was trembling, bathed in sweat, as if he had experienced an orgy of an entire night-and it was not yet begun!
Now Nicholas tore off his robe and was naked, and Edward McKenzie's eyes glittered with fascinated rut as he saw the incredible vigor of the man. Swarthy, with lean, hairy chest and flanks and thighs, his prick a massive eight inches, like a ferocious club with elongated club head at the tip which was dark-red and purplish with swollen tumescence the high priest moved towards the low table. With a single movement of his right hand, he ripped the tunic from the girl's body, and Edward McKenzie gasped again at the magnificent lushness of her palpitating flesh. The round heaving titties, the wide shallow nook of a navel, the plump, thick-fleeced love mound, the round lovely long thighs, the shapely rounded calves, the dainty toes curling now in an agony of anticipation, and the soft, heart-shaped face taut with the moment of imminence and pain and sacrifice.
And now Nicholas lifted the median and forefingers of both hands up in the air to make the sign of the horns of the goat, and then with a raucous cry, he flung himself upon the table and attacked the naked girl. At once the high priestess stepped forward and seized the girl's wrists and drew them out beyond her head, standing to one side of the fireplace and clutching them tightly, so the victim might not escape the ultimate bestowal of her hymeneal seal. Edward McKenzie saw the man's lean buttocks clench and jerk in the furious digging spasm as Nicholas plunged his ferocious blade against the girl's tender quim. And when the girl cried out and lifted her head, the high priestess bent down and silenced the victim with her own amorous mouth.
The girl's body stiffened, then writhed, her heels drumming on the table as Nicholas began to fuck her with brutally fast, eviscerating thrusts. And then with a shout he poured his libation deep into her deflorated cleft and drew out and stood erect to face the semicircle of kneeling acolytes. His prick was coated with her virgin blood to the balls.
The high priestess still held the girl's wrists, still covered her panting, moaning mouth with her own, her naked titties dangling like tempting fruits from the vine of lust. And now each acolyte in turn rose, tore off his robe and then advanced upon the shrinking naked sacrifice. Each of the dozen men, each with his prick in savagely erect tribute to her voluptuous young nakedness, flung himself atop her, buried his blade deep within her cunt, and fucked her rapaciously while she twisted and moaned and squirmed, her cries drowned out by the high priestess' sucking Lesbian kiss.
Edward McKenzie felt his own juices spurt against his shorts, wetting them, and he moaned softly, closing his eyes in a moment in the sweet paroxysm of relief. And then he opened them again, afraid to miss a single nuance of this mass rape which was so pagan and primitive in its appeal to the loins and to the rut-impulse which dwells in every man, the bestial instinct which civilization so blandly suppresses.
And when at last the last man had finished with her and leaped down from the table with a shout of triumph, his prick bloodied like the others', Edward McKenzie felt himself renewed again and agonized. He had the yearning to go forward, an acolyte himself, and pry himself between those shuddering, satiny, perspiring, bloodstained thighs and fuck and fuck and fuck until he could fuck no more in the Lethe-oblivion of supreme abandon. But his host's hand on his right shoulder now restrained him, and he heard the whispered warning, "Don't move, don't speak, they would kill you now in their frenzy if they knew that you wished to profane their ceremony."
And then the acolytes moved back into the obscure shadows at the far end of the room and beyond his vision, and so did Nicholas, and there was only the high priestess with the now sobbing, whimpering girl on the table, her body sprawled in the abandon of mass rape. The white viscous gobbets of spunk which had overflowed her young cunt oozed down onto the black glossy wood of the table on which she had been altered. And then the high priestess clambered upon the table, and kneeling, swiftly divested herself of her loincloth and flung it to the floor. Naked, her thighs twitching with desire, her nipples hard with longing, her eyes narrowed and glowing, she stared down upon that sullied, bloodied, shuddering young body. And at this moment Nicholas came back out of the shadows, once more in a red robe with a cabalistic symbols in white depicting the unholy horns of Him who is Lord of Evil. Going to the fireplace, he blew out the last tapers, and the room was plunged into darkness, but not until Edward McKenzie had seen the naked high priestess fall upon the girl, titties to titties, cunt to cunt, mouth covering that whimpering mouth, and begin to grind herself in the lascivious ritual of tribalistic conquest.
"We can go now down to the car, Mr. McKenzie," his host whispered. "Nicholas will take, understandably, a little time to join us. I have some excellent Upmanns in a special humidor in the car, and a flask of twelve-year-old Cusenier. It will while away the time rather pleasantly, I think."
Tottering from his stool, Edward McKenzie felt drained and spent as he followed his host out to the narrow little door whence they had come and down the creaking old stairway.
The blustering cold, snow-laden wind lashed him into welcome alacrity, casting out the strange lassitude which had come over him when he had known so amazingly that second self-impelled fulfillment. Once in the back seat of the limousine, luxuriously leaning back and stretching his cramped legs, puffing at the rich Havana cigar, and gratefully taking a swig from the silver flesh which the smiling man handed him, he felt once more restored to reality.
"Well, Mr. McKenzie, what did you think of my little treat?"
Wanting to seem sophisticated, he shrugged. "It was mildly amusing, I'll grant you, Carlos. I've seen somewhat similar ceremonies in Paris and in Mexico."
"I'm sure you have. But this was only an appetizer, Mr. McKenzie. I only wished to prove to you that you could call my bluff, as you might say, and see that I was not improvising or imagining when I spoke to you of The Satan Club. But there is one thing more you might know which would make this little tableau which you have just witnessed somewhat more intriguing for you."
"Oh, and what's that?"
"The girl on the table, she was a true virgin."
"Naturally. Anyone could see that," Edward McKenzie scornfully retorted.
"Of course. But she was also Nicholas' sister."
He felt himself again in the throes of an exquisite lascivious titillation, such as he felt only when all the ingredients of his perverse voyeuristic longings were provided. "My God!" he ejaculated thickly.
"You see, Mr. McKenzie, I knew you were a Doubting Thomas. There was another girl who was to have been the virgin sacrifice. But when I told Nicholas that I wished to convince you that The Satan Club exists for the sheer hedonistic pleasure of its very special members, he very graciously agreed to substitute Delores. She was betrothed to his best friend. But of course, the young man who was her novio, her sweetheart, will not now wish to marry her, since first of all she had been dedicated to Him and secondly because a Puerto Rican male of good standing in the community would be laughed at if he took anything but a virgin to wife."
"But then what will poor Delores do?" Edward McKenzie found himself asking.
Carlos Sathanas shrugged. "Become a whore, I suppose. Although I might myself offer her employment in my club. She pleases you?"
"Yes.
"I know. You wanted to possess her after you had seen the others doing it. It was as well you didn't then. But in The Satan Club's private demonstrations, shall we say, you would be able to be at your leisure and as you wished. And now what do you think of the prospect?"
"A great deal. What's your fee?"
"Ten thousand dollars, Mr. McKenzie."
The mining engineer whistled. "I can see why your membership must be limited," he said cynically.
"Don't misunderstand me. I am wealthy in my own right, at least enough for my needs. This fee which every member pays is put into a common pool and from it we pay what expenses are necessary for the procurement of those pleasures which our members signify to us they wish to enjoy. If I were to use your business terminology, I should say that it is strictly a nonprofit club. It was not easy to arrange this particular spectacle. But then, you will learn more of this-that is, if you wish to be a member."
"I do. Come to my office in the morning, and I'll give you a check. How long will it take my application to be processed?"
"Perhaps a week or two. But I shall be in touch with you. Can I reach you at the Argonauts Club?"
"Yes. Yes, I think so. I'll stay in New York for a few weeks now. And, well, I'd just as soon live in at the club, there are good reasons."
"Reasons which I hope, Mr. McKenzie, The Satan Club will help you forget," said the smiling Carlos Sathanas. "And now here's Nicholas, back in his chauffeur's livery, ready to drive you back."
CHAPTER ELEVEN....
For the next two weeks, Edward McKenzie lived in a kind of hectic expectancy, impatiently dealing with his complex business affairs during the day and then hurrying to the Argonauts Club to await the call from Carlos Sathanas. His new friend had come to his office the morning after the incredible scene in Puerto Rican Harlem to accept his check for ten thousand dollars as stipulated, and had told him, "You've taken the first step, and I am sure that your application will be favorably received by the other members. I shall call on you one night at your club to summon you to your first meeting as a member, if all goes well. But I warn you, it may take some ten days to two weeks before final arrangements can be made to receive you."
And so he had virtually lived in at the club for these past two weeks, being home only on the first Sunday because the club was closed that day. But he was restless and distracted, and moreover he felt like a stranger in his own house. Even the one remaining joy of his life, his daughter Eleanor, had not been there to greet him. Alice had coldly informed him that she had gone away for the weekend to Lake Saranac to skate and to ski with a group of friends from college. Since he had not known her to show so much interest in athletic sports, he had expressed surprise, to which his brown-haired wife had scornfully replied, with a contemptuous glance at him, "How can you expect to know anything about your own family when you're almost never here, Edward? Eleanor, like myself, has acquired new interests, but then you could hardly expect to retain her as the same little girl who idolized you. She's a woman now, and with a woman's needs, as I am, something you've always failed to realize."
That Sunday had been torture for him. Even the presence of the delectable Creole maid Cecilia had been a new and withering rebuff to him, showing him that inexplicably he was no longer master in his own house. That afternoon, Alice had retired to her room on the pretext of wanting to take a nap to cure a sudden headache, which was pointed insult enough, so enervated as he had been by the savagely primitive spectacle of the Black Mass and longing for carnal pleasure to while away the time until his new friend should proclaim him an accepted member of The Satan Club, Edward McKenzie had determined to put into effect his plan of seducing the breathtakingly desirable young Creole. He had found her in the kitchen, preparing tea for her mistress, and as he had entered the kitchen she had just been stirring the teapot with a long wooden spoon.
"You're very thoughtful, Cecilia," he said with a genial smile. "I imagine my wife has told you that I didn't get a chance to pass on your references and background before you were hired here. But I wanted to tell you that, considering how devoted you seem to be to my wife, I shan't make an issue of that anymore. And I'm grateful to you for your attentions."
She had only inclined her head and gone on stirring. Annoyed by her cool civility and his eyes lecherously sweeping her voluptuous svelte body, he had awkwardly approached and, putting a hand on her shoulder, intimated, "You know, Cecilia, I'm a very lonely man. My poor wife hasn't been herself for quite some years. She doesn't have the best of health and she's become quite nervous and high-strung."
And then, to his baffled fury, that insolent, lovely bitch had turned to look at him, her large brown eyes wide and mocking, and she had said, without leaving off her damned stirring, "Are you trying to say, Mr. McKenzie, that you'd like someone to fuck? Me, perhaps? I'm terribly sorry, but my duties as your wife's maid and cook don't include servicing you. Besides, in all fairness you ought to know that I just don't care for men at all, so it's really nothing personal. And now if you'll excuse me, Mr. McKenzie, your wife is waiting for her tea." And he had stood there, his mouth gaping, his face livid with astonishment at the unexpected obscenity, as Cecilia had calmly placed the teapot on a tray, then a cup and saucer and a plate of little cakes, and walked out of the kitchen without another word...
But this Friday evening, after an indifferent dinner at the club and an hour spent playing offhand games of chess with the club champion, old Peter Mornley, because there was simply nothing else to do, Edward McKenzie almost uttered a cry of delight when he saw, at the checkroom to the rear of the library, the tall familiar figure of the gray-haired, stoop-shouldered actor-producer. The rules of the Argonauts Club were that once a guest had been brought in by a member in good standing, he might make two future visits within a month, and thereafter must formally apply for membership before ever being permitted to enter the hallowed precincts again, for security's sake.
He rose from the chess table, then turned back and impatiently turned down his king in token of resignation. "Thanks, Mornley," he said curtly, "I've been expecting a friend and here he is now." And with this he went up to Carlos Sathanas: "I thought you'd never come!" he exclaimed in a low, trembling voice full of emotion.
"I told you it would take a little time, Mr. McKenzie. But I'm glad you're here, because we can go right out again, if you like. Yes, your membership has been approved."
"Good, good! I'm ready!" Edward McKenzie gasped.
They went down the stairs to the street and there again the black limousine with Nicholas in livery at the wheel awaited them. He sank back against the luxuriously upholstered seat with a sigh of keen anticipation and relief, for his nerves were jangled and twisted like a reel of tape that has been rewound too swiftly and has snarled in the capstan.
"Where do we go tonight?" he could not help asking, all too aware that his voice betrayed his own anxiety. Carlos Sathanas smiled: "To a house not far from yours, Mr. McKenzie. Tonight you will not meet the full contingent of our membership, which embraces the entire country. You see, as I make frequent stock tours with my little acting company, I spend a month or two in this or that major metropolis, and during the time I have ample opportunity to cultivate those more discriminating and affluent members of our society who seek the bizarre and despise the conventional. Oh, there are times, Mr. McKenzie, when many of our members from across the country meet at a given rendezvous by way of some special celebration, such as an anniversary of the founding of The Satan Club. But the last year or two I have so carefully arranged my schedule of touring dates that I manage to provide nearly all of our members, wherever they may be, with diversions amply compensating them for the fees they pay."
"I see. But this ten thousand dollars, it must be of course only the beginning. What about the annual dues?"
"That, Mr. McKenzie, depends upon the individual member and what services he requires and what tastes he has. There is no set fee. I myself determine the price he or she must pay."
"She?" he echoed.
The man who called himself Carlos Sathanas nodded: "That should not surprise you, Mr. McKenzie. There are many women of means with violent sensual passions who are all the more suspect by our conventional civilization and therefore must more carefully hide their truest emotions. The Satan Club welcomes such, where in privacy and with the utmost discretion, they may indulge their fantasies."
"Perhaps," Edward McKenzie greedily replied, "some of these women may seek diversion from among the male members, then."
"It is possible, yes. But as a new member on probation-and this will hold true till at least your third attendance at the club-I should advise you not to solicit their favors," Carlos Sathanas smilingly admonished. "Ah, Nicholas has made excellent time in this atrocious weather. Here we are at last!"
Through the swirling snowflakes, Edward McKenzie could not make out the exact area where he was, though he recognized the general section of this exclusive Long Island neighborhood. As they emerged from the limousine, he shivered and hunched his shoulders at the frigid blast of wintry air, his eyes stinging with tears. It was not until he and his host had ascended the steps to a long veranda that he saw the magnificent two-story Colonial-type house to which he had been brought. There were few houses on this street, curiously enough, and he had never seen this section of Long Island before, for all his commuting there. Carlos Sathanas took a key ring from the pocket of his overcoat, unlocked the front door and gestured for him to enter.
The foyer was lighted, and a liveried valet obsequiously greeted the president of The Satan Club and his guest, took their overcoats and hats, and then Edward McKenzie and Carlos walked on into the brilliantly lighted salon, which had the clarity of daylight furnished by two huge, ornate chandeliers. Velvet drapes covered the walls as well as the French windows to one side, and Edward McKenzie perceived about a dozen elegantly groomed men and women chatting with one another, sipping goblets of champagne while two other liveried servants passed around them with trays of the sparkling wine and plates of hors d'oeuvres.
The mining engineer caught his breath at the beauty of the women in attendance, of whom he counted four. One was a spectacularly tall, full-bosomed Juoesque matron, perhaps in her mid-thirties, with a classic cameo-like face, her hair done up in an imperious pompadour, with a pearl necklace round her milky throat and sapphire pendants dangling from her dainty earlobes, catching the brilliant light of the overhead chandeliers. Her gown was of a rich purple faille, almost diaphanous, and it limned the majestic rondures of her breasts, rhapsodized the sensual jet of her rounded hips and her long womanly thighs. Her pumps were of silver-cloth, and they too shimmered in the brilliant light of the room. Talking animatedly to her, a smile on his saturnine face, was a tall man with youthful, athletic figure, in white tie and tails, and prematurely silver-gray hair. Edward McKenzie frowned, for he had seen that face in many a society column and yet he could not remember the man's name.
Off to the left of this couple was a trio, two women and a short, fat, bald bespectacled little man whose clothes were so impeccably tailored that Edward McKenzie felt a twinge of envy and a urge to ask the name of the man's tailor, so suddenly dissatisfied was he with his own. On the fat little man's right hand, on the third finger, was a gold circlet with one of the largest diamonds the mining engineer had ever seen, but it was the two women who now captured his breathless admiration. One was slim, like a forest nymph, her long golden hair floating nearly to her hips, dressed in a blue satin frock which dipped in a V-cut almost midway down her breast, showing the closely set curves of insolently jutting pear-contoured love globes, while the skirt descended only to dimpled, suave kneecaps. Her legs were bare and her feet were thrust into high-heeled gold-cloth sandals. Her face was elfin, with thick black brows, and her lips were sensual, even cruel in their bold curve. Her high-set cheekbones and her firm chin gave her the look at once of both a dominating and a quixotic courtesan. Her right hand was gloved to the elbow in black calfskin, and she idly tapped the split white leather thong of a riding crop against her bare calf as she talked. The other one, of medium height, seemed Italian, with warm olive skin, jet-black hair drawn away from her high forehead and formed at the back into a nest of dangling curls. Her body was breathtakingly ripe, her breasts firm melons, set widely apart and almost half-visible in the cut of a red satin gown with a long train. But the skirt was tight to shape out the sumptuous, mouthwatering rotundities of her behind and the full sculptured thighs of a Rubens' Venus.
His host, beside him, whispered into his ear: "Because of the probationary period I mentioned, Mr. McKenzie, I shall not formally introduce you to these other members. We shall have a slight collation, and then each of us, according to his or her desires, shall proceed to a special chamber for the entertainment which I have had the humble pleasure of concocting. This holding back of identity, I believe, is as much for your protection as for theirs, and it is one of our established rules."
"That's all right. But I'll tell you one thing, Carlos, once these preliminaries are over and done with, I'd like to meet that big brunette, who must be Italian."
"Almost. She is Castilian, and she has had four husbands. They were not, alas, able to match her insatiable passions. That is all you need to know about her, Mr. McKenzie. But now let us go to the dining room and enjoy the imaginative presentations of our chef. Oh yes, we have one of the finest in the nation, who is at our beck and call whenever such occasions as these arise."
Edward McKenzie was trembling hard with impatience and desire as he followed his host into an even more elaborate dining room, and was seated at a table that could easily have accommodated fifty guests. His host sat beside him, while the dozen regular members clustered at the other end of the table, thus giving him no chance to engage in conversation with them.
"I wish also, Mr. McKenzie, to say something to you in private before we begin this special seance," Carlos Sathanas murmured. "I know you to be a man of vivid imagination and fleshly desires, but I just wonder if you have ever experimented with some of the more exotic stimulants which procure untold delights."
"What do you mean by that? If you refer to drugs, no, never."
"Ah, but you misunderstand me. When you say 'drugs,' Mr. McKenzie you doubtless refer to such crudities as heroin and cocaine, morphine and the more innocuous marijuana. Ah, our club would not be so vulgar, for these drugs are destructive to the body and the mind. But in my travels and in my studies, I have found far more useful and effective stimulants which procure tremendous sexual vigor, implement the mind to the richest fantasies, and thereby heighten and prolong physical pleasure. For you surely as a connoisseur must know that it is not the flesh alone which counts but the overtones, spiritual and physical, which give the truest, fullest fulfillment."
"Yes, yes, I'll agree with that. But of what stimulants are you speaking, Carlos?"
"Perhaps you have read long ago of the Old Man of the Mountain, who formed the Cult of the Assassins. From his mountain retreat, many of his followers went into India where they became known as Thuggees, but they were faithful to Mother Kali and they employed hashish as their intoxicant to strengthen their murderous hands and to whet their carnal appetites. This they had learned from him who was their master. And then there's the African yohimbine, extracted from the bark of the trees of that name which flourish widely in the region of the Congo. It is undoubtedly the most potent aphrodisiac known to man. Taken orally, it sends a furious rush of blood to the pelvic region, sensitizing the nerve ganglia of the genitals. A few grams of the liquid from this bark, Mr. McKenzie, enables an adult male to experience orgasm after orgasm and still remain virilely erect for as much as ten, twenty or as much as thirty times in a single night. The same dosage given to a woman will influence her to go far beyond the limits of her sexuality, even if she be a nymph. And yet these substances, if administered judiciously, and used only on the special occasions when The Satan Club holds its sessions, have no deleterious effects, believe me."
The mining engineer's eyes widened, and his breath quickened as he stared at his host. "You're sure that this African thing you've just mentioned really works like that? So many orgasms at one time? You mean it? Just like that!"
"But of course. I have used it myself," was the smiling answer.
"I-I would like to try it. Can that be arranged?"
"Of course, if you wish. But since this is your first time, my advice would be to take the most moderate possible doses. Yet I assure you even from that you will derive the greatest satisfaction you have ever known. You see, these drugs, as well as those which come from the Orient, are older than the knowledge of modern man himself, and they have absolutely nothing in common with these harmful stimulants and escape remedies which are in such vogue today."
While they spoke together thus, the two men were served a savory goose liver pate, a plate of cheeses and imported English biscuits, and then a delicious salad whose spicy ingredients Edward McKenzie could not identify but of which he partook ravenously. What struck him with particular excited delight was the beauty of these waitresses, more truly Hebes, cupbearers to the gods of pleasure, for they were all in their teens or seemed to be, and wore only flowing, sheer red silk tunics and sandals, their hair unbound and flowing in thick tresses almost to their waists.
When he desired a second helping of the salad, one of the charming adolescents moved beside him, leaned towards the bowl, and he could feel the pressure of her haunch against his arm, and he felt his prick leap with expectation at her loveliness. She had a wistful, exquisitely poignant face, with long eyelashes surmounting expressive dark-blue eyes, a full sweet tremulous mouth and deeply cleft and dimpled chin, and her skin had an ivory purity that excited him. He could smell the perfume from her long light-brown hair, and his eyes covertly laved her nubile, deliciously rounded young hips as, in this maneuver, the tunic clung to her voluptuous young form.
He met his host's gaze almost guiltily, his face flushing, as Carlos smilingly shook his head to indicate that touching was forbidden.
And then, at last, the others at the table rose and went their various ways, and he and the president of the Satan Club were left alone in the glittering, resplendent dining room.
"And now, Mr. McKenzie, your first excursion into the unusual pleasures of The Satan Club!" His host lifted a half-filled glass of champagne and drained it in a kind of toast. "Come with me. You will enjoy what you are to see in a specially equipped chamber, soundproofed and designed for your utter comfort."
"And-and this African drug you mentioned?"
"You have already taken a small dose of it, Mr. McKenzie, in your salad," was Carlos Sathanas' quiet reply.
They ascended a marble stairway draped with purple velvet, and went down the hall to their right, stopping at last in front of the very last door which Carlos Sathanas opened with a key. It was a small room, but exquisitely furnished. The ceiling was mirrored as were the walls, there was a low wide bed with red satin sheets, a backless couch upholstered in thick purple velvet, and a deep armchair beside which stood a low glass-covered table on which were decanters of liqueurs and wines, and a silver tray with dainty little cakes and squares of toast covered with Beluga caviar. In front of the armchair, there was posed on a square black teakwood pedestal an enormous glass ball, with a diameter of about three feet. Wonderingly, Edward McKenzie, at his host's suggestion, moved to the armchair and sank down into it with a sigh of comfort. He felt his pulses tingling, and he felt himself strangely younger, with more energy and alertness than he had known in many a year.
"I shall leave you now, my friend," his host sibilantly whispered, "and you will be completely at your ease. Look into that ball, which is a kind of television screen, if you like. You will see an actual and live presentation designed especially for you. When it is over, you will hear through the special public address system which is installed into this chamber my suggestions for your furtherance of pleasure. I trust you will not find this first offering of The Satan Club too banal."
He heard the click of the door as Carlos Sathanas disappeared, and he stared at himself across the room, seeing himself reflected in the mirror, and then, glancing above, in the ceiling. Very gently, in the background, as sweet, cloying music, full of chromatics began to be heard. It was the music of Scriabin, the mystic Vers la Flamme. And with this too, his nostrils twitched with an exquisite fragrance that came wafted to them, soft and titillating. And now at the same time he was conscious that the lights in this room were changing, and that a soft diffused glow, more of an enveloping aura, tinted the entire room and the reflections in the mirrors everywhere ... first the color of flesh-pink, and then a warm beige, and then a seductive olive, and now a rich sepia.
Then suddenly before his eyes, in full colors, there appeared on the enormous glass ball a scene in a jungle. His mouth gaped in amazement at the fidelity and detail of the picture. It was so close that he could reach out and touch it, and the figures seemed almost life-size. His pupils were dilated, and his heart had begun to pound. And at the same moment there came the sounds of the chirping of birds and the chattering of monkeys that swung by their tails through the thick trees. Along a narrow trail between these trees came two hunters in white helmets and shorts and boots, and behind them a young woman in the same garb, carrying a rifle, striding with the vigorous jaunty aggressiveness of a man. She was black-haired, her skin a golden brown, her body ripe and young and seductive. The white linen shorts clung to the plump round cheeks of her buttocks, outlining their every cranny as well as the sinuously broadening crease between them, and at each step the cheeks undulated and jounced with a marvelous elasticity.
He uttered a started cry as he saw one of the hunters spin around, clutching his throat from which a tiny arrow protruded. Then the man crumpled to the ground, and his partner crouched, kneeling, aiming his rifle into the dense foliage beyond. The explosions of two rifle shots were so realistic that Edward McKenzie believed himself to be there upon that path of deadly ambush. Then he cried out with alarm as he saw a jungle liana dangle down from one of the thick baobab trees above the second hunter, and its noose locked around the man's stocky neck and then yanked him into the air, his rifle dropping to the ground. A moment later he heard the hiss as of a serpent, and he could see tiny darts quivering in the man's back. The trapped hunter kicked frenziedly, grabbing at his hands with the throttling noose, then suddenly slumped, his head lolling to one side. The released liana fell with him to the ground.
The lovely brown-skinned huntress whirled, knelt down, aimed up at the baobab tree and fired her rifle. There was a gurgling cry, and a tiny black body tumbled from one of the branches. Its hideous little face was bared in a death-grin, and its loincloth and hair were again so realistic that Edward McKenzie could have reached out his finger to touch and feel. It was a pygmy, his quiver of deadly little arrows strapped to his side, his tiny bow still clutched in one hand.
Then, from the dense bushes and with bloodcurdling cries, a dozen of the little warriors lunged out towards the lovely young huntress, and before she could fire another shot, her rifle was torn from her and flung to one side, as they clutched her legs and wrists and dragged her back to the foreground of this screen and flung her down upon a mossy knoll. The sound of cackling laughter filled the room now, together with the girl's cries and angry imprecations, as another dozen of the little warriors ran from the thick density of the jungle up towards the knoll. She struggled fiercely, but in a few moments four pygmies had seized each of her long limbs and immobilized and spread-eagled her, while others began to rip away her blouse and then tear off her khaki shorts while she arched and twisted, shrieking for help.
His prick had never been so gigantically swollen, so bulging with semen as now. It seemed to him that he could actually smell the acrid, greasy-animal fat odor of the pygmies, and then he shuddered and groaned as the girl was naked. The thick black curls covering her cunt were so crisp, so silky-soft, that again he instinctively extended his right hand towards the huge glass ball. Her magnificent titties rose and fell with a violent upheaval, the dusky aureoles bearing up the crinkly, dark coral-purple tips which seemed tumescent. Two pygmies knelt and crouched over her, each bending his head to one of those tasty buds and began to suck, while the girl's head turned from side to side, a look of loathing and agony on her lovely, seductive face. That girl-that girl was familiar-yes, but who?
Now, between the girl's naked straddled thighs, there stood the pygmy who was seemingly the chief of this jungle tribe. He had gray hair, and a cruel face and hawk-like nose, and a thick beard. He doffed his loincloth, cast aside the quiver and the bow, and his prick jutted out hideously, in grotesquely obscene contrast by virtue of its length and thickness in comparison with his short stature. The girl lifted her head, her eyes goggling with disbelief at the sight of that ugly weapon. Then, with a cackle of glee, the naked pygmy knelt and began to fondle her cunt, his little fingers pinching and prodding, finally parting the thick curly fleece to expose the pouting plump coral lips of her quim.
"Oh no! Oh my God in heaven, don't do that to me! Oh, help me! My God, these hideous little beasts-oh, he's going to f-f-fuck me-oh don't, oh please don't, Ami, take it out of me, you're tearing me so, oh don't f-f-fuck me, pleaseV
There was another cackle of triumph; the hideous little black dwarf had flung himself over the writhing captive, and Edward McKenzie saw his thick long cock bury itself between the quaking lips of her soft pink pussy. Then he began to fuck her with an animal ferocity, thrusting deep and again and again without pausing, his stubby little fingers raking her sides and hips, while the other pygmies continued to suck and tweak and kiss her nipples, and the others crowding around cackled and spoke in their native tongue, then stooped to pinch and prod her with their bows and with their fingers.
And when the pygmy leader had finished and had risen from her squirming loins, one of those who was holding her left ankle rose, divested himself of his loincloth and replaced his leader, while still another pygmy took his place restraining her there on the ground to endure her fate.
Edward McKenzie felt his cock explode, and uttered a sobbing cry of agonized frustration. But as the vicious and continued rape went on, one pygmy supplanting his predecessor without pause or reprieve for the whimpering, groaning, sobbing naked girl, his eyes bulged with ecstasy as he felt himself renewed, replenished, his prick as massively rigid as before.
His eyes were glazed, his chest wheezed with his tortured breath, as endlessly that pagan rape went on. He had counted fully twenty men attack her, and yet she lay there, whimpering and squirming, mercilessly held down by the hands of the cackling little men, the lips of her cunt puffed and inflamed, sticky with the sperm that ran down her thighs and saturated the dark earth. Her nipples were swollen, and there were red splotches all over her sides and belly and shoulders and upper arms where their obscene gloating caresses and their prodding had marked her.
And then, when he believed he could bear no more, suddenly the glass ball went black, and now the lights were dark and dusky, and almost with twilight-shadowing and the voice of his host came to his ears as clearly as if Carlos Sathanas was standing beside him: "Wouldn't you like to take that girl now, Mr. McKenzie, wouldn't you like to find her bound and waiting for you, helpless to your lust? You recognize her, I'm sure. It is Dolores, sacrificial virgin of the Black Mass."
"Yes! Oh Christ, I've watched her, let me fuck her, where is she-oh God, my prick's killing me-I've got to fuck-take me to her for God's sake!" the mining engineer shouted, half-rising from the thick soft chair.
"It shall be done as you desire," his host replied. And then the door to this chamber opened, and two masked young girls appeared, girls very much resembling those delicious young waitresses of the dining room, in their flowing red tunics and sandaled feet. One had jet-tumbling curls to her hips, the other's tresses were golden, and their lips were red and smiling as they came towards him and took him by the hands. Mutely, shuddering, his prick bulging against the crotch of his trousers, Edward McKenzie let himself be led out of the room and down the hall to still another on the opposite side of the corridor. The charming golden-haired acolyte opened the door for him and murmured, "No one will disturb you, master."
The door closed behind him, and he uttered a cry of incredulous rapture. There was Delores, naked, stretched out upon a low table, spikes driven into it, and her slim ankles and wrists bound with rawhide thongs knotted around the spikes, straddled to him, open at the fork with the black hair of her cunt flaming the pouting pink lips of her voluptuous young cunt. She was blindfolded, and she was sobbing softly. His feverish fingers tore off his clothes, and he stared down at his prick, hardly believing the massive vigor with which his manhood was still endowed. Oh God, whoever this fellow was, he had the secret! After all these years, all these experimentations, all the money spent on women of all kinds and all descriptions, nothing had been so wonderfully empowering as this!
"Now, you sweet little bitch, I'm going to fuck you," he drooled as he approached the table.
He flung himself upon her, and he felt the glory of his stiff and aching cock sliding down the tight walls of her quivering cunt. How hot and moist and tight it was, incredibly tight, one would never have believed she could have been raped so often and still hold his cock so hotly and snugly in that delicious box of hers! His trembling fingers kneaded her titties, till she moaned and sobbed, turning her face helplessly and restlessly this way and that, and Edward McKenzie gave himself up to the primeval joy of fucking.
He felt himself explode once ... twice ... and gloriously, unbelievably, a third time into her quaking womb until at last his first savage furies were appeased. And then, with a sigh of ecstasy, he buried his head on one of her heaving titties, and closed his eyes, and the shadows came upon Mm and he slept. . .
CHAPTER TWELVE....
It was the 20th of February, and it was to be the third and final probationary visit to The Satan Club's exclusive seances. Edward McKenzie had never felt himself so alive, so keenly possessed by the power of physical passion, the awareness of cunt and of all the beauties of the female, all her subtle and mercurial delights. Nine days ago, he had received a telephone summons from Carlos Sathanas that the second meeting was to be held that night, and he had hastily had his secretary telephone Alice to let her know that he would be called out of town for the weekend and not to expect him.
He had been reliving that session all these past days and nights, regurgitating as a man may do the rich, tasty viands of a repast so as to taste them once again and revive the gluttonous joy of the repast.
On that second night, the black limousine driven by Nicholas had waited for him outside of the Argonauts Club to take him to a little house in Greenwich Village, a kind of townhouse which had been converted into a Bohemian art studio on the second floor and an empty apartment on the first in which many crates were stored. But it had been in the basement of that house where he had experienced an even more exquisitely lustful triumph as a conquering male than on the first night in the elegant Long Island mansion.
Surprisingly, he had been the only guest, along with a fur-clad, jeweled young debutante, whose honey-colored hair was styled in a soignee guiche bob, whose lovely aristocratic face bore the stamp of dissipation and boredom, and who could not have been more than twenty. Icy and haughty, she had accompanied him down the stairs together with their masked and hooded guide, a young man from the sound of his voice, and his energetic quick step down a dark narrow corridor that led at last, through two locked doors, to a wide low-ceilinged chamber.
This setting was in glowingly opposite contrast to the luxury and the exquisite depravity of his first night at The Satan Club. The only light was from a bare electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling. There were two armchairs, in one of which the aloof debutante seated herself peremptorily, without so much as a glance in his direction, and a wooden stage covered by a cheap black cotton draw cloth. Their masked guide had disappeared, but suddenly he heard the voice of Carlos Sathanas, apparently coming from concealed speakers set into the stone walls of the basement chamber, addressing him: "Now that you have come a second step along the way to completely uninhibited sexual pleasures, Mr. McKenzie, I'm going to provide for you, knowing your special tastes as I do by now, a domestic scene. Its authenticity can be vouched for, for the chief participant will be the charming member who sits to your right. Irene, if you'll please go upon the stage, they are about ready for you." And then, as the debutante rose, still without a glance at him, walked towards the short little flight of steps leading to the stage and disappeared behind the black curtain, the voice again resumed: "If you will touch that little disc at the end of the right arm of your chair, Mr. McKenzie, you will find a tiny container which contains a gray pellet. It is a modified and adapted form of hashish, and you may be certain that you will be as potent and as fulfilled as you were on your first encounter with my modest entertainments."
And so he had eagerly swallowed the pill, and within a few minutes had felt a prickling, tingling vitality flood through his body, concentrating in his prick, making it stand and thrust imperiously against the crotch of his shorts. Then suddenly the electric light just beyond him had gone out and the room had been plunged into utter darkness, but at the same moment the curtain had been drawn back and there were footlights along the edge of the platformed stage to illumine the intoxicatingly incredible scene before him. Thus he became an audience of one, participating and yet gloatingly delectating over all the voyeuristic joys which had now become the only ones that could spin out his prick ardors and let him feel consummate master of the sexual act.
The blonde debutante stood facing a poorly, well-dressed man in his early forties, who was berating her, and, Edward McKenzie had gathered, was her husband. "Now look, Irene," the man said fiercely, "I've had enough of your standing me up because you don't care for my friends and you're getting tired of me. You married me a year ago with the understanding that you'd act like any decent wife, but you're not even a good whore. You dole it out to me when you want something, like that ermine coat and that ruby ring you're wearing now. Frankly, my dear, you're not really worth it, because the money I spent on those gifts would have bought me at least a dozen call girls who are a hell of a lot better in bed than you'll ever be."
"I'm sorry if you feel that way, Max," she sniffed disdainfully. "I told you I didn't love you when I married you and you accepted it. Be grateful for what you've got. Look at yourself. You're at least twice my age, you've got a big belly and you're short of wind when you try to fuck me.
"You shut your mouth, you bitch," the fat man snarled and slapped her viciously across the cheek. Then suddenly from the left wing, two masked men emerged, seizing the husband and forcing him over to a straight-backed chair to the extreme right background of the stage. Forcing him down into it, they dragged his arms behind the chair and lashed them tightly with cords, did the same with his ankles, and finally circled a rope around his waist. Then they gagged him with a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth and a bandanna tied tightly at the back of his neck. The debutante stood there petrified, her mouth agape, and then she turned and ran towards the steps leading down from the platform, but they apprehended her before she could reach that escape and dragged her back to the center of the stage. Edward McKenzie shuddered, his prick almost bursting, as he saw them strip off her fur coat, and then rip to shreds, her elegant tailored suit coat-skirt combination and fling her down on a cot in the center of the stage. She swore and shrieked, kicking and scratching, but they easily mastered her, until they had stripped her naked except for her beige-colored nylon garter belt and pumps, and Edward McKenzie licked his lips at the sight of her high-perched, closely spaced orange-like titties with their dainty pink tips, the sleek flat belly with its deep narrow navel, and the light-brown tuft of pussy curls framing the prominent fleshy pink petals of her cunt. She had magnificently long legs, her thighs and calves were splendidly muscled, and her skin was a carnation pink and white of flawless satiny texture. The men wore corduroys and work shirts, appeared to be in their forties, and, with the exception of the Venetian facemasks which hid their identity, looked like common laborers, judging from the lewd, obscene language they employed as they prepared her to be fucked.
"Max, for God's sake, try to get help, they're going to do it to me-Max, please, they're horrible-they're animals-help me, my God help me, if you love me," Irene had screamed as one of the men squatted down behind the head of the cot, twisting her arms beyond her head and down to the floor, his dirty fingernails digging into her slim patrician wrists. She tried to kick frantically, but the other man, with a jeering laugh, seized one of her nylon-sheathed ankles in his left hand, dragged down the zipper of his corduroy trousers with the right, and bared his swollen prick. Then he sank down on the cot, lifting up both her ankles which he gripped tightly with his thick fingers, and bent her knees back up against her naked titties while she shrieked and twisted vainly to escape the violent penetration of his obscenely thick-veined bulging prick.
"Max-please don't let him put that into me-aaahhh-oh, it's too big, oh please-Max, Max, help me for God's sake, get loose and help me, do you want to see your wife fucked by these horrible brutes?" Irene had shrieked.
Then her head had flung back, her face twisting in a rictus of shame and agony as Edward McKenzie had seen her ravisher's cock thrust forward between the pouting lips of her quim and pierce her to the hilt. Keeping her knees forced back against her panting titties, he had fucked her violently, and Edward McKenzie had heard the squishy, sucking sounds of his organ's frictioning inside her channel.
After he had spent furiously into her womb, he drew himself out, his organ still half-stiffened, and growled, "Okay, Eddie, it's your turn now. She wants it bad, she's already peeing her pants the minute I stick it in. I've got it buttered up for you."
"Ohnoo! Max, don't let the other one do it to me too! Oh God, let me go, I'll give you money, jewels, anything, but let me go!" the debutante had screamed.
The man squatting at the head of the cot transferred his hold of the victim's wrists to his satisfied partner now and, dragging down his zipper, exposed his longer, thinner cock, the meatus bobbing and purplish-red with lust. Irene, desperate frenzy, twisted and kicked and tried to get her legs down to the floor, but he caught one ankle and dug his fingernails into it so brutally that she shrieked in pain. And then, emulating his partner, he forced her knees back down to her heaving titties, and, kneeling between her straddled thighs, holding her legs tightly and grinning obscenely, he had fucked her even more furiously and violently than the first ravisher.
When it was done, he pulled his cock out of her, and calmly rubbed it dry on her stockinged calf, then contemptuously released her legs as she lay sprawled, whimpering and sobbing, and he and his colleague disappeared whence they had come.
Dying of lust, Edward McKenzie had devoured the tableau with straining eyes, his breath harsh and then he had heard the voice of Carlos Sathanas: "She's all yours, Mr. McKenzie. One of those fine imagine haughty young women who think themselves much too good for any man. Go ahead, her husband will be watching and he can't do a thing."
Trembling, with his mind reeling, his prick threatening to burst, he had made his way up the steps and towards the cot. Dazed by the two brutal violations, the naked debutante lay sprawled, her face covered by her hands, making no effort to hide herself or to escape. He had dragged down his zipper and drawn out his prick, panting hoarsely, as he stared greedily at the spunk-matted curls of her quim, at the agitatedly surging globes of her titties. And then he flung himself down on the cot, gripping her inner thighs with his fingertips until she cried out in pain, and then with a single stroke, had driven himself home to the balls inside her wet quaking cunt and fucked her. Not once, but twice, looking back in glittering triumph to watch her husband's flushed, sweating face, eyes mad and goggling, inarticulate cries emerging from behind the gag, wrenching at his bonds in vain.
And as he drove his prick ruthlessly back and forth inside her moist shuddering love canal, Edward McKenzie had mouthed obscenities, as if it was his own aloof wife on whom he was venting all his frustrated rut, all the agonizing nights of denials; "Yes, Alice, I'm in you now, in you to my balls, you snot-nosed bitch! Do you feel me now at last, Alice? You and your dainty nightie and the lights out and lying there like a sack of potatoes without a single expression or even a wriggle when you feel my prick-well, now you know what I'm made of, now you're feeling me as I am-there, you bitch, do you feel me crawl into you, cram into you?"
And to his unutterable joy, the debutante had suddenly begun to struggle, to sob and protest, to push at him with her palms and then desperately to claw at his cheeks until he felt the blood ooze from the wounds her sharp tinted nails had made. And it seemed to him that this was a kind of added aphrodisiac, and he kept pumping violently into her, feeling her bound and jerk as his prong stabbed violently to and fro inside her quaking cunt. He had lost count of how many times he had shot his male essence into her, save that finally even the footlights on the improvised crude stage had gone out and darkness had engulfed him after a final orgasmic thrust. And he had lain over her, feeling her breasts and belly shudder under him, feeling his prick wallowing in her wet cunthole with an ineffable sense of triumph and glorying self-wonder at his restored virility.
And after that, an incredible supplement had followed. When he had at last raised himself from Irene's trembling, naked body, and staggered off the stage, the light in the ceiling had blazed on again, and the voice of Carlos Sathanas had applauded him: "Excellent, Mr. McKenzie! And now, since you seem to be in virile form, perhaps you wouldn't mind amusing yourself with a most delightful episode on the theme of incest. It's a pity to inconvenience you when you're just beginning to feel at your ease, but you needn't leave this building at all; on the second floor, you'll find something most unusual, I promise you. Your guide will escort you, after you've tidied your clothes."
And sure enough, after a few moments, after he'd taken out a handkerchief and mopped his cock and found it still magnificently rigid, adjusted it and zipped up his fly, got back on his coat and picked up his overcoat and hat, the masked young man who had led him into the basement had reappeared and politely escorted him up the narrow winding steps to the second floor of this old converted studio.
He had gone in and found that the living room had been divided in half by a wooden slide-away partition, but the guide had whispered to him to push a button in the middle of the horizontal panel; and when he had done so, the top half of the partition rolled away and there was tinted glass before him. "It's one-way, Mr. McKenzie," the youth had said and then, with a smile. "Enjoy yourself. The limousine will be waiting to take you back to your club when you've quite finished. Compliments of Mr. Sathanas."
So he seated himself on the circular hassock drawn up in front of the partition, and beyond had been a low white couch with a teenaged boy and girl lying on their sides facing each other. The girl had raven hair in a long thick pageboy, and wore only a flesh-colored bra and matching panties. She was not more than sixteen, but ripely and voluptuously developed. The youth facing her had curly brown hair, a lean wiry body, and he wore only his shorts, against the fly of which an enormous protuberance visibly thrust.
Edward McKenzie had watched, fascinated, for the young man had put his hand on the young girl's tittie and said in a soft caressing voice, "Sis, you know you want it bad, and the folks are gone away for a weekend, so come across. I've caught you diddling yourself with your finger lots of times, even in the bathroom and you know damned well I have."
"No, please, Art. It's wrong. And anyhow, I don't want to get a baby."
"Don't be square. I've got a safe. Here, I'll show you."
"No, please, Art, I don't want you to. Honest I don't!" the girl had said.
His pulses had began to race again, hearing this intimate dialogue between brother and sister. The boy had risen, his penis gigantically outlined by the taut, stretched shorts, and walked over to a mahogany dresser, opened the top drawer and taken out a package of condoms, drawn out one and, unbuttoning his shorts, adjusted the sheath over his long stiff bony cock. The girl had turned to watch, her eyes widening with fascination and curiosity. Then the youth had come back to the couch, taken her in his arms, his hands cupping her titties and his mouth nuzzling hers: "Come on, Sis, nothing to worry about now. You're just dying for it, you know you are. I'll bet your pussy's wet right this very instant with just wanting it."
"No-don't-I don't I don't want to-"
"See?" For stealthily, the youth had slid his hand under the legs of his sister's panties. And her sudden squirming contortions and her squeal indicated that his forefinger had found the secret nook of her cunt. "Hey, you're not even cherry, and all that talk you've been giving me about not wanting me to fuck you! Now you're going to get it good for holding me off so long, Nora!"
And then, before Edward McKenzie's dazzled eyes, the youth had ripped off his sister's panties, and pinned her down on the couch despite her twisting and wriggling, knead apart her thighs and thrust his bony appendage against the thickly furred niche of her quim and finally forced his way between the lips and hilted himself inside of her.
Then, almost miraculously her angry cries and tears had changed to an exquisitely rapturous sobbing affirmation of her bliss: "Oooooh, Art, honey, it's so good, take it easy, make it last-oooh, I didn't think you were this hard-it's so good-aahh!"
And suddenly she had clasped her arms around him, clamped her legs over his thighs, and begun to grind herself against him feverishly in the search for her own frantic appeasement.
He had not even seen the girl who had come in silently until suddenly he saw her kneeling before him. She could not have been more than fifteen, and she had a mischievous gamine-like face, with fluffy little straw-colored curls all around the top of her forehead, and a dainty snub nose and an impertinent rosebud of a mouth. She wore only a petticoat and sandals, and her naked titties were luscious young gourds with dainty pink buds and soft pale haloes circling them. Coyly she had looked up at him and had knelt down and whispered, "I'm Cora. I'm your girl tonight, if you want me."
He had hardly been able to tear his gaze away from the incestuous scene of fucking on the couch, and only stared at her saucy face and the nubile bubbies, his trembling fingers had reached out to cup them and he had hoarsely gasped, "How old are you, Cora?"
And the girl had giggled and whispered back, "Fifteen, but don't let that throw you, Daddy. I'm not cherry any more than Nora is. I'm her kid sister and Art was the one who took it, if you want to know something. Want me to start by sucking you off or just start getting you ready for a good hot screw, Daddy?"
He had glanced up at the one-way glass panel now, and he was shuddering as he saw the brunette rip off her bra with her own hands and glue herself to her brother's naked pumping body, rolling over until she came atop him, with his forefinger burrowed into her ass and moving rhythmically in and out to the same rhythm as his thrusting prick. "Yes, go ahead, French me, you sweet little bitch," he had panted and pretty Cora had nodded and giggled again and then crept between his straddled thighs, opened his fly and taken out his organ, and bent her pretty head and began noisily and deliciously to mouth his cocktip, framing it with her full soft moist red lips, then stabbing at the lips with her pointed little pink tongue until the world had exploded in chaotic ecstasy. And even then, through the miracle of the drug he had taken, he was still rigidly capable! What an incredible, enchanting night it had been ... for the next thing he had known, he was sitting on the hassock, with Cora straddling between his thighs and her back to him, his prick well up into her tender tight young cunt, his finger kneading her swelling young bubbies while his chin bore down against her satiny shoulder as he continued to watch the incestuous mating of her sister with her brother.....
The limousine was moving out on the freeway towards Long Island again, and Edward McKenzie remembered with a twinge of conscience that today was his daughter's birthday. Well, it couldn't be helped. Nothing mattered now, not even business, when Carlos Sathanas had called to tell him that he was expected at this new seance. For this was the third and last of his probationary visits. Then, the president of The Satan Club had intimated, he would learn what fee would be required of him and in return what inventive and prodigious spectacles might be prepared for his own secret pleasure. He leaned back in the luxuriously upholstered seat of the limousine, closed his eyes and thought to himself what fanciful scenes he would like to enact. Perhaps a series of historical tableaux, starting with the Rape of the Sabine women by the Roman soldiers. It would be amusing to wear a costume and to pretend to be carried back into antiquity when uninhibited lust was the law of life and death. And then perhaps something from the Inquisition of the Spain of Ferdinand and Isabella, with himself wearing the hood and cowl of a Grand Inquisitor putting the question to a naked patrician beauty upon the rack, with a heated brazier beside him and the irons turning white-hot to influence her confession. There would be a thousand and one delicious erotic joys which could be represented with such remarkable fidelity as The Satan Club had at its means. Why, that jungle picture alone would be thrilling to relive in the flesh, making himself a Congo warrior and raping a lovely white safari huntress. Only this time she would be white, and not a dirty little Puerto Rican girl like that Dolores, even though Dolores had really been sensational under his driving prong thrusts!
He had been all set to take Alice and Eleanor out tonight to 21 for her birthday, and he'd even bought a duplicate bracelet at Cartier's to match the one he'd given her for Christmas. But then, there had come the call to his office from Carlos Sathanas. And when he'd called home, frantically thinking what he was going to say by way of excuse, that damned uppity Creole bitch Cecilia had answered the phone and told him that "Mrs. McKenzie and Miss Eleanor had gone out for the day, sir, and they didn't say when they were coming back. I'm awfully sorry."
Well, it didn't matter anyhow. The best thing to do was to go to Alice in about a week or so and quietly get her to agree to a divorce. He'd make a good settlement and there wouldn't be any scandal in the papers. But as for Ellie, well, it was a damn shame, because he really did love that girl, but she was siding with her mother too much these days and she wasn't the same sweet girl who had always been his favorite. She was going on to college and getting nonsensical ideas about having a career of her own, so let her stew in her own juice. What the hell, she'd never want for anything. There was a trust fund in her name which she'd come into when she was twenty-one, and that was only two years away. Yes, it would be a shame to lose her, but now that he was a full-fledged member of The Satan Club, life was so much more thrilling. It was almost like Christmas, to go for a week or two and have the phone ring and be told that everything was planned for tonight and to know when you hung up that you could look ahead to unbridled rut with no legal consequences and no recriminations and no guilt.
But the most marvelous thing about it was that Carlos Sathanas was an absolute wizard when it came to finding the stimulants which could make a man keep a hard-on almost forever and without the least ill effects the next day. When he thought back on his debauchery in Tulsa, for instance, what a sick headache he'd had the day afterwards, and then compared it with the way he felt after these first two nights of lust, it was just unbelievable. No matter what the fee was, he'd pay it. After all, he was a millionaire several times over, and this last year had reached the highest profit peak since he had founded the McKenzie Mining Company.
He stared out of the window, but the dreary night let him see very little of the landscape. However, again, it appeared to be on a section of the highway which led toward the part of Long Island with which he wasn't too familiar. He wondered how Sathanas managed to find all these places and get them set up without any policemen snooping around. The man was evidently an artistic genius and a financial genius as well, it would appear. But then, with all those members paying an entry fee of ten grand, it was no wonder there was a handsome slush fund to dip into when things had to be set up elaborately.
The limousine stopped, and Nicholas got out and walked around to open the door for him. "We have arrived, Mr. McKenzie," he said politely. "You're to go right in. Mr. Sathanas will be there himself this evening."
"Thanks, Nicholas. By the way, how's chances about fixing me up with a date with your sister Dolores?"
The liveried chauffeur smiled politely: "I'm afraid not, Mr. McKenzie. It would be against the rules. You might ask Mr. Sathanas, though, because he has the final say. Enjoy yourself tonight, sir."
"Oh, I will, Nicholas, have no fear about that! Well anyhow, if you see that sexy sister of yours, tell her I've been dreaming about her." He gave the Puerto Rican a broad wink. Nicholas merely inclined his head and then got back into the limousine. Edward McKenzie shrugged and turned to stare at the house which would be rendezvous for the final probationary meeting of his apprenticeship.
It was a magnificently elaborate house, though he didn't recognize it. It appeared abandoned. There were no lights showing in any of the windows, and he frowned suspiciously for a moment. Then reassurance flooded him, thinking back on how unprepossessing that Greenwich Village house had been and yet what fabulous treasures of passionate ecstasy he'd discovered there. At least this fellow had style and imagination. It was even better than anything in Europe so far as he could judge. He walked up the stone steps and saw the brass knocker, and the figurine was that of a devil's head. He burst out laughing at the inventiveness of it, then seized the knocker and boldly struck it three times.
The door at once swung open, and Carlos Sathanas, in tuxedo and bowtie, stood there to welcome him with out-stretched hand. "Good evening, Mr. McKenzie. I've been looking forward to seeing you this time. I couldn't stay for the entire show last time, but I hope you enjoyed it."
"Sensational, Carlos, absolutely sensational. I've brought along my checkbook tonight, and you can write your own ticket. Is it true that after this performance, I can just about dictate to you what sort of thing I'd like to see in the future?"
"That's quite correct, Mr. McKenzie, just as I promised. But don't be premature. I want you to see what we have in store for you tonight and then judge for yourself if you really wish to be a permanent member. I warn you that the fee is somewhat high."
"That doesn't worry me in the least. I'd pay double or even triple the entry you wanted just to have just a few more nights such as the first two you've given me, I can tell you that, Carlos."
"You're most flattering, and I appreciate it all the more because I know your discriminating tastes in such matters, Mr. McKenzie. You feel physically fit this evening?"
"Never better."
"This evening, we're going to try a bit of cannabis, vulgarly known as Spanish fly, but I assure you that it's not at all the same thing. I've mixed this with a few of my own special chemicals discovered in South America, and I've tested it on a few of my regulars. They're most enthusiastic about it, and I think you will be too. It creates illusions in which the flesh as well as the mind participates with a superbly dynamic outlook. The meekest of men becomes a domineering master over the most tyrannical women once he imbibes this drug, Mr. McKenzie. But come along and you can see for yourself."
The man in the tuxedo took him by the hand and led him out of the little antechamber into the darkened living room and thence down the corridor. A vague memory stirred in Edward McKenzie's mind. It was strange, for this house was very much like his own in layout. Of course there weren't any lights on and he couldn't recognize anything, but there was the same kind of hallway from his living room in his own house. Well, it wasn't important, lots of houses in Long Island were built this same way. He wondered idly whose it really was.
"Now we'll go down to the basement, Mr. McKenzie. The ownership of this house has just been changed, and the new owner has been gracious enough to allow my friends and myself to use it for the time being until she can make final disposition of it. But I think it'll be most comfortable. Ah, here we are!"
They had gone down a narrow stairway, and Carlos Sathanas had reached out to the wall and turned on a light switch, and Edward McKenzie saw himself in a huge basement which had been converted into a recreation room. It was strange how much it resembled his own, except that there wasn't any bar-there was quite a large one in his place-and of course he couldn't really tell about the paneling on the walls because there were floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the walls on either side of him and behind him. But instead of the bar, there was another kind of low wooden platform stage and concealed by a black curtain, as the one in the basement of the old Greenwich Village had been. And drawn up before it was a huge armchair, curiously familiar, except that his favorite armchair at home was dark brown and this was blood-red. Beside the armchair at the right was a little tabouret on which was posed a bottle of Burgundy and a glass and a plate of little crackers covered with pate de fois gras.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Mr. McKenzie. Try that superb pate. Our own chef made it himself. You will find the cannabis-or rather the adaptation of it, as I explained to you-quite disguised and not at all unpalatable. If anything, it gives a certain spice to the pate which has its own charm. The Burgundy, I happen to know, is one of your own favorites, Corton Clos de Beze, and of the great year of 1959. Now if you will excuse me, I shall go to prepare the stage for the scene which I trust will please you."
He nodded mechanically as he eased himself into the chair. He uttered a sigh of utter comfort, reached for the bottle and poured himself a brimming glass, sipped it critically, and then smacked his lips. He reached for one of the little crackers and munched it thoughtfully, his eyes lighting at the savory appeal to his palate. He ate a second, and then a third, he drained his wine glass and then refilled it, and found to his pleasure that on the left side of the armchair was another tabouret on which was posed a box of his favorite Upmanns. He lit one, drew in the richly aromatic smoke through his nostrils, and sent a ring wafting towards the stone ceiling. Then, feeling alive and vibrant, feeling that wonderful gnawing advent of lust tauten his prick and make his balls twinge with the exquisite anticipatory knowledge of salacity, he leaned back, an eager spectator, ready in advance to enjoy and to relish.
And then suddenly the voice of Carlos Sathanas seemed to come out of nowhere, as if through a hidden loudspeaker somewhere in the basement: "And now, Mr. McKenzie, I trust you've thoroughly refreshed yourself and are ready to begin. I'm going to show you this evening a mother and a daughter of one of the best families in New York. They are quite thoroughly depraved and licentious, and their desires are most complex. Indeed, they are in your own social circle, and so to protect their identities for the moment, you'll see them masked-but otherwise unclad." There was a mild chuckle, then the voice resumed. "But this evening, since it is the last of the probationary sessions, I am going to ask that you grant me a favor. In order to assure yourself that you have never had such tremendous virility as when you first were accepted as a member of The Satan Club, I'm going to subject you to the torment of Tantalus. If you recall your mythology, Tantalus was bound to a pillar, starving and thirsty, and food and drink were held just beyond his reach, so that he agonized over the sweet frustration of what he longed for and yet could not have. However, with you, Mr. McKenzie, you shall have what you wish, but your appetites will be so deliciously aroused by the apparent temporary denial, that all the inhibitions, all the guilty hesitancies of your past life, will be cast aside and you will be the primal conquering male you have always seen yourself as being. If you agree, nod your head three times."
With a gasp, the mining engineer did so.
"Good! Two of my assistants will now prepare you for the torment of Tantalus," Carlos Sathanas concluded.
He heard the sound of footsteps, and turned his head. Two young men, dressed in red robes, masked and wearing sandals, were approaching. They smilingly bade him rise, and when he had done so, they began to undress him until he was naked. Then they politely requested him to seat himself again in the chair, and one of them touched a little button behind the back. At once a steel band circled his belly and tightened around him, while the other masked assistant, crouching in front of him, touched the base of each front leg. From it sprang at once a metal gyve fixed to a flexible little steel wand, and each of these gyves was locked round his ankles. His arms, which were laid along the arms of the chair, were similarly gyved, once the hidden mechanism had made emerge these wands at whose ends round metal bracelets were affixed.
Both youths bowed to him and thanked him for his cooperation, and then left the room.
Once more the voice of Carlos Sathanas was heard: "And now, Mr. McKenzie, if you have read Octave Mirbeau's Torture Garden, you may recognize my next little nuance. You will recall that the heroine Clara tells her lover that she wishes to see a Chinese criminal executed by the torture of the caress. But have no fear, your death is not at all sought.
"A charming and most talented girl will enter this room shortly, and caress you with lips and tongue, with her body and with such artifices as the feather of a rare bird. This will be done while you watch the spectacle I have prepared for you. I promise you that until this moment, the sensations you have heretofore experienced will be as nothing to what I know you are about to enjoy. I wish you pleasure such as you have already given me."
Then again he heard the sound of footsteps, but these were footsteps of naked feet upon the floor. He turned his head, and he gasped as he saw a brown-skinned naked girl approach, her thick black hair falling below her shoulder blades, her face sullen and sensual, with high-set cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, a somewhat squat but sensuous nose. The thick black triangle of her cunt, the muscular rippling of her fleshy thighs, the flat smooth belly with its wide shallow kiss-dimple, and the bold jutting gourds of heavy-nippled titties made his mouth water with lust, made his prick stand and throb with savage longing.
Thrust through her hair at the top of her head was a gray feather, long and fleecy. She said not a word as she came to face him, and then dropped to her knees and crawled towards him. Placing her hands on his knees, she put her lips to the tip of his prick and breathed against it. He uttered a sobbing groan, for he felt the most exquisite torment, and the yearning to fuck was overpowering.
And then the curtain was suddenly drawn to one side and he uttered a cry. There was a low white couch and on it lay a brown-haired woman, stark naked save for a red Venetian facemask, and over her crouched a lovely mulatto who, her hands gripping the matron's milky buttocks, plunged her tongue deep into the matron's cunt while her white lover solaced her in kind. And just beyond the foot of the couch was a low ottoman, on which, on her back, a naked auburn-haired girl lay, she too wearing a mask, and she was reaching up to fondle the head of a young black-maned police dog who, standing on its hind legs, and mounting over her, was thrusting its bony red dart into her quim.
His jaw dropped and his eyes were glassy as he tried to rise, but he could not. The girl ... that dog. ... that mulatto ... that woman beneath her
The naked brown-skinned girl kneeling before him had taken the feather from her head and was beginning to tickle his testicles, and he felt them jerk convulsively to each feathery touch.
Then he heard the young girl call out in a husky, sobbing voice, "Ohh, Prince, ooh, sweetheart, give it to me harder, oh stick it into Elbe's hot cunt, she needs it so!"
He uttered a shriek of horror, and with all his might he strained at the steel bonds that locked him to the chair of Tantalus.
And then he heard the voice of Carlos Sathanas as for the first time, mocking, menacing, taunting: "Yes, Mr. McKenzie, your powers of perception, as I told you they would be, are remarkably keen. The drug has helped, to be sure. It is your daughter with the young police dog, just as you thought. And your wife has found in her new Creole maid the most attentive and expert of lovers, which is why she has agreed to leave you. And since the house is in her name, a legal transaction which you may recall you yourself completed some years ago, it was her decision to lease it to me in return for the many favors I have done her and her charming daughter."
"Aaaahhhh-oh Christ-how are you-oh God-stop them-why-" he gurgled, his face enpurpling, while the naked girl continued to tickle his prick and balls with her feathery plume.
"You are curious, Mr. McKenzie, as to how this happened, I'm sure. But you have the answer before you-a man of your perception, surely, has a long memory, or at least when it suits him to have one. Look at the girl who is bestowing upon you the sweet torment of Tantalus, Mr. McKenzie. Don't you recognize her? Isn't she amazingly like Tiama?"
Now, unable to speak, the mining engineer, breathing hoarsely, stared down at the crouching naked brown-skinned girl. Then he uttered a mad shriek, and again tried to wrench himself free of the steel bonds which bit against his belly, wrists and ankles.
"I see you recognize her. Yes, very much like Tiama. It took me some time to find a girl who would look like the Tiama of twenty years ago, but I found her in a little Chilean village not far from our mine, Mr. McKenzie. The mine in which you left me for dead, as you recall."
Edward McKenzie's head rose, his jowls shaking, his eyes supremely dilated, bloodshot, the pupils exaggeratedly bright and distended; he tried to speak, but only inhuman sounds emerged.
"I was very fortunate. I had gone behind a little ledge when your dynamite cap exploded, but I was badly mangled and scarred.
"Tiama, the girl who was in my tent and from whom you wanted and couldn't have, helped save me. She brought some of the men from her village and they dragged me out while you slept in your drunken triumphant stupor. That is why my body was never found. It took me a year to recover, and then I had plastic surgery and new teeth, but my hair turned white, and small wonder it was. I went back to Chile, and this time I found an even richer mine than you, and again it was the men of Tiama's tribe who led me to it and I managed to get most of it out without giving the government a penny. And then I began my revenge, Mr. McKenzie. I asked myself how I should pay you back for your treachery when I had never done anything to harm you, and I found the way, through your own lusts and avarice and selfishness."
Edward McKenzie's head fell back, his eyes rolling in their sockets, for by now the brown-skinned girl had taken his cock into her mouth and was rubbing her tongue insistently against the meatus' tautened side.
"I made inquiries and I bribed servants and I learned that your wife and your daughter were not happy with the life to which you had consigned them. I followed you on your pilgrimages in search of passion, Mr. McKenzie, I was there in Tulsa at the house of Madame Lucille. I learned from the quadroon Betsy that you had little manhood left, but an unreasoning lust to watch, to spy and to imagine yourself as the heroic lover. And that was all of the same pattern, for I'm sure that you must have seen me with Tiama and there began your very ruin. The Chinese have a proverb, Mr. McKenzie, that every man contains within himself the seeds of his own destruction. It's most apt, don't you think? I see that Lura is beginning to excite you. Relax, you can't escape the bonds, and the torture becomes more delicious when you know this. Don't take your eyes from the stage, Mr. McKenzie, but listen as I tell you who I am and what I have done to you to pay you back."
Edward McKenzie again frenziedly hurled himself against his bonds, then fell back, panting and groaning, his windpipe feeling choked, the cords of his throat standing out against the sweating skin. His prick was gigantic now, and the rut-urge was overpowering, and yet the sap would not spurt into this naked bitch's mouth. And yet she sucked and tongued him, and now her feather was fleeting along his straining inner thighs, and he was going mad with it, and he was dying, and yet that voice came to him again:
"I learned who your wife's favorite hairdresser was, Mr. McKenzie. And I paid him a great deal of money to hire a most talented young woman by the name of Helga. It was she who taught your wife the sweet joy of love between women such as you see enacted on that couch now by that lovely masked brown-haired matron. Your Alice, Mr. McKenzie. And Helga, once having won favor in Alice's eyes, was able to recommend a dear young friend, yes, the charming Cecilia, who is at present as you can see for yourself rousing Alice to the heights of bliss, to such an extent that she will never want to sleep with a man again. And finally, since you yourself must know by now the potency of these exotic drugs at my command, it was Cecilia who dosed your wife and daughter's food and drink so as to bring them to a physical awareness of themselves, which they had not dreamed they possessed. That is how, for instance, your lovely daughter fell so head over heels in love with Prince, Cecilia's well-trained dog."
Edward McKenzie found his voice and began to shriek wordlessly, but the hellish, obscene action on the stage went on as if he were not there and not a sound of his cries seemed to be heard by the oblivious participants on that infernal stage.
And then, for the last time that his mind was to accept and understand the word of his own kind, Edward McKenzie heard the mocking voice exclaim: "Yes, Mr. McKenzie, you have just now passed your probationary period and are now a full-fledged member of The Satan Club. And now I, Carl Gallert, renounce the stage name of Carlos Sathanas and I declare The Satan Club dissolved forever."
And then there was no more, only the mewling and whimpering of a naked man bound to an upholstered chair, struggling, his face a twisted mask, his reason gone. And long after the Indian girl, the dog and the auburn-haired young girl, the mulatto and the milky-skinned brown-haired matron had disappeared from the basement of Edward McKenzie's Long Island house, he continued to stare unseeingly at that stage where all his life had collapsed about him.
