To the outside world, the Treacher Camp for Girls was an ideal summer institution, situated as it was in the pine-covered mountains sixty miles east of Los Angeles. Even its one notable difference from similar camps for daughters of the well to do-the inclusion among its girls of a few carefully culled "problem" teenage troublemakers-gave it added luster as serving a noble social purpose.
What the outside world did not know was that the supervisor, a sleek and successful woman Hollywood flesh-peddler who generously donated her time and talents, was a dedicated sexual pervert ... or that the handsome head of the boys' camp nearby was a practiced seducer of teenage girls.
It was a dynamite-laden situation that could not endure ... and the stirring personal dramas, hot-blooded and poignant, that lead to a cataclysmic explosion are the basis of the most exciting and stimulating story Mr. Stevens has yet written...
CHAPTER ONE
It was June, a time of long days and short nights, a time to shrug off the confining work of the long winter and spring, a time to be restless, a time to dream...
Sandra's eyes stared at the Economics text, dutifully obeying their owner's command, but they did not see. The words unrolled facts and figures about the Depression of the Thirties, the effects of the Civil War on the South's economy, U.S. tariff laws and countless other bits of intelligence. But the messages were not relayed from her eyes to her brain.
She sat lazily at the small window-desk, her elbows propping her chin. From time to time, she caught herself staring down at the quiet street with its murmur of traffic and its newly green trees and shrubs.
Sighing, she forced her gaze back to the book, a wheat-production chart swimming under her eyes. Damn! she thought. Why was she caught with such a late final? Already the apartments were half empty, and even at that moment she could hear someone in the hall wrestling with boxes, moving out.
She sighed. Two more days, and Professor For-sythe and Econ 121-B would be out of her mind for at least three months. In two days she would be free, but free to do what?
Of course she had tried to make plans. Her parents had begged her to come home for the summer, her father had promised her a job in the mill. But she had no intention of letting them gather her back into the fold, especially after she had deliberately selected a university a thousand miles away. Sandra wanted freedom, and she was getting it.
Then there was Bobby. If he had his way she'd spend her summer in Los Angeles, right in her own little apartment, either picking up a few extra credits at summer school or working at any dull job she might manage to find at this late date. The chances of obtaining work in the city were terribly slim, anyhow, since thousands of others had already snapped them up.
But Bobby didn't care about that. He didn't want his girl to stray off to some place where their cozy relationship might be threatened. He was as grasping as her parents, always worried about her leaving, always wanting her to settle down, to be patient, not to rock the boat.
Sandra had tried mightily to break away from the lure of her parents, from Bobby and from the dull routine of a tiny apartment in Westwood, just a few blocks from the campus.
She had written letters all spring, offering her talent and training as a junior in college to national parks, private resorts, camps and lodges up and down the coast. All of them, it seemed, had filled their summer employee rosters long before Sandra decided to make herself available.
Now, she thought, she was stuck-condemned either to Bobby or to her parents until September. September ... that month held no excitement, either. True, it would mark the beginning of her final year, but it would be a long year, for she was fed up with college.
More classes, more books, more giggling girlfriends, more adolescent boys anxious to pet in cars, at the beach or-heaven forbid!-in her own apartment. Sandra had outgrown life on the campus. That was why she had hoped to get away to the mountains somewhere, where she could get rid of the crowd, could think ahead.
Now her thoughts were on the more distant future, on life after college, on her career. She had to smile at the thought. Her career ... that was a joke. She had run against a stone wall in her efforts to get a start, to find a foothold in her chosen field. She had known it would be difficult, but she had somehow thought that, when producers and agents saw her looks and her talent, they would be delighted to give her a tryout.
The most encouraging thing she had heard was, "Don't rush your career, sweetheart. Finish school, knock around the sticks a few years, then come back. Maybe, just maybe, then we'll have something for you."
If that was the way it was going to be, she certainly wasn't going to stop living in the meantime. No, sir-Sandra Albright was going to have fun, excitement, new experiences which would enrich her natural talent ...
She took a deep breath, glancing at her watch. Meanwhile, Sarah Bernhardt, you've got a date with Bobby tonight and with Professor Forsythe the day after tomorrow, she told herself. She snapped the book closed and shoved back her chair, getting up and stretching. Her date would be around in a half hour. It was time she did something to wake herself up.
She opened her closet door so she could peer into the full-length mirror. A pretty girl looked back at her-a girl with long, dark hair, dark eyes which seemed to search the face of everyone they looked at, a short nose and a stubbornly firm chin. The mouth was turned down as a result of four hours with an Economics book, but it was a generous mouth with full lips which had a rich, natural redness.
"You look good enough to me," she said, the loudness of her voice startling her after so long alone. "I don't know why the princes of stage, screen and television aren't pounding on your door."
She wore stretch-pants and a bulky sweatshirt. Half turning, she examined the profile of her bottom, liking its proper fullness and its youthful tilt. She knew Bobby liked it, too. She had had to slap away his hand often enough.
She pulled at her sweatshirt, stretching it over her breasts so she could read the UCLA letters and see the university seal. Her breasts pressed forward, high, full and hard, yet half-smothered under the thick folds.
She crossed her wrists and pulled the sweatshirt over her head, sending her hair every which way. She smoothed it and then looked at herself again. Yes, that was better. Encased in only a brassiere, her breasts looked good. She was proud of them. In her wilder moments, Sandra often wished she could go about in bra and panties, confident that she looked her best when her natural beauty was exposed.
Her skin was deeply tanned from long afternoons at the beach with Bobby. Her shoulders were soft, rounded, inviting, and her tummy was flat and smooth with just a whispering trail of fine, light hairs below her navel.
She pulled at snaps and a zipper and zigzagged out of her stretch-pants, kicking them to the bed. She ran her hands over her slim, curving hips, fingering the sheerness of her panties.
She was a tall girl. Her legs were long and straight, tanned and athletic in appearance. Firm, youthful, strong in the thighs, tapering to slim ankles.
Despite her twenty-one years, despite her willowy, leggy appeal to boys from the time she was fifteen, despite her own warm-blooded compassion and passion, Sandra could still call her body her own. She had never given it to anyone. There had been times through the years when things had almost happened.
There was the boy next door, a hot summer afternoon and the mysterious privacy of his garage. They had explored one another to the accompanimerit of giggles and Sandra had felt a new heat deep inside her adolescent body, but the boy had been mercifully ignorant of the procedures of love and sex.
There had been the high-school halfback, a heavy, stocky youth, who had boasted of his "scores" with a dozen or more girls in their senior class. He might have added Sandra to his list, for her knees weakened when his hands touched her body. But he made the mistake of comparing her thighs with the thighs of several of her girl friends. She was able to close them to him in time.
Then there was Bobby. He had also come close, but he was such an adolescent, such a fumbler! There were times when Sandra wanted to scream at him to take her, to stop his playing, his begging. In short, she wanted him to be a man-masterful, possessive, taking, not asking.
Bobby, although he was Sandra's age, seemed years behind her in maturity. While she had studied worldly subjects like Philosophy, Literature, Logic and Drama, he had buried his nose in his Engineering texts, oblivious to the fast-changing world about them. He was a good person, butagain she sighed-so terribly dull, dull, dull.
As dull as everything about her, she thought, glancing around the room. She had space for a bed, a dresser, a desk and two chairs. A door led to a tiny kitchen and bath. And this, she sighed, had been her life for the past three years.
Dull, dull, dull ... She wanted to scream.
The sound was familiar, and she went to the window, keeping as far back as possible, but peering between the curtains. It was Bobby's aging Ford pulling up to the curb. Then he was leaping out. Of course he didn't wear a necktie, only his usual sport shirt and slacks, which needed pressing.
Sandra moved away from the window and stood waiting, wondering at the wild thoughts which went through her head. What madness was this, standing in the middle of the room, behind an unlocked door, waiting? She looked down at herself, clad only in panties and a brassiere-a bra which seemed to grow fuller and heavier with her thoughts.
She heard him coming up the hall, his footsteps slowing and then stopping. Suppose, through some impulse, he simply opened the door and walked inside. What would she do? She smiled, sucking her lip. It would depend on what he did. But-her shoulders slumped-she knew he wouldn't throw open the door. Not Bobby.
The knock came, and he called her name.
Of course, she could simply call back, "Come in," and see what happened. Again she looked down at herself, wondering if the sight of her like this would ignite him into instant action. She wanted to find out.
But she remembered who she was. She was Sandra Albright, the beautiful daughter of the Hector Albrights of Florence, Oregon, and she would do nothing to shame them. Not here. Not now.
"Just a minute!" she called at last, going to the closet. She pulled out a wrapper and put it on, tying it tightly at her waist, careful to leave a generous expanse of skin exposed at her throat.
She opened the door wide, standing before him, her feet bare, wondering if he could see through her silhouette. "Good evening, Robert," she said with ludicrous formality.
He came in and turned, looking at her, and she fastened her dark, penetrating eyes on his. He was a freckle-faced young man with curly, blonde hair, only an inch taller than Sandra. "Hi," he managed to blurt, a silly grin on his lips.
She closed the door, seeing a look something like alarm cross his face. Good heavens! The greedy ape was frightened. She knew he wanted her. He had tried often enough. But when the time and the place were all too obvious, he turned into a fleeing chicken.
He fled now, going to her desk and sitting down. He fingered her book. "Been hitting it for good old 121-B?"
She went to the bed and climbed on it, sitting at the head, her back against the board. She tucked her feet under her, arranging the wrapper over her legs. "Awful stuff," she complained. After a minute she added, "How was the beach?"
"Crowded and hot. Everybody in school was there."
She thought of the sand and the surf and her delightful bikini, and the late final exam angered her all over again. "When do you start work-Monday?"
He nodded, looking over the desk, then at her. "How about you? No mail again today?"
"No letter today," she sang, picking up the tune of an old song. She smirked. "Perhaps I'll become a streetwalker for the summer."
"Sandy!"
"Why not? They say it's good money. You think I'm worth a hundred dollars a night, Bobby?"
"You're not very funny." He reached into his shirt pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes. She watched him strike a match, light his cigarette and then inhale, struggling to keep from coughing.
"Throw me the pack, huh?"
He looked at her again and, as he did so, she moved her knee almost unconsciously so that the wrapper fell aside. Knee and thigh peeked out but, what the hell, the whole world saw a great deal more of her when she wore her bikini. What was so different about this? Plenty, girl, an inner voice told her.
"I don't think much of your smoking," he muttered.
She had to laugh. "You're not much good at it yourself, Humphrey Bogart." She scrambled from the bed, showing him the full length of her legs, and brought the other chair to the desk. She set it across from him and sat down, picking up the cigarettes.
She placed one between her lips and leaned forward, waiting, letting her wrapper fall open so he could see into the top of her brassiere. He struck a match, and it wavered as his eyes slid down her throat into the deep, waiting valley.
She got her light and blew the smoke to one side, pulling the wrapper about her again. "Perhaps," she said, deliberately wanting to upset him for some devilish reason, "I should just chuck it all and go home. At least I'd have free board and room."
He shook his head. "What a drag that would be! I hear they're looking for some senior arts people at the library. Part-time work all the way through summer school."
"Goody!" she said, her voice flat. "It has all the excitement of the life of a museum guard." She flicked her fingers over the back of his hand until he pulled it away. Then she flicked the same fingers at the throat of her wrapper, hearing the fabric whisper. He was watching again. "What marvelous excursion have you planned for tonight, Robert?"
"Don't call me Robert!" he snapped, surprising her. "I don't like you making fun of me and everything I do. If I bore you too much, say the word, and I'll pull out. Maybe you'd like me to send over one of the other guys from the dorm."
Abruptly, Sandra was contrite. He was right, of course. She was being a spoiled, bored, unhappy little girl, taking out her frustrations on him. She reached for his hand again, lifting it to her lips, kissing it.
Now he was embarrassed. "I'm sorry as hell, Sandy, but I sure don't want to lose you for three months. Why don't you see them at the library? It's better than working in some lousy amusement park, at least."
She smiled, turning on a real, warm smile, and she saw his resentment melt. "Perhaps I will. The mailman has let me down for weeks now. How I hate myself when I take it out on you!" She sat up, her eyes bright. "Now, what's on tonight's agenda?"
As it turned out, Bobby had very little on his agenda. So they looked through the papers for a while and finally picked what looked like the least boring activity. It was nearby and inexpensive. Sandra shooed Bobby out of her room and shimmied into a pretty summer dress, anyway. Perhaps he would be the only person to see it, but she wanted to feel like a woman, not a tomboy.
So now she sat, her back wedged into the corner of the front seat, her feet tucked under her. She watched the gigantic figure of Kirk Douglas march across the screen and lift Debra Paget down from a wall somewhere in Spain. He put his arms around her and kissed her.
Sandra stirred, looking across at Bobby. He was slouched against the door, his foot up on the edge of the seat, his hand propped under his chin. His eyes followed the action with heavy-lidded interest.
She slid across the seat until her shoulder touched his. He looked down at her, smiled, and looked back at the screen. Tracing her finger lightly over the back of his hand, she whispered, "I'm sorry about being so nasty at the apartment."
"Forget it," he muttered.
She took his arm and draped it around her shoulders, clutching his hand. "I'm so frustrated I've bitched at all my friends the past two weeks."
He looked down at her, touching her cheek. "Don't say 'bitched.' It sounds lousy coming from those lips."
She grinned and turned her face, catching his finger between her teeth. She bit gently and her tongue played with the tip of the finger.
"Hey!" he whispered, straightening, putting his foot back on the floor. "What's going on here?"
She pulled harder at the hand which hung over her shoulders. "What would you like to have going on, slugger?"
He leaned his head down and kissed her lightly on the mouth. At the same time she pressed the back of his hand until it touched her breast. She felt him stiffen, then his fingers closed around her softness, squeezing lightly. She felt her own body stiffen.
He stopped, and the hand hesitated and then removed itself from her breast. She opened her eyes, looking into his face, seeing his indecision, his need for encouragement. Poor little boy!
Biting back a sarcastic complaint, she said instead, "Say, tiger, you come on strong."
She placed her lips on the side of his neck, just under his ear, and felt a shudder roll through him again. His hand returned to the breast, pumping until she felt it swell inside her bra. She pushed lightly at the hand, urging it to the valley between her breasts and it fell into the deep cleft, wiggling softly under the tight edge of her brassiere.
The fingers fought for room, worming deeper, and Sandra wanted to remind him of the buttons which paraded down her front and about the catch at the back of her brassiere. But he worked hard, and at last a forefinger poised and then dug at the tip of her breast.
It hurt for a moment. Bobby was so clumsy! But she liked it, needed it, and the nipple tried to stiffen, to jerk alert, to dig right back at him...
"Coffee, ice cream tonight, folks?"
They jumped as though a bucket of ice-water had been thrown over them, and Bobby's hand shot back to his lap.
Sandra breathed deeply and looked out at the grinning vendor who stooped, peering in their window. His eyes danced with mischief as though he had seen something. His white cap was cocked at a rakish angle.
"What did you say?" Bobby blurted.
"Forget him," Sandra snapped, straightening, moving her shoulders to seat her breasts properly once again. "Tell him we're going some place where they serve more than coffee and ice cream."
Bobby looked at her, his nose wrinkled. "Huh?"
She snuggled against him, ignoring the still staring vendor. "Come on," she whispered, her fingers jingling the keys in the ignition. "Let's go back to the apartment. Kirk and Debra can survive without
CHAPTER TWO
What was she doing? Sandra asked herself this question, time and again, all the way back to her apartment. Was she inviting Bobby to seduce her? Of course she was. But why, all of a sudden? Why this rush to lose her virginity?
Was it because school was almost over, and she was relaxing after months of frustrating challenges? Was it the warm weather? Was it because she was restless, anxious for change?
Perhaps, she thought, it was merely because she had recently passed her twenty-first birthday. This made her an adult woman and, perhaps, it was only proper that an adult woman should have an adult affair. The time for puppy love and drive-in theater petting was over.
Whatever the cause, Sandra's body was stirring as she unlocked her door and walked in ahead of Bobby. She switched on the light and pulled the drapes, conscious of a tiny twitching of muscle or nerve deeply inside her. When she walked she felt her thighs brush together lightly, and somehow this excited her still more.
She turned and glanced at Bobby, who stood rooted in the center of the crowded room, staring at her as though she had lured him to the end of a one-way plank aboard a pirate ship.
Usually at this point, the woman said something about slipping into a more comfortable outfit, she thought, but she had gone through that routine before they went out. Instead, she waved awkwardly toward the kitchen. "There's beer in the refrigerator."
He left her, and she heard him open the door. There was the clatter of the can on the sink, and then the snap as he pulled off the tab top. He came back with a glass for her while he sucked the foam from the top of a can.
Walking stiffly, he sat down at her desk and placed the can before him. He studied it a minute and then, without raising his eyes, muttered, "How come you're acting so funny tonight?"
Although Sandra had asked herself the same question, it angered her when it came from him. "How in heaven's name do you expect me to act?" she snapped. "Like your sister?"
"Aw, golly, Sand-"
"And you can stop that juvenile 'aw, golly' talk this instant," she continued, her voice snapping at him. She folded her arms, pacing the room, her fingers drumming on her elbows. "You're a senior in college and still talking like a junior high school boy. Why don't you grow up, Bobby Williamson?"
He was silent for several minutes, at first watching her pace and then studying his beer can again. His eyes were half closed and his mouth pulled down as that he looked like a sullen little boy. How, she wondered, did a woman explain her frustration to a man? How did she goad him into action without playing the role of an on-the-make tart?
She stood behind his chair, draping her arms over his shoulders, leaning down to rest her chin against his hair. "I'm sorry about the tantrum, honey. I guess it's the heat, or worrying about my last final, or wondering about the summer. Whatever it is, I've no right to be so bitchy."
He reached up and placed his hand against the side of her neck. Then she leaned closer, letting her breasts touch his shoulders and flatten their warmth against him. Seemingly without purpose, her hands twisted against his chest, thrusting inside his shirt and whispering against his skin.
"Sandy," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet.
"Yes?" She waited.
"I ... I think it might be a good idea for me to go." He shuddered. "If I don't get out of here fast..."
She stiffened and pulled away, jerking her hands free. "Perhaps that's the best idea you've had all night." Her voice was like shattering ice crystals. "Why don't you run home to mother? Then you can cry yourself to sleep in your own little bed."
"Come on, Sandy," he pleaded. "You know how I feel about you. You're my girl!"
"Really?" She watched him get up, her head cocked and her fists on her hips. "I thought I was your twin sister. You know, the kind of person you take fishing and hiking and to stock-car races. Real buddies, that's us!"
She never saw his arm come up, but she heard and felt the slap. The sharp sting made her whole face numb for an instant, then there was only the tingling in her cheek. She put her hand to the spot, rubbing it lightly, her eyes wide, staring at him with unfamiliar awe.
Then he was close to her, putting his arm around her shoulder, removing her hand so he could examine her cheek. With small, meaningless murmurs, he kissed the place where he'd struck her, his lips moving all around the spot until he discovered her lips.
Her arms went around his neck and they clung, their lips tight and hard against one another, their breathing loud. She turned her face, breaking the kiss, but her hips were fastened against his body, jabbing at him without conscious instructions from her brain.
She pulled away then and, clutching his hand, marched to the bed and sat down, urging him down at her side. Still holding his hand, she placed it between her knees, again without thinking. It was an impulse.
His hand became alive, the fingers working, worming against her thighs. She breathed deeply and let herself fall back, her eyes closed, her breasts trembling like threatening volcanoes.
His hand worked on and suddenly she wanted to stop it. She commanded her own hand to dash to the rescue, to save her thighs from being invaded further, to halt his steady advance toward her loins.
She tried, but she could not. No, Sandra, she whispered urgently. It's not right. You mustn't. But you led him on. You begged him to do what he's doing. It's too late...
His hand froze at the knocking and she sat up as though a gun had exploded close to her ear. They looked stupidly at one another a moment, their eyes shooting urgent messages.
"What is it?" she called at last, straightening her dress while Bobby retreated to the desk, sitting down heavily.
"It's me!" a girl's voice called. It was Wendy, a friend from down the hall. "Something came for you."
Sandra breathed deeply and blew out her cheeks while she went to the door. She opened it and Wendy handed her a scrap of paper. "Western Union called on the hall phone while you were out. I told them I was you, so they'd leave the message; I hope you doh't mind. It's all there." She leaned past Sandra and saw Bobby, waggling her fingers.
Bobby, who had met her several times during the year, waggled back.
"That's fine," Sandra said, clutching the paper, her heart rising in her throat. "Thanks a lot."
"Sure, sweetie," Wendy called, retreating down the hall. "And congratulations. It's good news at last."
Sandra closed the door and leaned against it, half afraid to read the message. She gazed at Bobby, not really seeing him, yet thankful that Wendy had come in time. Then she unfolded the paper and read it.
Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls has last-minute opening for counselor due to illness. If interested please call Los Angeles office prepared to report for duties at San Jacinto Mountains campsite Monday morning, June 20.
Hester St. Claire, Supervisor
Sandra closed her eyes for a moment, hugging the message to her breast. She swallowed rapidly.
"So you got a job after all!" Bobby's voice was low, morose, defeated. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Now you won't need me for the rest of the summer. You'll be going off some place."
"I will be leaving town," she breathed.
"And I'll be the forgotten man."
"Bobby, you know that's nonsense!" But as she said the words, her eyes danced, and she had a hunch Bobby was right.
* * *
Candy Simms dragged on the cigarette, letting the smoke penetrate deeply into her lungs. She held it there for the better part of a minute and then let it trail through her nose.
She could feel the abrupt sharpening of her senses, the strange prickling sensation passing across the top of her head as though she were being blessed with a sudden bonanza of brains and perception.
Other senses were heightened, too. Pot, she told herself, stimulated a great deal more than a girl's ability to figure long division in her head. She was conscious of herself as a woman, conscious of her body.
She placed the cigarette on the tin ashtray which had Sportsman's Tap Room printed across its bottom in stained white letters. Then she knelt beside her canvas cot and pulled one of the cardboard boxes from under it. She rummaged among the clothing and found the bathing suit.
She took it across the tiny room to the large chipped mirror nailed to the wall. She stood before the glass, peering at herself through heavy printing which advertised a central Los Angeles brewery.
She saw a spectacularly pretty teen-ager standing under a mass of fluffy, champagne blonde hair. She had a pouty face with provocative eyes and mouth and a figure which was the object of a great deal of attention because of its extravagant curves, dips and peaks.
"Let's face it, Candy honey," she murmured, winking at her naked body. "You got it where it does the most good."
She giggled, enjoying the cigarette immensely, and ran her hands the length of her body. Her fingers roamed over her high, pointed breasts, loving their responsive tingle. She could almost join her fingers around her middle, so tiny was her waist. She had the hips of a woman and, she boasted to the mirror, she knew how to use them. Her legs were the legs of an athlete, of a strong girl who could outrun or outfight most of the boys at high school.
Again she snickered. It was lucky she was fast and tough. Depending on her mood, she had either had to outrun or outright almost every boy in her class. Some, of course, she did not run away from and, if she fought them, it was only a feeble fight designed to heighten their desire for the conquest.
She dropped a piece of the tiny red bikini to the floor and shimmied into the bottom half, tugging it up over her thighs and settling it between her legs and over her saucy bottom. Then she put on the top, stretching it carefully over the dart-like tips of her breasts, loving the way her proud twins bulged above and below the thin band of cloth.
She was inspecting herself, turning this way and that to glory in her own profile, when she saw the movement behind her. Immediately, she thought of the cigarette on the battered table and whirled.
Her father stood in the doorway, his eyes darting from her to the cigarette. He wore heavy work-shoes, a greasy pair of khaki pants and a sleeveless undershirt with yellow stains down its front. His stomach rolled over the top of the trousers and his sagging belly had long since snapped off the top buttons.
He held a can of beer in his hand and, as Candy watched, ready to jump like a cat, he belched. She could smell the yeasty belch. She could smell him.
He moved at last and, although Candy was faster, he was closer to the table. His fingers closed over the cigarette an instant ahead of hers. At the same time, one of his shoes came down on her bare foot, and the beer can slammed on the table, pinning her reaching hand.
He pressed with shoe and beer can, making her wince. He grinned so that the gaps from missing teeth showed in his mouth. "Hidin' the stuff from your old dad again, you little snot-nose!" he barked, his face close to hers, his weight hurting her.
"Get your crummy hand off that cigarette," she snarled back at him. "You got no right at all ... "
"Who's got no right?" He laughed and put the cigarette between his puffy lips. The smell of stale beer and dried perspiration was like acid fumes to her nose, and she made a face. "What's the matter, missy? Ain't you a family girl, the way your maw always wanted?"
She watched him inhale, and the precious cigarette shrank by a quarter of an inch. "Gimme that!" she cried, reaching.
He held it behind him, making her fall against him. She hated it when her body touched his. He put the thing back in his mouth and placed his hand on her breast, shoving her so that she lurched back against the table, her hand and foot still pinned.
He looked down at her body, and something was kindled deep in his small eyes. "Why, you look like a cheap whore!" he blurted. "You goin' some place to sell it tonight?"
"None of your business!"
"I'm your father!" he shouted, his face close to hers. She could see the bristles on his chin, black and ugly against the pasty skin. "If your mother was here, she'd warm your little ass good." At that he snickered, obviously enjoying the pot. "But your mother ain't here, is she, Miss Boobs?"
He reached behind her, sinking his fingers into her buttocks and pulling her against him. His breath rattled in his throat, and he leered. "Maybe you ought to give your father a sample before you put it on the market."
"Get your slimy paws off me!" she cried, trying to twist away.
She half-turned her body, and his arm slid up across her breasts, pulling at them until the bikini-bra slipped down, letting them ride high, free and naked to his gaze. She watched his dirty fingernails nip at the end of a nipple, and a shudder of revulsion went through her, stronger even than the pain from his foot or the beer can.
In a lightning movement, she dipped her chin and caught one of the fingers between her teeth, biting hard, tasting blood immediately.
He screamed and jerked his body away from her, freeing her hand and foot. But she held on, grinding to the bone, feeling the blood begin to run down her chin. She hoped she wouldn't be sick.
He jerked away from the door, and the cigarette dropped to the floor and so she let go. He stumbled backward across the room, lurching heavily onto the cot, snapping its wooden legs. Everything went to the floor in a heap, and her things in the boxes under the cot were scattered.
Candy stooped, snatched up the cigarette and ran, scampering through the kitchen and out the screen door. It didn't slam behind her until she was halfway down the long flight of steps to the street. At the bottom she stopped, placing the cigarette to her lips and drawing on it. Never had she needed pot so badly.
She heard the car then, its tires squealing as it slammed around the corner. She remembered and, looking down at herself, she tugged the bikini up over her breasts, stuffing them in as best she could. She dragged again on the cigarette, and her fingers burned, so she dropped it into the gutter just as the car pulled up.
She jerked open the rear door of the battered fifteen-year-old Chewy, and leaped into the back seat. As they roared away from the curb, she looked up the flight of stairs to the screen door. Her father's silhouette was against the light, his beer belly giving him the shape of an egg.
CHAPTER THREE
The wood fire, trapped inside its ring of concrete, had given up the struggle, and its flames had faded to a mound of glowing coals which cast the only light on the beach.
The faces were in shadow, mostly, with red highlights from the fire, so that they looked like Indians. There were eight or ten of them, three girls, the others boys, all from the high school.
The year was over, another lousy term had ended. In another year, she'd be free, unless she quit before then. She wanted out now, but they practically broke down and cried at school when anybody talked about quitting. Dropout-that was the dirty word. They said she'd go straight to hell if she dropped out. Naughty, naughty...
Candy wiggled her toes in the sand, enjoying its locked-in warmth from the afternoon sun. She wriggled her bottom, too, working it into the blanket. Her suit was drying, leaving salt on her body, making it tingle and itch in a way that she liked.
She looked again at the faces in the ring. Generally they were seated boy, boy, girl, boy, boy, girl, so that each girl got plenty of attention all the way around. From time to time, one of the girls would be urged to lie back on the sand, and a husky, brown body would be over hers for a while in a tangle of arms and lips and busy hands.
Sitting, waiting for the cigarette to make its rounds, hoping she'd get at least two more puffs before it died and fell from the end of its toothpick, Candy was sad. Perhaps the pot would help, but she doubted it.
In her effort to escape her father and the stinking shack on the hill, she had been out every day and every night since the term ended. Already, it seemed like a long summer, and she wondered if her body could take the punishment until fall. She hoped so, for this life was better than life at home.
Home! The word was a joke. What was home? It was nothing. It was worse than nothing. It was a shack at the top of a flight of stairs, clinging to the slope of a scrubby hill. It was a place which rattled with winter's cold and rain, a place which sweltered in summer.
Worst of all, it was a place where her father prowled, waiting for her, pawing her, alternately using force and sickening pleas in his efforts to seduce her...
"Hey, your turn!"
She was startled by the bump on her elbow and turned to the boy, taking the cigarette from him. Nuts! It wouldn't last even another round. She raised it to her mouth and sucked, feeling its heat and strength. Holding the smoke in her mouth, she passed the cigarette.
Then she swallowed, taking the fumes into her body, inviting them to fill her breast, her stomach, her loins with their strength. When she exhaled less smoke went out than came in, and she wondered where it lay inside her.
The stuff worked, and her spirits were buoyed again, and she looked at the youth by her side, giggling. He giggled back, and she tried to remember his name. He was one of the newer ones, and the pot got to him more quickly.
Awkwardly, he put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, hearing his intake of breath. Apparently, he was surprised that she seemed to yield so willingly. She turned her face up to his and waited. Presently he kissed her on the lips, and she placed her hand flat against his chest, feeling his skin twitch.
She waited again, but the arm around her did not move. The best he could manage was a hesitant probing with the tip of his tongue. She opened her mouth wide and drew him in, pulling at his tongue, trying to suck it from its roots. With a gasp, he pulled his head back and away.
"Oh, for . . ! " She gnashed her teeth. "Come on, old buddy. This stuff will wear off before we're..."
She felt the touch on her thigh and turned to look over her shoulder. The boy on her other side was leaning, his fingers pressingly insistently against the inside of her leg, pawing the soft, white skin. She liked the touch. It kindled a deep flame, almost like another puff of pot.
She looked at his face. It was a boy they called
Mac. He had been a regular at their parties since the day school closed.
"Hey, bo," she whispered, turning to him, forgetting her other suitor.
"Hey, yourself!" he muttered, moving his hand to her belly, again kneading the flesh. The hand drifted up to her throat and pushed.
Candy let herself fall backward, slowly, gracefully, until her shoulders touched the blanket. It was warm and a bit gritty with sand, but she enjoyed working her spine against it.
"Hey, what are you, a belly dancer?" He was leaning over her, his elbow jabbing her stomach, his face close.
"You name it, I'll be it, Batman." She fluttered her eyes as though she were overwhelmed by his charms. He laughed.
She let her head go back to the blanket and closed her eyes when he pulled at her bikini top, reaching under her, fumbling with the catch until he lifted it off. His hands were on her, one snaking along her ribs, the other sliding down the valley between her breasts, climbing first one peak and then the other to massage her nipples, making them harden and pop forward, eager for more.
Candy was not a passive girl, not a girl to lie back and let her lover do everything. She was readily responsive, even aggressive-the take-charge type. Her own hands were busy, roaming across his chest, then dipping to his stomach, where she punched him lightly, playfully with her fists.
His little grunts caused her pleasure, and she wondered if one of these school psychologists would say she was really punching her father. She laughed out loud. Maybe she was. Maybe, when she made love, she was doing it to defy him, too. Well, if she were fighting him, this was a great way to do the job.
She ran her hands over the boy's hip, and he placed his fingers on her thighs again. Their thoughts were as one as they tugged, quietly yet strongly, at one another's suit. They loosened the fabric and pulled hard, lowering them to their knees and then off completely.
They waited a moment, looking at each other, and Candy wondered if he were going to take her here. It would be wilder than anything they had done, but what the hell. . .
The slap rang out like a shot, and everybody was laughing as Mac winced and reached back to rub his white, smarting buttocks. It caught the light so that all could see.
"Come on-give us a show!" they called.
He looked down at her again, a question in his eyes. Her answer was that she couldn't care less. Sure, let's do it here. I'll show those other dames what a woman's made for. I don't care, Mac. Give it to me right here, if you want.
These things her eyes said, and he read them, but something in him might have been better than her, for he turned to the others, calling for them to mind their own business. Then he lowered his face over hers, but he did not kiss her. "The car?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Hot and stuffy. Besides, there's no room, and Corky'll get mad if we mess up his precious upholstery."
He nibbled his lower lip, then she lifted her head, taking his lips lightly between her teeth and doing the nibbling for him. Presently he said, "Come on!"
He rolled from her and leaped to his feet. He reached and pulled her up with him, and they looked at the others. One or two faces were still turned their way, but the others were exploring one another's bodies, oblivious to any show Max and Candy might stage.
They looked down at themselves, seeing the mounds and hollows change in the red glow. He touched her breast, pushing it in so the shadow would deepen.
Then he took her hand, and they ran across the beach, down toward the water where the sand grew firm and then damp under their feet. They raced into the surf until the water surged about their ankles. Candy had thought it would be cold, but it wasn't much cooler than the night air.
He stopped, taking both her hands. "All right?"
She laughed aloud. "Let's quit with the questions, huh? Show me what you got."
He laughed in turn and, gripping her waist, he led the way out to deeper water. T-hey laughed, happy as dolphins, and, when the water was at her knees, a small wave toppled her off balance.
She fell headlong into the surf and rolled over, sitting up, wiping the water and streaming, champagne hair from her face. He fell at her side and his body touched her on the thigh. He was ready, she knew. His young body was hard and ready for hers.
She lay back, keeping her head up, holding her breath when a wavelet washed over her chin, and he pulled himself across her, moving her to suit himself. She let her body open and he struck, sure and clean, like a snake.
They were together, helped by the gentle wave action, their rhythm smooth and clean, young and virile. Their bodies were like slick rubber balls, firm and resilient at the same time, bouncing back, despite their abuse.
It was over in a moment. "Damn you, Mac," she cried, her lips open in anguish. "You're always so fast!"
She clung to him a minute longer, her hips making the water swirl in a fury of activity. Then she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, arching her back so that her head dipped into the water.
She cried out again, but this time in pleasure, her fingers clutching his shoulders, her nails making red welts across his skin. The delicious sensation rocked through her body, and her hips moved on in slowly diminishing spasms of joy.
At last she let him go and fell back full length into the water. A moment later she sat up, sputtering, choking, coughing, and they laughed together.
"I forgot where we were!" she gasped while he thumped her back, making her cool breasts quiver' like gelatin.
"Hey!" He said the word in a voice low, with fear, he was on his knees, no longer erect and lustful, his gaze toward the beach.
She followed his look.
The others were standing about the fire. They had been joined by four additional figures. The strangers were taller and heavier and they wore white crash helmets and khaki uniforms.
While the newcomers arranged themselves in a loose circle about the group, the younger people began picking up what clothing they had, folding blankets and throwing sand on the fire.
"What do you think?" Mac blurted, his hand resting on her shoulder.
She pulled the hand and they sat down on the bottom, their eyes wide. "Keep still and don't move," she commanded. "This may be the luckiest little old piece you ever had."
They waited, and Candy's heart pounded. She could feel it and, looking down, she saw her breasts moving with its rhythm. "Oh, oh!" Mac whispered.
She looked up. One of the men was holding up garments-her bikini and Mac's trunks.
Heads turned their way and, a second later, a strong light struck them full in the face.
Candy looked at Mac, a wistful smile playing with her lips. "Thanks for the ride, pal. It'll be worth every day we spend in stir."
* * *
It was a large, noisy, crowded room. This surprised Candy. She had always thought that court was a place of quiet and dignity, like on television.
Even the judge was unimpressive. He was a little man who sat with his chin propped in his hand while he toyed with a pencil. He wore no robes, and there was no gavel in sight.
The voice of the court officer droned on. He was reading papers immediately before the bench. If the judge was listening, he gave no sign.
Candy looked around. Several of her friends were in the room; those who had been picked up during the party. She saw a number of adults, their faces strained and white, seated with them. She had a parent in the courtroom, too. Her father, a dark coat thrown over his dirty undershirt, was seated in the opposite corner of the room. She had to smile at his bandaged finger.
Presently the man stopped reading, and the judge nodded at the boy who stood by his side. "All right. I'll agree to that."
A policeman took the boy by the arm and led him out a side door. A middle-aged woman-apparently the youth's mother-trotted along behind.
"Candace Simms ... William Simms."
Candy jumped at the sound of her name, and the matron at her side looked at her. She got up and walked forward, stopping before the bench. Her father shuffled across the room to stand on the other side of the officer.
The man, who wore a dark suit and horn-rimmed glasses, rattled the papers and glanced at the judge, who nodded, looking from Candy to her father. His eyes flicked back to Candy, and she tried to smile, but he frowned.
"Get on with it, Mr. Lewis."
"Yes, your honor. William Simms had pleaded guilty to contributing to the delinquency of a minor and to the use of narcotics. Candace Simms, his daughter, was among the young people the officers found at the beach party."
The judge nodded. "Had she been smoking marijuana like the others?"
"Yes, sir. She was also found in the surf with one of the boys, Charles Maclnnes, in a state of ... well, neither wore any clothing."
The judge seemed to sigh and he was studying his pencil again. "Very well. What do you suggest?"
"This is the first time the girl has been picked up, your honor. Yet, it's obvious she'll only get into more trouble if she stays at home. One of our people checked it out, and it seems she and her father live under the worst conditions imaginable. There was no food in the house, but we found empty beer cans and whisky bottles and a number of marijuana cigarette butts."
The judge nodded at Candy's father. "What about him?"
"William Simms," the officer went on, reading from the papers. "Produce truck driver ... when he works. Presently unemployed. Married to Wilma Simms, mother of Candace. But the mother disappeared more than a year ago. Apparently, the family hasn't heard from her."
The judge looked at Simms, his eyebrows up. "Why did she leave?"
"She was no good, judge," Simms drawled, wiping his hand across his mouth. "No good at all. She took up with some lousy bartender, and we ain't never seen her since."
"Your honor," the officer continued, "Candace Simms told our worker that her parents fought a great deal and that her father frequently beat her mother. She also told us that she herself has been beaten with some regularity."
The judge dropped his pencil and straightened. "So what do we do about them? As you suggest, they can't live together. They'd be back before me within a month."
"I agree, sir. We suggest that the father be placed on probation, ordered to clean up his place of residence and that he report to our department regularly. As for the girl, we were hoping there might be room for her on the welfare list at the Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls."
The judge nodded. "That would keep her out of trouble for the summer, at least, and perhaps something could be worked out by fall, if necessary." He peered at the officer. "Is that how you see it?"
"Yes, sir. With your permission, I'll check with the Foundation officials and see if they can take the girl. Their summer program starts Monday."
The judge peered at Simms and Candy, his eyes moving back and forth. "You can both consider yourselves lucky. You"-he pointed at Simms "because you're getting a chance to stay out of jail.
But you'd better behave and clean up your home, or I'll hear of it."
"Yes, sir," Simms mumbled. "Thank you, your honor."
"And you"-he pointed at Candy-"because, instead of Juvenile Hall or a county girls camp work unit, you're receiving an opportunity to mingle with decent young ladies at a decent place. You'll be in the mountains, away from the squalor of your section of the city. You must learn a lesson from this, Candace Simms. This is your first offense, and I'll not tolerate another. Next time, you'll get the full juvenile treatment."
Candy's face reddened, but she said nothing.
"You ought to get down on your knees," the judge went on, "and thank the probation officer here for arranging space for you at such a decent camp. And you should also thank the founders of the camp who set aside funds to help girls in your sort of difficulty."
At last Candy nodded, realizing the judge was waiting for some sign of repentance.
"Very well, that settles it." The judge looked at the clock on the rear wall. "It's past noon. I'll hear about the others after lunch, Mr. Lewis."
He tapped his pencil on the desk and stood up, leaving by a side door which a policeman held open.
Candy turned and met the eyes of her father. He glared at her, his fists clenching and opening. "You little bitch!" he hissed in a whisper. "What kind of crap did you tell that dame what come out to the house?"
"Let's go." A policeman took Simms by the arm and wheeled him away without waiting for an answer from Candy.
She turned and saw the matron just behind her.
"Big deal," she said, cocking her head toward the bench. "Santa Claus came in June."
The matron puffed up in disapproval. "Like the judge said, you're a lucky little girl."
Candy turned up a corner of her lip. "Screw luck and screw the judge! I want to get out of here."
"You'll be in Juvenile Hall until Monday morning, you little tramp!" the matron exclaimed. "Then we'll escort you to the bus and make certain you're still aboard when it arrives at the Treacher Camp."
Candy shrugged. "Okay, warden, take me away." The matron did.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hester sat frowning, trying to find the proper words to give the letter the bite she wanted.
"The manner in which you played the role," she went on, speaking carefully and slowly, "did not have the originality the director demanded. Therefore, the agreement is terminated and I enclose your check for two hundred and seventy dollars. My usual ten-percent commission had been deducted from the total, etc., etc."
She finished dictating with a rush and sat back watching Judy's pencil race across the notebook. It was but a short trip for her eyes to travel from
Judy's book to her knees, which were delightfully in view, thanks to the ever-shorter skirts they were selling to the younger girls these days.
They were nice knees, pleasantly rounded and encased in sheer nylon which did not go much beyond them. Hester could see the bare underside of a thigh, white in the shadows beneath the skirt. The thigh was...
The pencil had stopped its scraping, and Hester looked up. Judy was staring at her, her eyes narrowed, her head cocked in a questioning manner.
"Well..." Hester cleared her throat and shuffled a few papers on her desk. "Our Mr. Smythe won't like getting only two hundred and seventy dollars for his part, but perhaps he'll learn that a bit of extra effort could have kept him on the studio payroll longer."
Judy said nothing, and Hester, feeling her face begin to color, rummaged in a drawer, finding a package of cigarettes. She held out the pack to her secretary, but the girl shook her head.
"It's getting late, Mrs. St. Claire. Perhaps I'd better just type this out and then go home." She paused for just an instant. "That is, if you don't mind."
Damned little bitch! Hester thought. A tease like you should be put over my knee! Instead she smiled and got up. "No that's fine. You run along when you're finished, and I'll lock the front door."
Judy closed her notebook, rising and turning for the door, but Hester caught up and walked with her across the large, carpeted office. "Sure you wouldn't like something?" she heard herself saying, almost pleading. "A drink, perhaps?"
Judy sighed and shook her head again. "No, really. Thanks, but I..."
Judy put her hand on the knob, and at the same instant Hester put her hand on a plump cheeks of her buttocks. The girl hesitated and turned to look at her employer. Hester had hoped to see a look of anticipation in her eyes, but there was only reproach and resignation.
Hester managed to smile in her old, confident way. "If you should finish any other work which needs my study or my signature, just stuff it into a brief-case and bring it by the house this evening." She was pleased at how coolly she was able to say the words.
Judy's eyes wavered. "Your house? Tonight?" She glanced over her shoulder at the outer office, where a client waited to see Hester. "I presume the doctor will be out."
"You presume correctly."
"Well, I don't know." Judy shrugged, and Hester's eyes dropped to her breasts. "I may have some things for you to sign..."
"Yes?" Hester blurted like a schoolgirl.
"And then I may not."
She closed the door in Hester's face, leaving her sucking in deep breaths while her hands clenched and unclenched, the fingers entwining like snakes.
"That's what you need, you tease!" Hester mumbled aloud as she went back to her desk, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Her hand shook. "A good old-fashioned paddling."
She leaned back and placed her head against the thick leather rest of the chair. She closed her eyes, working to drive the frustration from her loins.
After another two or three days, she wouldn't be seeing Judy so much for the remainder of the summer. Hester would be off to the Treacher Camp first thing Monday morning and then, except for an occasional drive down to the city to take care of business, she would be deep in the forest, cut off from Judy and her annoying, teasing ways.
Hester depended on Judy a great deal, which was one reason she paid the girl two hundred dollars a week. Every year, Hester donated her entire summer to the Treacher Camp, giving freely of her valuable time. During those weeks it was up to Judy to keep the agency running smoothly, with Hester in regular contact by mail and telephone.
Therefore, Judy was more than a mere secretary. Much more. She was Hester's strong right arm, capable of taking charge almost as efficiently as Hester. Hester smiled. But not quite as efficiently.
Hester was the seasoned master who knew how to handle their show-business clients. She could make them happy on jobs that were less lucrative than they had expected-and what job wasn't? She had the all important connections with the studios and the stations, so that they came to her when they had a difficult part to fill.
Still, Judy was worth her ten thousand-plus a year. On occasion, she performed certain overtime work for which she was paid extra. This rankled Hester, for when Hester had first broken Judy's resistance, the girl had been a willing partner with no more payment than a compliment and a promise of more.
Then the bitch had gotten smart, knowing how much Hester needed her, and had begun to make demands-demands Hester had had to meet, or do without.
The price had gotten so steep lately that Hester had become more annoyed than ever. She had hated to cheapen their experiences with money in the first place, and now to have to pay so much...
She smiled. This summer she'd keep an especially close watch at the camp. Surely, something would turn up. A nice Los Angeles girl, so that everything wouldn't come to a halt when Labor Day arrived, and summer was ended. She needed someone to replace Judy on a year-round basis.
She had done well the summer before. There had been a sweet sixteen-year-old from San Francisco, plus an eager, red-headed counselor of twenty from Phoenix. She reacted at mere memory of those lovely legs. Two wonderful girls, but both out of reach when the holiday was over.
This year her goal was definite and sensible. A girl closer to home, a girl she could see all year, whenever she pleased. A girl she could cultivate, help develop. Perhaps, even, a girl to take Judy's place at the agency.
Hester actually laughed out loud. Then she could kick the blonde trollop out on her fanny.
Fanny! She thought of Judy and her marvelous bottom. At that moment, Judy was all she had, and Hester needed someone badly. She squirmed in her chair, feeling the itch in her loins, pressing her fingers against her stomach.
The box on her desk buzzed and she stabbed at it, missed, and stabbed again. "Yes?"
"Mrs. St. Claire, Mr. Hagen is still waiting to see you. May he come in soon?"
"Yes, send him in now." She bit her lip. "And Judy...? "
"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire?" The voice abruptly turned frosty with a professional chill.
"I believe arrangements can be made to pay you twenty for your overtime services. I thought you'd like that." God, she hated herself for crawling!
Judy's answer came fast. "I've so many things to do, but perhaps I could put them aside for fifty."
"Fifty!" Hester closed her eyes. "Not a penny over thirty-five."
"Fifty, Mrs. St. Claire." Judy's tone made it clear there was no room for bargaining.
"Very well." Hester sighed. "Fifty. And send Mr. Hagen in, if you please."
"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire."
The box clicked dead, and Hester pounded the desk with her fist. Fifty dollars! Her most outrageous price yet. "Yes, Mrs. St. Claire ... No, Mrs. St. Claire," she mumbled in a mocking voice. But she could still smile.
It may be the last fifty you'll collect, darling Judy. For by the end of next week I may have another, younger, brighter jewel for my harem.
The door opened, and she tacked on her professional smile as Mr. Hagen walked in.
* * *
Hester stood before the mirror, tugging the clinging gown into place, loving the way it stretched across her hips and molded the gorgeous curves of her bosom.
She lifted one hand high behind her back, struggling for the fastener, but it was useless. There was nothing left but to ask for his help.
Sighing, she went to a door and tapped.
"What is it?" he called.
"My zipper."
He opened the door, standing before her in his shorts, a towel around his shoulders. She turned her back to him and he tugged on the fastener, pulling it up to the back of her neck.
"Fancy clothes," he muttered. "Where are you off to tonight?"
Hester was a bit surprised, for George rarely asked her about anything she did any more. "I'm staying home," she snapped. "But there's no reason for me to look like a fishwife. After all, you know I like to dine as a civilized woman."
"I know all about your civilization, my dear," he shot back.
"What does that remark mean?" she hissed.
"Nothing. Nothing at all." He sounded weary as he turned away, ready to close the door.
She peered in at the dark suit laid out on his bed. "You're still going out?"
"Of course. You know it's the Medical Society every second Friday."
Hester turned away as he closed the door behind her. Good. George would be gone until after midnight, providing he drank his usual amount of whiskey after the dinner speeches.
At dinner, they sat quietly, one at either end of the table. From time to time, the cook hurried into the room, placing meat, vegetables and, at last, the cheese and coffee before them.
The cook hovered, waiting, until they looked up. "Will that be all, ma'am?" the heavy, middle-aged woman asked.
"Yes, Hilda. We won't be needing you until, oh ... say tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you very much, ma'am."
When she was gone, George frowned. "What was that all about? She was off all day yesterday, and now you're giving her another twenty-four hours."
"Not quite that long, my dear," she snapped. "Besides, she's been working hard this week. A bit more rest won't hurt her, I'm sure."
George was silent a moment. Then he continued, "What are you up to?"
"Nothing," Hester blurted, her voice rising. "Nothing which concerns you."
"You've made certain that Hilda and I won't be around the house this evening." Pie picked up a piece of cheese, studying it. "Got friends dropping in?"
"I refuse to be grilled like a suspect in a station house, George St. Claire!" Her voice trembled with anger. "Hilda needs the rest, and your going out is completely your own doing. If you prefer, I'll run into the kitchen and stop her. Is that what you'd like-a scene with the domestic?"
George waved a hand. "No, no. Let her go, for heaven's sake!"
When they had finished the cheese and George began gulping his coffee and glancing at his watch, Hester said, "You know I'll be leaving Monday morning."
"Monday morning?" He frowned. "What's Monday morning?"
"The Treacher Camp, as if you didn't know."
He paused, setting down his cup, and a look close to despair crossed his face. Slowly, he reached inside his jacket and took out a silver case. He plucked out a cigarette and touched flame to it with a silver lighter. "So. Another summer in the company of a hundred-and-fifty girls."
"A hundred-and-fifty wonderful girls, if you please," she said defensively. "Believe me, the foundation is delighted to have me donate my time and skill to those..."
His abrupt laugh was more like an anguished cry. "I'm sure the foundation is delighted to have Hester St. Claire as camp supervisor for those kids. All kinds of kids. Rich and poor, paying and nonpaying ... they provide a mighty large target for you, don't they?"
"Suppose you explain that?" she snapped.
"You wouldn't want me to, and you know it." He dragged on the cigarette, flicking ashes across the cheese. "I've seen enough in my own home to be able to guess what goes on when you've got girls living in the woods for two months."
Surprisingly, she said nothing, instead bowed her head for a moment. At last, she raised it and sipped at her coffee. "I don't think such ridiculous talk needs any answer from me," she said, her voice low.
"Hester!" He was pleading now, but she remained silent.
"Hester, for God's sakel You're a healthy, attractive woman of thirty-one. Why in heaven's name can't you behave like a normal housewife?"
"You're calling on the almighty a great deal this evening, George," she snapped. "But, since you ask, how can one behave like a so-called 'normal' housewife when one has never lived like a housewife? You know our relationship hasn't been normal since that first night..."
He slapped on the table. "Yes, that first night when you froze over like a Minnesota snowstorm..."
"Yes, I admit that!" she shouted, and her eyes filled. She looked at her hands in her lap. "I've told you a hundred times it wasn't your fault. It started years before I met you."
"In those sick girls' schools."
"Yes." Her voice was small.
"And you keep wanting to go back to that same life."
"No, not really wanting to go at all."
He wiped his face and threw down his napkin, rising. "I'm late."
Of course, you're late, she thought sadly. You're always late just when we get close to discussing the very heart of my problem. The heart? My parents and their lack of love for one another and for me. Their insisting that I live away from home, that I associate with girls my own age. I wasn't ready to face the competition of the world. I was too young, and I'd had no early training, no challenges and-no love. So I took love as it came, not knowing it was wrong, not knowing that all girls weren't like those who took me...
For some reason, she went with him to the door. The bell rang as he placed his hand on the knob. He looked at her, frowning, then opened it.
Judy stood outside, smiling tentatively, hugging a brief-case to her breast. She wore a sweater, skirt and brown-and-white saddle shoes, in the manner of a high school coed. If there was any make-up on her face, it didn't show.
"Hi, Dr. St. Claire," she exclaimed, her voice taking on the manner of an adolescent. "On your way out?" i
He brushed past her, looking back at Hester. "Yes, conveniently for all of us, thank God!"
The girl stepped inside and the door slammed hard behind her. "My!" she breathed, talking almost like a child. "He's in a terrible mood tonight."
Hester looked at her with distaste, and the girl stared back, placing the brief case on the hall table and then preening, her hands clasped behind her. She pursed her lips in a self-conscious smile and lowered her eyes.
"Judy, how old are you?"
The girl hugged her elbows and rocked her body back and forth. "Tonight I'm eighteen. Just the way you like."
"How old are you?"
Judy took a step back, her hands coming to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Why, twenty-five, I guess."
"You guess," Hester snapped. "I'd guess so, too. You'll never see your first quarter century again."
"What's the matter?" Judy walked toward the living room and Hester followed. "Why are you being so mean?"
"You're a bit ancient for the teen-age role, wouldn't you say?"
The blonde stamped her foot. "That's not fairl You always say you like me best like this."
Hester began to say something else nasty, but a dam of resistance gave way deeply inside her body and, cursing her parents, she felt her face soften. "You're perfectly right, darling." She smiled and extended her arms. "Can you forgive your best friend?"
"Well..." Judy's toe dug at the carpet and at that moment she looked immensely desirable. "I suppose so ... if you have a present for me."
"Of course. Open the brief-case when you get home and you'll find the envelope."
Judy's face split in a childish giggle and she clapped her hands. "Goody, Hester! Gee, you're the best friend on the whole block."
She ran across the room into the older woman's waiting arms, burying her face in her neck, letting her body fasten itself against Hester's.
Hester stepped back, holding her at arm's length, and then she let her hand stray across the full mounds under the sweater. "Did you wear one?"
"Goodness, no! I told you I'm a little girl tonight. Little girls don't need those things."
Hester smiled sweetly, like a woman thinking gentle thoughts, then she grasped the sweater at Judy's waist. Lifting, she eased it up over her body, while Judy dutifully raised her arms. It slid over her head easily.
The blonde's high, hard breasts jiggled before her eyes, fresh, clean and unencumbered by any undergarment. Hester placed her thumb on a nipple and Judy whispered, "Oh...!"
"Like it?"
"Um! Do you like me?"
For an answer, Hester lowered her face, and her lips first kissed one of the pink nipples. Then they opened and took the nipple into her mouth, pulling at it greedily, much as an infant pulls at its bottle.
"Oh...! " Judy moaned again, and her fingers linked themselves behind Hester's head, holding the lips in place as they fell back on the couch...
Three and one-half hours later, at eleven-thirty, Judy kissed her hostess one last time and tiptoed from the house before George's return. She carried the brief-case.
Hester had remembered to slip fifty dollars into the case while Judy was freshening herself in the bathroom.
CHAPTER FIVE
As the bus climbed through the foothills, the warm air of the Coastal Plain grew cooler. Sandra poked her head from the window and sniffed, already catching the scent of pine.
She tingled at the sensation. It was wonderful. Ten weeks away from the city, away from Bobby, away from the dull life of college, away from the anxiety of an uncertain future on the stage.
At last, the bus passed through the cool green of Idylwild and rolled even higher, into thicker forest, passing under a gate constructed of rough logs. A sign hung across the road read-TREACHER FOUNDATION CAMP FOR GIRLS.
They pulled to a halt before a large log building which, Sandra was to learn, was the only permanent building in the camp. Its vast room provided space for the administrative offices, recreation hall, mess hall and dispensary. A dozen or so girls, all of them apparently counselors like Sandra, stood up and began hauling their luggage into the aisle.
"Brace yourselves, girls," one hard-faced redhead called to no one in particular. "It's time to go before the wicked old witch."
Sandra, close behind her, asked the question without being conscious of it. "Who?"
"The witch. Hester St. Claire. You know."
Sandra shook her head, pulling at her suitcases. "No, I don't know."
"God, I forgot! You're one of the new babies." She studied Sandra a moment. "Just keep these things"-she stuck her finger into Sandra's breast, then her thigh and then her buttocks-"out of reach, and you might be safe."
By the time Sandra stepped from the bus, the other girls, all of whom seemed to be about her age, were lined up across the porch. The head of the line was at a door marked OFFICE. Sandra looked about her. They were in the midst of a clearing more than a hundred yards across. Large tents with frame sides stood in a ring about the clearing.
One by one, the girls disappeared through the door, to emerge a few minutes later, papers in their hands. The redhead came out, passing close to Sandra, and winked. "Remember, sport, imagine footwork may save you."
Sandra frowned, puzzled, and then it was her turn to step inside. A thin teenager was behind a counter. She smiled at Sandra, pointing the way through an inner door. She put down her luggage and moved on.
The woman sat behind a rustic desk of natural wood with a highly polished top. A wooden sign had letters burned into its face that read Mrs. St. Claire, Supervisor.
She looked up, turning attractive brown eyes on Sandra, smiled as Sandra came to the desk. "Ah, you must be one of our new counselors."
"Yes-Sandra Albright."
"Of course." She stood briefly and shook hands across the desk briskly. "Welcome to the Treacher Camp. We hope you'll enjoy yourself while you lead our girls."
Sandra broke into a smile. What was so frightening about this handsome woman? Goodness, she couldn't be over thirty, and she was so friendly. "Thank you. I think I'll love it!" she exclaimed, the enthusiasm of youthful sincerity gracing her words.
"You'll learn the routine soon enough, but study this." She gave Sandra a large envelope. "Inside, you'll find all our regulations, our handbook for Treacher Girls and a schedule of events for the entire summer." She paused, and her eyes seemed to widen. "Of course, you'll report to me each morning for the day's instructions. At that time, you can tell me about problem girls, illnesses and so on."
"Thank you, Mrs. St. Claire."
The supervisor stood and came around the desk, her eyes wandering down to Sandra's feet and back again. For an instant, Sandra remembered the redhead's warning, but she quickly forgot that nonsense.
"You're prettier than most of our girls," Mrs. St. Clair said abruptly. "I trust you'll be able to last the summer without any boys swinging on your front gate.".
Sandra colored. "You won't need to worry. I've had my fill of boys for the year."
Mrs. St. Claire smiled her warmest smile of the interview as she brushed past Sandra, her elbow brushing the younger girl's stomach. "Excellent!" She was ready to open the door, but turned. "In the privacy of my office, when the others aren't around, you may call me Hester, if you like."
Sandra's color deepened for some reason, and she moved toward the door which swung open before her. She thought the supervisor was going to touch her again as she slipped past, but there was a fraction of an inch between her hip and the hand on the knob.
* * *
The buses carrying a hundred and fifty girls were to arrive at any moment, and Sandra paced the tent, nibbling on her thumbnail.
Only an hour before, Mrs. St. Claire had called her staff of counselors into the recreation hall and told them what she knew about certain problem girls-the ones who were at the camp by the grace of the courts and the Treacher Foundation. Each summer, about a dozen of these girls were sprinkled among the others in hopes that the association would save them from further trouble with the law.
Sandra looked again at her list of ten girls. She had one of the tough ones-Candace Simms. She wasn't told the nature of the girl's troubles, only that she came from the shabbiest part of Los Angeles and that her home life had been a struggle for day-to-day survival. She was to be treated with sympathy, understanding and firm guidance.
Firm guidance. She wondered what that meant.
From the sound of the girl's background, it seemed she'd need to be taken in hand, one way or another. Sandra didn't know if she had the patience or, indeed, the courage to wrestle with another girl's emotional problems...
The roar of motors came from the direction of the gate, and Sandra looked down at herself before going to the door. She wore the white shorts and T-shirt which was the standard uniform of the camp. The counselor had black piping at the necks of their T-shirts and down the outer seams of their shorts. Otherwise, everyone's uniform looked alike, the crest of the Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls emblazoned between their breasts.
She hoped her shorts were not cut too high and that her T-shirt was not overly tight. She shrugged, smiling to herself. It didn't make much difference. Except for the old watchman Mrs. St. Claire had introduced and an occasional passing ranger, there wasn't a man within half a mile of the camp.
She stepped outside into the bright, late-morning sun, shielding her eyes and reaching into her back pocket for her billed cap. She perched it carefully on her shining dark hair and moved toward the three large buses.
Already girls were boiling from the vehicles, lugging their suitcases and boxes down steps into the sun and skipping about in the dust. Mrs. St. Claire and several counselors were racing about, trying to coax the girls into line, doing their best to hold down the confusion.
Presently a hundred-and-fifty girls, all between sixteen and eighteen, were lined up in four rows, facing the supervisor and the twelve counselors, reminding Sandra of a large army facing a woefully outnumbered foe.
Mrs. St. Claire, barking her welcome with amazing speed and clarity, presently instructed the counselors to begin calling the names on their rosters. Fifteen minutes later, Sandra was surrounded by ten giggling, shouting, fidgeting girls.
She led them to their tent, hearing the commotion behind her as they went, feeling terribly self-conscious. She wondered if they were laughing at her, at the way she spoke or the way she looked or the way her shorts clung to her bottom.
Inside, she posted each girl to her bunk. There were five doubles, upper and lower, and Sandra had a single bunk just inside the door. She felt vaguely like a jail matron as she stood by her bed, watching the girls unpack their things, folding them into lockers which stood between each set of bunks.
She glanced at her list, looking up to associate each face with a name, standing by as they pulled off their city clothes and stepped into their snowy white camp uniforms.
One girl was hardly more than a child, her pretty body still budding, her hips still slim, her breasts still small with a promise of future beauty and fullness. Sandra checked the girl's name-Nola Franchetti, San Diego, just sixteen.
Another girl was a full-blown woman under her bundle of champagne blonde hair. As Sandra watched, she slipped off a plain cotton dress and tossed it on the floor. She stood in brassiere and panties, her breasts straining, her hips flaring as though she were a woman of twenty-one.
The girl picked up the white clothing from her bed and regarded it with disdain, watching the others shimmy into their new clothing. With a short laugh, she threw it on the floor.
Sandra frowned and checked her list. Of course, it was Candace Simms, the Los Angeles pepper pot. She approached the girl.
"What's wrong, Candace?" she said, keeping her voice level, yet not harsh. "Doesn't your uniform fit?"
The blonde whirled about, fastening her eyes on Sandra with a look of fear which abruptly changed to mockery. "Who knows? Who cares?" she snapped. "I'm not getting into the monkey suit."
Sandra smiled. "I'm afraid you must. We all must."
"Must we all?" Candace chirped, mocking Sandra's sweet tone. Several of the girls heard and laughed, stopping to watch the drama.
Sandra swallowed and became angry with herself when color crept up from her throat. She knew the other girl noticed, for her mocking grin spread.
"Pick up your clothing!" Sandra snapped. "All of it. Put on your uniform and hang your dress in the locker, as the others are doing."
"Make me," Candace said, her voice quiet, yet filled with a power born of a desperate way of survival.
"If necessary, we'll put you into a tent for bad girls," Sandra warned, knowing there was no such tent in the camp.
"Fine. Lead the way." The blonde stood there, her feet planted, her hands on her hips, her chin high. She still wore only panties and bra and, as Sandra stared, she wiggled her shoulders and hips. Again Sandra flushed, and again the other girls sniggered.
"Perhaps you'd care to go without eating until you learn to behave," Sandra continued, wondering of such punishment was ever meted out.
"Okay with me, sweetie," Candace laughed. She looked down at herself, patting her tummy. "I want to lose a bit of flab anyhow."
Sandra breathed deeply, feeling all eyes on her, knowing if she didn't win this test she'd be in trouble for the rest of the summer. Something occurred to her, and she bit her lip, knowing she'd be playing unfairly, but she was desperate.
"You realize, Candace, that we can arrange to have you removed from the camp ... sent back to Los Angeles." She cocked her head, watching the blonde's eyes narrow. "What would happen then?"
Sandra did not go on. None of the others knew that Candy would go back before a court and probably be sentenced to Juvenile Hall. Sandra didn't know how she had misbehaved, but under no circumstances were the other girls to learn that Candy wasn't a paying camp member, just like they.
Candace said nothing for a full minute, her eyes locked with Sandra's, her breasts heaving. At last, she knelt and picked up the clothing, clutching it as though it were something foul.
"That's better," Sandra said, her voice soft again, her nervousness fading for the moment.
"It's not over, miss high and mighty!" Candy hissed, her eyes hard. "I hate you for what you just did, and you better keep your eyes on me from now on. Don't dare forget you got a wildcat on your hands."
Sandra retreated to the door and addressed the others. "It's almost time for lunch, girls. Please go outside and line up at the mess hall in fifteen minutes. Move along now."
They skipped out, some of them looking from her to Candace and then whispering, their eyes bright, dancing with malice. Sandra wished she had never left Los Angeles. At that moment, she could have been in her apartment or working at the university library. And she could have been dating Bobby that night.
Instead, she was approaching the self-styled wildcat again, watching her pull on the T-shirt, stretching it over her healthy breasts and then shimmy into the shorts, which clung to her body even more tightly than did Sandra's.
"Candace," she said. "Tell me, do they call you Candy?"
The girl turned sullen eyes on her. "My friends do."
Sandra sighed. "I'd so hoped we could be friends. I don't know what happened to make everything so ugly."
"You're ugly!" Candy blurted. "That's a chicken trick, keeping me in line with that garbage about a one-way trip back to L.A."
"I'm sorry." Sandra decided to be frank. "I couldn't let you have the last word in front of the others. I'm your superior, whether you like it or not." She nodded toward the door. "Their parents pay so their girls will have guidance during the summer. You're here as a guest of the Treacher Foundation and you don't appreciate it one bit. You're actually a very lucky girl."
Candy snorted, going to her locker and throwing her dress inside. She slammed the metal door with a clatter, glaring back at Sandra. She began to march out, still watching Sandra with a look of hatred.
"If spending the summer in this dump is good luck, square lady, I sure as hell don't need any bad luck."
Sandra, her shoulders slumping, watched Candy march from the tent, her fully packed behind snapping back and forth angrily inside the shorts.
CHAPTER SIX
She sat on her bunk, wondering why it had happened to her. Where did she go wrong? Where was she weak? Why had Candy Simms taken such a violent dislike to her?
With a sigh, she rose. It was almost time for lunch. Perhaps, just perhaps, Candy would be in a better mood when she had her belly full of the Treacher Camp food. All the counselors had told Sandra that the place was famous for its excellent table.
She took a step toward the door and halted. Someone was opening the screen, coming inside. It was Hester St. Claire, dressed in her T-shirt and shorts, and Sandra had to admit that she looked as young as a girl herself.
"There you are," Mrs. St. Claire said, the trace of a smile on her lips. "Your girls are milling about outside the dining hall, and you're in here. That's not following the rules, Sandra."
Sandra nodded. "I know. I ... Well, I wanted to talk privately with one of the girls."
"Trouble already?"
Sandra hated to complain, but there was no way out. "A little. Nothing serious."
"With whom."
"Well ... Candace Simms."
"I imagined as much." Mrs. St. Claire sat down on Sandra's bunk, crossing her legs. Her figure was full and young and Sandra was surprised at the almost latent strength which rippled across her shoulders. "They warned us she could be a bitch to handle. Well, that's no real problem. We'll just call the garage and send her..."
"No!" Sandra blurted, dropping to the cot by Mrs. St. Claire's side. "No, I'll work something out. We must give her another chance."
The woman looked at Sandra, her mouth strangely pursed. "Why must we?"
"The Foundation is willing to take a risk to save her. It seems we should give her a reasonable time to behave." Sandra looked into the supervisor's eyes. "I'm quite willing to bend over backward, Mrs. St. Claire. Please!"
The woman smiled, her eyes glittering with a different light. "Are you really?"
"I don't understand."
"Are you really willing to bend over backward?" She said the words as though the thought conjured up some secret joke.
"Oh, yes. Won't you say it's all right?"
She placed her hand lightly on Sandra's knee, and the redhead's warning flashed through her head. It was something Sandra had not yet figured out. "Well, perhaps, on one condition."
"Yes, Mrs. St. Claire?"
"That you accept the invitation I gave you in my office-the invitation to call me Hester when we're alone." Her fingers squeezed just above Sandra's knee.
"I'd be flattered to..."
The screen opened again and the young girl from San Diego, Nola, bounced in, her cap clutched in her hand. She stopped before them, her small breasts rising and falling from her speedy run from the dining hall. "Oh." She looked into each woman's eyes. "I thought you'd be alone, Miss Alt bright."
"That's all right," Sandra answered. "What is it?"
"I've been saving you a place next to me at lunch and, when you didn't come, I got kind of worried." She lowered her eyes. "Maybe you don't want to eat with me."
Sandra's heart softened, and she reached for the girl's hand. "Of course I do. You just keep saving that seat, and I'll be along in one minute."
Nola turned to leave, but Hester then caught her hand. "My, but you're a sweet, lovable little thing," she exclaimed, drawing Nola close and hugging her. "Tell me your name."
"Nola Franchetti," the dark little girl murmured, her eyes lowered with embarrassment.
"A pretty name for a pretty girl," Hester continued, squeezing her harder. Sandra saw the fingers pressing into the girl's spine and shoulders with an almost frightening intensity. "How I love pretty little girls!"
Perhaps Nola sensed something, too, for she squirmed a moment and then broke away, backing toward the door. Again she gazed at Sandra, her eyes imploring. "You promise you'll come real soon?"
Sandra nodded and crossed her heart on her T-shirt. The girl skipped outside, letting the door slam.
Sandra sat motionless by Hester's side, her discomfort increasing. Something was terribly wrong. Exactly what that something was remained a mystery, but she sensed undercurrents of strong emotion-and they seemed to swirl about whenever Hester was close.
"What a darling child!" the supervisor said at last, turning back to Sandra. Her lips smiled with sweetness, but her eyes remained hard. "Don't you agree, Sandra?"
"Yes, she seems very nice." She put her hands at her sides, ready to push herself up. "I suppose I'd better run along. She'll be waiting..."
"One moment," Hester said, grasping Sandra's wrist until she sat back again. "You do like little girls?"
Sandra shrugged and Hester's eyes dropped to the bobbing mounds under the T-shirt. "Of course."
"And big girls."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
Hester seemed to reach some private decision, for she smiled more broadly and touched Sandra's knee once more. "That's all right. I was just trying to know you better." Her fingers traced a square on Sandra's knee and the nerves underneath the skin sent out tiny tingles. "Your card says you're a Dramatic Arts major at UCLA."
Sandra nodded, wishing the hand would go away. "Yes. I'm in my last year."
The fingers switched to the other knee, idly, not wanting to go anywhere, merely hopping about as though by chance. "Do you hope for a show business career?"
She laughed unnaturally high. "Of course. Doesn't every girl who comes to California?"
Hester smiled as though she knew all about it. "What do you do?"
"A bit of classical dancing and some writing." She looked into the older woman's face, seeing tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip. "I had the lead in the Junior Revue last spring, and the Drama Club did a one-act mystery which I wrote."
"Wonderful!" The fingers squeezed tighter. "I didn't realize we had a celebrity at the Treacher Camp."
Sandra pulled away. "I really must be going, Mrs. St. Claire..."
"Please-Hester."
" ... Hester. The girls will be finishing and getting into mischief." She began to stand, but Hester pulled her down again.
"You'll want to hear this." She cleared her throat. "I presume you're not acquainted with my professional work."
Sandra frowned. "Why, no."
"I own and operate the St. Claire Agency. Perhaps you've..."
"You mean the agent?" Sandra's mouth opened, and her lips made an O. "You represent Vinnie Daniels and Maria Lucca and those other people in the movies and TV and at Vegas? You're that St. Claire?"
Hester bowed her head. "At your service."
"Why...! I never imagined." Sandra's hands fluttered at her throat, but Hester's hand continued its journey from knee to knee. "Why, you're famous in Hollywood!"
The supervisor laughed deeply in her throat. "So I've been told, but not always in the manner I would wish." She cleared her throat. "The studios are always on the lookout for new, fresh talent. Have you been to see them?"
Sandra made a face. "Until I thought my legs would fall off at the hip."
"Oh, not those pretty legs!" Hester exclaimed, sliding her hand up and down a thigh. The tiny nerves jumped again, their messages of alarm growing stronger. "Perhaps ... just perhaps ... I could help you once you've finished school."
Sandra didn't dare breathe for a moment. She pressed her hands tightly to her lips, her eyes wide. At last she blurted, "I never dreamed I'd have such luck, Hester. Oh, I'd give anything for a chance!"
Hester leaned forward and brushed her lips across Sandra's cheek, her eyes closed. "I'll want to learn just how talented you are and exactly in what direction your taste lies. Perhaps you could drop by my cabin some evening soon, and we could discuss it privately?"
Sandra's cheek twitched where the older woman had touched her, and she rubbed the spot. Ambitious as she was for a stage career, the prospect of a nocturnal visit to Hester did not appeal to her. There was something...
The hand moved, sliding up her leg to grip the firm white flesh high on the inside of Sandra's thigh. The fingers squeezed, and Sandra leaped, , shoving herself away a few inches. She looked down at the hand. "Please!"
Hester shook her head. "You mustn't fret.
Everything's going to be all right, Sandra darling. It's going to be just fine, all summer."
She stood, looming over Sandra, her face turned down. Abruptly she grasped the younger girl's chin in both her hands and she leaned over, kissing her hard on the mouth, her lips sliding back until their teeth scraped.
Sandra was at last able to twist her face away. She rubbed her hands across her mouth ... hard! Hester went to the door and looked back, still smiling like the indulgent, overprotective supervisor.
"Don't forget," she said with a light laugh. "We have a date."
When she was gone, Sandra poured water from a canteen into a basin, taking a towel, dampening it and wiping her lips desperately. She wondered if she could stand the sight of lunch without being sick.
At any rate, she vowed, she'd be careful of Hester St. Claire for the rest of the summer. And she'd keep a close watch over Nola Francetti, as well.
The young girl would be an easy target. . .
* * *
Candy opened her eyes, keeping her body perfectly still. Then she rolled her eyes as much as she could, finally moving her head from one side to the other. The only noise was the heavy breathing of the girls.
She slid the sheet from her body and eased her feet to the floor, sitting up, waiting another full minute before she moved again. She reached under her pillow and unfolded her T-shirt and shorts, slipping the garments over her naked body. Barefoot, she stood, patting the package in her pocket.
She took a step ... a second, and a board creaked with an astoundingly loud racket, the noise filling the room. She froze for another full minute, hearing one or two girls roll restlessly, and then everything was quiet again.
She crept on, as slowly as before, until she reached Sandra's bed. She stood over the dark-haired counselor, looking down, hating her. How she would love to run a dinner knife into that white throat!
Instead she leaned down, close to Sandra's wrist, until she could read the luminous dial on her watch. One-thirty. Good! Even the old man who masqueraded as a night watchman would be snoring in his shed out by the gate.
At the door, she slid the locking lug and turned the handle. The screen, its tension eased, sprang open a few inches with a thwang. Candy's heart stopped for a moment, but no one stirred.
Outside, the moon was bright, and she looked down at herself. These damned white clothes! she thought furiously. She felt like a child ghost. Even her feet, still bare, seemed dead white against the pine needles.
She turned her back on the clearing and, passing cautiously through the double ring of tents, slipped into the denser trees and shrubbery, leaving the snores, sighs and occasional whistles of dozens of sleeping figures behind.
Ahead, through the streaming moonlight, she saw a large tree. Excellent! She could go to its far side and sit down, protected from view. What the hell, they wouldn't even be able to see a match.
She began to move around the tree, taking a final look over her shoulder as she did so.
"Evening, chum."
Candy froze, her heart pumping like a mad thing, her breath rattling.
"Well, are you going to stop wheezing and sit down?" the voice asked. "I hope you brought your own cigarettes. Mine may not last the summer."
Candy looked down, seeing a girl dressed exactly like herself. She was seated with her back against the tree. At that moment a tiny glow lighted her face, and she blew smoke into the night air.
Candy sat by her side, careful to stay out of sight of the camp. "You need a smoke that bad, too?" she whispered.
"You don't need to whisper," the girl, who had long dark hair and a pinched face, remarked. "They couldn't hear a bomb from this side of the tree. You bet I need my weeds! My counselor's that redhead, Hofstedder. She can smell cigarette smoke halfway to L.A."
Candy laughed, deep in her throat. Thank God, they weren't all forest fairy squares up here! "I know what you mean. Albright would have her monthly a week early if she took a bed-check about now."
She reached into her shorts and took out the package. It looked like a regular pack of a popular brand of cigarettes but the one Candy shook out was thin and seemed homemade. She placed the cigarette between her lips and tucked the pack back in her pocket.
"No use taking chances," the brunette muttered, holding the lighted end of her cigarette close to Candy. Candy touched the tip to the glowing end and sucked, feeling the heat immediately as it caught.
She pulled the smoke into her lungs and let it ride there for a few minutes, her eyes closed, a look of absolute peace on her face.
"Boy, you needed that drag like I need my boy friend," the other girl observed. "Amen!"
"How did you get roped into a cornball setup like this? You have parents who ship you away so they can swap partners around the neighborhood all summer?"
"Nope." Candy let her eyes roll up. The pot was heaven, and her imagination soared. "I have an apartment of my own in San Francisco, but it's a bore in the off-season. I thought a whiff of forest air might break the monotony."
"He-ha!" The laugh was measured.
"You don't believe me."
"Hell, no." The girl took a final drag on the cigarette and ground the butt into the forest floor. "There, now Smokey the Bear won't come around shaking his finger at me." She chuckled. "Come to think of it, I could use a man-sized bear about now."
Candy took another drag and offered her cigarette. "Here. Try something good."
"What is it?"
"What's wrong? You afraid?"
"In a pig's eye'. " She puffed while Candy watched. "Hey!" She held the cigarette away from her mouth, studying it. "This isn't my brand."
"You won't find it in the corner drug store vending machine."
"Agreed, chum. Agreed. Great stuff!"
Candy, loving the effects of the cigarette, feeling the itch in her loins, wiggled her toes in the pine needles. "You said something about being hot for a boy or a bear or something on two legs."
The brunette puffed on the cigarette until she dropped it, shaking her finger and then sucking its burned tip. "You have good ears, chum."
"What do you do about it?"
"Here?"
"Here!"
"Not a thing." The girl looked at Candy, and the moon threw sharp shadows across her face. Her skin was milky white. "I'm on probation. If my folks find out I'm horsing around once more, they'll ship me to a girls' school in Siberia." Her eyes glittered. "As it is, I've got a good thing going with a teacher at my school in Pennsylvania, and I wouldn't want any off-season play to mess things up. You understand?"
Candy was staggered by the girl's story. How rich her parents must be! They send her to school all year, and she seems to commute across the country between seasons. The thousands of dollars the arrangement would have to cost was almost beyond Candy's comprehension.
At last, she said, "I still got a hunch a dame like you knows the angles. Where did you go for it around here before you chickened out?"
The eyes blazed. "Who chickened out?"
"Stop yelling!" Candy whispered. "Cut the drama and tell me what a girl does here. And forget the old bastard who guards the gate."
The other girl gave a nasty little chuckle. "Last year, I got my kicks, all right, until they caught me." She frowned at Candy. "It's pretty damned dangerous, you know."
Candy was soaring with the pot. "To hell with danger. Just lay it on the line."
The brunette got to her hands and knees and peered dramatically around the tree trunk, back toward the camp. Then she sat back, her eyes wide. "The Archer Camp."
The girl's face was even more pinched. "What's it worth to you?"
Candy smothered a harsh laugh. "What a joke! You're so loaded you got flat feet, and then you wonder what I can hand across."
"Got any more of those cigarettes?"
Candy tensed, putting her hand over her pocket. "They're private stock, strictly."
The girl dug in her shorts and produced a rumpled bill. "I'll tell you about the camp and throw in ten dollars. What do you say?"
Candy didn't need time to weigh the deal. She paid a dollar apiece for her cigarettes-when she didn't get them free from grateful boy friends. She stuck out her hand. "I say okay."
The money and a cigarette changed hands.
"It's a half mile along the road," the girl said, talking swiftly. "You can get by the gate by cutting through the woods, naturally. Then turn right and go the half mile. You'll see the sign:-'Archer Camp for Boys.' "
"Are they a bunch of snot-noses?" Candy asked.
"Heck, no. I think they go up through nineteen." The brunette made a kissing sound. "Then there's some pretty peachy counselors, too."
Candy got up, brushing the pine needles from her shorts. "I'm cutting out, old pal, but if I ever hear any chatter about this around camp, it'll be your fanny."
The other girl also got up, tucking the cigarette into the neck of her T-shirt. "You think I'm crazy? I wouldn't want to cut off my supply of weeds."
"It's already cut off, cookie. That's your first and last one poking down there between your boobs." Candy laughed as she turned away. "Take my advice and smoke it half at a time, or you'll be climbing all over the girl in the next bunk."
Then she crept off into the deeper woods, careful to cut around the camp gate in a wide arc.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Candy spent almost a half hour creeping past the watchman's gate station, working her way down the deserted road to the Archer gate and then into the wood once more.
At last she halted behind a large tree, gazing into a clearing much like the one at the Treacher Camp. There were a large frame building and several groups of tents, each throwing a sharp shadow in the moonlight.
She wondered...
"Who is it? Who's out there?"
The voice, high-pitched and perhaps frightened, came from one side and she looked into a group of trees where the shadows blended into a solid mass. She might have seen something move, but she couldn't be certain. She thought fast.
"It's just me," she replied softly, keeping her voice light and innocent.
"A girl?"
"I'm lost. Won't you give me some help?"
A figure detached itself from the gloom and stepped into the moonlight. He was a year or two younger than Candy, with straight, wheat-colored hair that flung itself across his forehead. His chest and shoulders had the thinness of an immature boy-but he was big enough for what Candy wanted.
She breathed through her nose, still detecting the faint smell of her cigarette, and her senses raced as she, too, stepped into the moonlight.
"I'll be darned," he exclaimed, coming close and peering down into her face. He was kind of cute. "What's a girl doing in the woods at three in the morning?"
Candy stifled an impulse to hand back a double meaning reply. "I'm in a terrible mess. I've been lost since nine o'clock, and if they find out they'll positively kill me." She hoped she was talking with the affected English of a Treacher girl. "What about you?"
"Guard duty," he replied, a ring of pride in his voice. "All the bigger guys pull four hours of night duty once a week. You know, to keep watch over the place and make sure no tramps wander in to steal things. Only us bigger fellows are able to qualify."
"Oh, I can see that," she replied, her voice an awed whisper. "But what can I do? I've been wandering around the woods for hours and if I don't get back..."
"What's your camp?"
"Treacher. Have you heard of it?"
"Sure. Just a little way up the road." He snickered like an adolescent. "They usually rope us guys into a dance there every August."
Candy wrung her hands. "I've simply got to get back, but I don't know the way."
"You just go out to the road..."
"No!" She shook her head. "I've been scared to death all night and I'm not going to take another step alone."
The boy looked over his shoulder at the tents. "I could wake Mr. Gibbs..."
"No! I told you, they'd kill me. I got lost during a night nature hike and my counselor will think I skipped out." She sighed. "If that happened, I'd probably be dismissed."
She could almost hear the wheels turning inside his head. At last he said, "I suppose I could show you the way..."
"If someone found us, you wouldn't be in any trouble." She stepped closer and placed her hand on his chest, gazing up into his face, smiling her most sincere smile. "I'd tell the truth for you ... What's your name?"
"Ralph." He gulped.
"I'd make sure you didn't get into any trouble." She shrugged, throwing her shoulders back so he could see her figure more clearly. "If no one saw us, well, it wouldn't make any difference."
He shook his head. "I really better not. If I left my post Mr. Gibbs would raise cain..."
Once they were on the road, he grew more cocky. As they stepped along he stuck out his chest and assumed a protective attitude and, at the same time, he flirted with her in his way.
"Candy-do they call you that because you're sweet?"
"Could be," she said, knowing they didn't have much time. They were already more than halfway back to the Treacher Camp.
When they came to a place where large trees threw shade over the shoulder of the road she stumbled, falling to her knees. He was at her side immediately, tucking his hands under her shoulders, pulling her up.
"Hey, are you hurt?" He studied her, frightened again.
She shook her head, leaning against him, clutching his arm and letting her breasts dig into his chest. For an instant, he pulled away. Then he changed his mind.
"I need a minute to rest," she sighed, leading the way into the grass. She sat down heavily and pulled the package from her shorts.
She shook one out. "Smoke?"
He stared at the pack a moment and swallowed. Then he tried to match her casual mood. "Why not?"
"That's the ticket, sonny," she snapped, abruptly abandoning her Treacher accent. Candy knew she had him the instant she touched a match to his cigarette. No more need for drawing-room affectation.
They sat with their backs against a tree, puffing slowly but deeply, and from time to time she glanced sideways at him. He said nothing about the peculiar taste of the cigarette and, judging from the way he held the thing, it might have been the first he had ever smoked.
"Where you from, bo?" she asked.
He was trying to inhale and his breathing had changed. It was faster. "Bakersfield."
"Hot town."
"You bet! My family heads for Laguna every summer, and they ship me off by myself."
Another one of the rich brats. Just think! Enough money to spend the whole summer on the coast or in the mountains. "Your daddy print money in the basement?"
He laughed in a high titter and she knew the smoke had taken over. "Heck, no. He's got a big Cadillac agency. All those oil wells earn money for expensive cars."
She sniffed, wishing she were back on the beach at a pot party with a swinging crowd. "Dad wants to give me a Cad," she said inanely, "but I'm holding out for a Continental."
He didn't seem startled. "I'll have to admit,' that's a good car, too."
They were silent until their cigarettes were gone and then he looked at her. It was darker now; the moon was lower in the sky and in a couple of hours the sun would trade places with it. The pupils of his eyes were extremely black and the whites very white, giving him a trace-like stare. For no reason he looked at her legs and laughed.
"Feeling chipper, jocko?"
"I feel something, that's for sure." He sucked air in through his nose, puffing up his chest. He pounded on it with both fists, making a thumping noise. "Man, I feel as strong as a bull!"
"According to plan," she said in a dry tone. "Let me know when you're strong enough to work off a little of the excess."
"Huh?" He promptly forgot his question. "Boy, I never knew a cigarette could make everything so tingly. No wonder my folks each go through two packs a day. They must be riding high all the time."
At last she sat up, turning toward him and drawing her feet under her so that her knees jutted. "Bakersfield, your daddy and mama and Cadillacs are peachy, chum, but what about us? You know, like here and now?"
He giggled again and she hoped he wasn't putting all his energy into laughing. "I feel like I want to do something, all right." He looked down at his hands and then at her knees, just inches away. "I don't know what. It isn't like wanting to run or swim or wrestle with the guys. It's different."
She lifted her hand and crooked her ringer. "Come on over. I'll tell you what it is, stud."
He leaned forward, his head turned to one side so she could whisper into his ear. She put her hand on his head and her lips to his ear. Then her tongue darted out, jabbing harshly into the ear while she held on, keeping him close.
His body jerked as though his nervous system had gone wild, and he pulled away, rubbing his ear. "Hey, that's crazy!" But he was grinning foolishly and didn't move far off.
She turned her head again, cupping his chin and pulling at him. She kissed him on the mouth, and her tongue thrust against his teeth until his jaws opened. In she darted, pushing everywhere, exploring deeply. His breath rattled through his nose.
She released him and sat back, her hands resting on her thighs. "Well?"
"Boy!" He rubbed his mouth. "That was something!"
She ground her teeth, biting back a remark that might have spoiled it all. Instead, she smiled and let her fingers touch the side of his face. She put them over his mouth, and he kissed her palm.
In an abrupt movement, she pulled her T-shirt over her head, taking a moment to pat her champagne hair back into place. While he stared, she looked down. Although the night had darkened, she could still see the high whiteness of her breasts and the darker color at their tips.
"What do you think of them?" she demanded. The cigarette had taken a tight hold on her senses, and she was growing tired of her timorous playmate. It was time for action.
"Beautiful!" he said with awe. "My mom has pretty good ones, but not like..."
"Screw your moral" she hissed, clasping her hands around his neck and pulling his head down on her.
His face struck between her breasts, buried itself in the deep, soft valley of cool flesh, and she could feel the whisper of his eyelashes against her. She tingled everywhere, her body fully ready, knowing that something would have to happen very soon.
His face turned to one side and, wiggling her shoulders expertly, she popped a nipple between his lips. Instinctively, he took it, opening his mouth over as much of her as he could manage. The pull of him was wonderful, and she felt her breast swell with ecstasy as the nipple stiffened, its very tip popping forward to a point.
He moved to the other breast, again taking as much as he could, and again she felt the delicious swelling, the final preparation of her body for the thing she wanted most. He removed her face and, unexpectedly, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the dampness from her nipples. The touch of him was driving her ever closer to the brink.
"Come on, come onl" she growled, deeply in her throat. "Move into high gear, mister Cadillac."
His hands moved over her breasts and shoulders, patting her lightly, traveling in aimless circles. "I ... I ... guess I don't know..."
"I guess you don't," she cried, slapping his hands away.
She tugged at her hip, parting her shorts and kicking them off. She saw his shock at the sight of her lovely body, but at the same time he licked his lips and his fists opened and closed.
"Come on!" she cried again.
He put his hands on her, and she closed her eyes, letting her head roll back. Fingers explored her middle, worming into her navel, around her hips and then across her thighs. Her body stiffened like a hundred and twenty-five pounds of spring steel, and she realized she'd waited almost too long.
With a small cry, she lunged, hitting him on the chest, rolling him back on the pine needles. Instantly, she was digging at his clothes, opening things, releasing him, reaching for him.
He gasped, his knees working, his back on the ground. He was ready, she knew. Thanks to tender, virile years and the cigarette, the Mister America of Bakersfield needed almost no preparation. He still didn't know what to do.
She threw herself over him, letting herself down with the accuracy of imaginative experience, finding him, and pushing down harder. She felt him and, for a youngster, he was highly satisfactory.
Her talented hips took charge, and he began to catch her rhythm, struggling to match her speed and power. He did so at last, just long enough for them both to reach a bursting climax.
Their bodies stiffened and they hung onto one another for a second, then let everything go in a swirling geyser of sex. She let her face fall down on his, and her teeth found his lower lip. She bit spasmodically for a minute, and then it was all over.
Her body was drenched in perspiration, and moisture dripped from the tip of her nose to his face. Their bodies had lost their strength and relaxed together so that she was sprawled prone the length of him.
"Hey!" he said at last, his breath rattling in his throat.
"Hey, yourself, tiger."
"That was something!"
"Good enough for an encore?"
He blinked. "Tomorrow night?"
Candy hadn't planned to put it off so long. She had been toying with the idea of resuming relations in something like fifteen minutes. But she nodded. "Same time. Same place."
He closed his eyes when she lowered her lips to his. Then he said, "We'd better get moving. It'll be dawn soon, and they'll..."
She heard a footstep a split second before the voice crashed down on them. "So, here you are!" Then a brief pause and the realization. "Good God in heaven!"
The boy whimpered like a puppy. "Cripes! That's Mr. Gibbs!"
Instantly she put her lips down to his ear. "Okay, so we're caught. It's bad, but it'll be worse if they find out we were smoking. Remember, not a word about the cigarettes. Not one word!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
She was sitting between Bobby Williamson and Hester St. Claire, and the car was traveling at great speed.
Somehow, neither was driving. The car guided itself around curves and through busy intersections, maneuvering among pedestrians, and Sandra knew they would hit nothing. She also knew that they couldn't be stopped.
As they rounded a curve, Sandra was thrown against Hester and the woman clutched at her body, her fingers raking. At the next curve she was thrown against Bobby, and his hands also reached, wanting but not hurting her.
Presently, they came to a rough road and the car lurched horribly, bumping them up and down, and Sandra found herself drifting over into Hester's j&p. There was no way she could stop herself. Hester reached for her and held on, her strong fingers shaking.
She shook and shook...
"Sandra ... Sandra ... Wake up!" The voice was at her ear, low, intense, urgent.
"What is it?" She was terrified. It had only been a dream, of course, but the villain was here, kneeling by her side, the same hands on her body.
"Get up and put your clothes on. I'll be waiting outside with the car."
She was gone, and Sandra held her watch up to her face. Four o'clock. What in the world...? Perhaps someone was sick. Or there was news from home. Mom and dad ... Something had happened!
She slipped into the Treacher Camp cool-weather outfit skirt and sweatshirt, complete with Treacher crest.
Outside, she saw a car parked by the administration building, its motor running quietly, its lights off. She ran across the clearing and got in. Hester drove to the gate and stopped as the watchman popped out of his shack.
She leaned out, peering up into his face. "Remember, Oscar, not one word about this to anyone. If I hear anything came from you, there'll be trouble."
"Don't worry, Mrs. St. Claire," he said, his voice subdued. "I'll keep mom."
They moved out onto the road, and she switched on the lights, accelerating the car. "Stupid man!" she muttered, half to herself. "If he had eyes and ears, this never would have happened."
"What wouldn't have happened?" Sandra asked, her hands clinging in her lap.
Hester glanced quickly at her and then returned her glowering gaze to the line on the pavement. "Didn't you count your girls before you left?"
"Just now?"
"Yes, just now!" she blurted. "If you had, you'd find the Simms girl is missing."
Sandra's hands shot to her mouth. "Candy-missing?"
"She was found under a tree with a boy from the next camp." She sighed. "Isn't the Treacher Foundation going to enjoy that cozy story if it ever leaks out."
They said nothing more for the next few minutes. Sandra huddled in the corner, almost in shock, while Hester glared at the road, her foot heavy on the accelerator. Then they were turning at a gate and Sandra saw the sign, ARCHER CAMP FOR BOYS. A man waved them through, and a moment later they were walking into an office building where the only light in the entire camp burned.
Inside a man was sitting on the corner of a desk, one leg off the floor. Facing him, seated side by side, were a young boy and girl.
Candy looked up as they came in. Her eyes were dark and sullen, her face was flushed. Her hair was rumpled, and her T-shirt was hanging outside her shorts. Her Treacher uniform was a mess.
The boy's face was also flushed, and his eyes had a wild, glassy look. He glanced at them a moment and then looked down to his lap.
The man at the desk rose. He was a tall, athletic type with straight dark hair, and he clenched a pipe in his teeth. It seemed to go with the tanned, even features of his face. He wore khaki pants, tennis shoes and an old corduroy jacket.
"Good evening, Mr. Gibbs," Hester said, her voice chilly and formal.
He nodded at her, taking the pipe from his mouth. He had worn an expression of concern as they came in, but now Sandra saw it was replaced by a look of distaste when he saw Hester.
"Mrs. St. Claire," he said, his voice even and deep. He looked beyond her to Sandra and again his face changed. Despite their surroundings, a tiny vertical line appeared between his eyes and he stared a moment, his gaze intense. He was like a man suddenly viewing a minor miracle.
Sandra, even as she saw these things, felt her own expression change from one of consternation and shame for Candy to frank curiosity. Here was a man! A man of size, a man who moved like a track-and-field athlete, a man who obviously was in charge of the situation. Yet that sensitive face!
"Miss Albright, this is Mr. Gibbs, the director of Archer Camp. Miss Albright is one of my counselors." She glanced sideways at Sandra, her gaze withering. "One of my inexperienced counselors, I might add."
He went back to his flat, distasteful look, nodding at her, glancing again at Hester, then toward the two young people. "These are the culprits," he said, and again Sandra loved the sound of his voice, even as her concern for Candy deepened.
"What happened, Mr. Gibbs?" she blurted. "Hester said tbat they were..."
"Yes, they were," he cut in. "Neither has the power of speech now, apparently, but it's not needed. I stumbled on them myself."
"But how...? "
"My trusted lieutenant here"-he nodded at the boy, who flushed a deeper red-"was seen creeping through the brush with your piece of property." He nodded at Candy. "Fortunately, not all of our night sentries are so easily lured from their duty."
Hester walked closer to Candy and the boy, leaning down, peering into their faces. She ran her eyes over Candy, from head to toe, at last straightening. "What did you do out there?" she snapped.
"He was showing me the North star," Candy retorted, her lip curling in a snarl. Sandra sensed she was as frightened as she was defiant.
"While you were on your back?" Hester said.
"Naturally. It's the best way to look up."
She straightened and went back to the director. "You say you saw them?"
Mr. Gibbs nodded.
Hester looked from Sandra to Candy, her face working. "I want to make certain." She nodded toward a door. "May I take her in there?"
"Certainly," the director said, going to the door and opening it.
Hester prodded Candy to her feet, and they marched from the room. Throughout the drama, Candy never once met Sandra's eyes.
When the door closed behind them, Sandra hurried to the director. They were far enough away so that the boy could not hear.
She felt her face beginning to crumple, but she was able to ask her question. "You mean my Candy and this boy were ... together?"
"In every sense of the word," he said, gazing at her, his voice low. He seemed torn between disgust and interest in Sandra. "Your girl friend is in there to see for herself." He snorted. "She fancies herself an expert in such matters."
"Doesn't Mrs. St. Claire believe you?"
He looked beyond her to the boy. "Of course she does, but her so-called clinical examination will prevent the evening from being a complete waste. She'll be able to paw the sexy blonde, and it will be quite legitimate."
Sandra felt her face warm. "I think I know what you mean."
He snorted again at her embarrassment. "I imagined you would."
She frowned, looking up into his face. Even in her discomfiture, there was something about him which drew her. "And just what do you mean by that?" she snapped.
He barked a short laugh. "Hester St. Claire doesn't hire counselors because they're antisocial-especially where she's concerned. I'm wondering if you're this summer's headliner or just one of the girls in the chorus."
Sandra took a deep breath, and he glanced down at the movement of her sweatshirt. "I'm not certain what you're getting at, Mr. Gibbs, but I get the idea that you should have your face slapped."
The door opened and Hester peered quickly at them before shoving Candy out ahead of her. She moved toward the door and Sandra followed, suddenly feeling dirty and ashamed. So even a man in the next camp knew about Hester. That, in addition to Candy's mess, made everything a shambles.
At the door, Hester turned. "Thank you for calling so promptly, Mr. Gibbs. If we meet again this summer, let us hope circumstances will be more pleasant."
"Indeed," he said, taking the pipe from his mouth. He glanced toward Sandra witb a half bow. "Good night, Miss Albright. I hope you find your summer stimulating."
As they went out to the car, Sandra wanted to run back and claw his eyes out. At the same time, she wanted to throw herself on him for another reason.
During the ride back, it was as though there were a tiny worm wriggling impatiently between her thighs.
* * *
She stood at the window, watching the sun rise above the final row of trees. In half an hour, it would be hitting the clearing full force, and the temperature would climb into the nineties once again.
From the woods, she could hear occasional shouts and laughter. A hundred-and-forty-nine girls were among the trees on their daily nature hikes, or learning to put up tents, or trying to cook bacon and eggs with only two matches to light the fire.
She turned back into the room. Already it was growing hot under the canvas, but the blonde girl sat on the edge of her bunk, apparently relaxed. Only her protruding lower lip revealed her inner tension.
At last Sandra said, "Can't you say why you dislike me so completely?"
Candy tossed her head, hurling a champagne lock back into place. "Sure I can, lady. It's because you're like them." She pointed toward the door. "Them out there. They're all little miss rich-bitches, and they know enough about where I come from to lord it over me. You're another. As soon as you knew I was on the dole, you turned into a damned missionary."
Sandra shook her head. "We're not patronizing you. We honestly want to help. They're good girls. They mean well."
"What's patronizing mean?"
"Well ... false kindness because they feel superior to you ... that they have more than you."
"You said the magic word, sister."
Sandra fought to keep from crying. Folding her arms, she paced the floor. At last, she went to her locker and took out a package of cigarettes. She went to Candy and offered her one.
"Help yourself, and I'm not patronizing you. I realize now that you're an adult in a girl's body, and from now on that's how you'll be treated."
Candy took one, and so did Sandra, lighting them both. They smoked quietly until Sandra went on. "I imagine you've seen much more of life than any other girl in this camp-including me."
"You bet your sweet one I have." She inhaled expertly, speaking as the smoke trailed through her nose. "It's a jungle on the street where I live. It's a jungle in a house with a lunatic father and a jungle outside with pat ... patronizing teachers, grabby boys who think they can help themselves whenever they want, tough cops and lots of other stinking people. When I get out of school, there won't be no jobs around, either."
"You know Mrs. St. Claire plans to send you back."
Candy looked away. "Who gives a damn?"
"I think I know what that means. You were in trouble with the law, weren't you? Now you're on probation. If you don't work out here you'll be sent to reform school."
Candy glared at her. "The headshrinkers and legal Fancy Dans call them schools for girls now. Didn't you hear?" She looked around the tent. "I knew I never had a chance. They just sent me here to show each other how damned big they are about dames like me. Now that I goofed off, they can put me away and still be able to sleep at night."
"That's not true!" Sandra cried. "The Foundation is the loser if you fail, not the law. The Foundation is paying the bills. They're the ones working to save you."
Candy snorted, but a spark of interest glowed in her eyes. "How can they 'save' me?"
"By teaching you about life away from your father and pawing boys and what you call tough cops. Perhaps, if you had lasted, by fall you'd have wanted something better. That's essential-wanting." Sandra sat beside the girl. She wanted to shake her to make her understand. "Then, when you went back to school, you would have worked hard to go on saving yourself. With good grades, you could get still more education, and then, someday, that job would be waiting."
Candy said nothing for several minutes. She finished the cigarette, started to drop it on the floor, but instead she got up and brought back the wastebasket. Together they split open the remnants of the cigarettes, sprinkling the tobacco into the basket and shredding the paper.
At last, she looked Sandra in the eye for the first time. "You make life on the other side sound pretty good, but it's too late. I'm finished anyhow."
"I could talk to Mrs. St. Claire."
Candy shook her head. "That dyke wouldn't go for it. Last night I knead her in the gut when she tried to play around."
Sandra gasped. "You mean at the Archer Camp?"
"Sure. In the back room."
So Mr. Gibbs had been right. Yet it meant there was a chance for Candy after all. Perhaps Hester's weakness could be used to change her mind.
She turned to Candy. "If I fix it so you can stay, do I have your word that you'll behave?"
Candy stared. Then, slowly she nodded.
"I can't promise anything, except that if Mrs. St. Claire agrees, I'll be responsible for you. If you misbehave again, we'll both have to leave. Do you understand that?"
The blonde girl swallowed. "You'd go out on a limb for me?"
"Yes, God help me! I think you're worth the try, Candy. It you're not, I want to know it firsthand."
Sandra saw naked respect light Candy's face. It was beautiful once the cynicism was washed away. "It's a deal, Miss Albright. You stick up for me, and I won't let you down. Guaranteed."
Sandra held out her hand, and the girl hesitated then took it. "It's Sandra to you."
"Sandra."
She didn't relish the next battle in her campaign to rescue Candy Simms from the filthy front lines of life. Now she had to face Hester.
* * *
She went through the whole thing. She told her that Candy's attitude was changing. She told her that Candy trusted her. She told her that she would be responsible if Candy got into trouble again. She would take full responsibility and resign her counselor's job in the bargain.
Hester listened for fifteen minutes, her face unreadable as she sat behind her desk. At last she said, "I don't like it one bit. That she-wolf won't be able to last the summer without her sex-life. She's too hard a nut to crack."
"Don't you understand?" Sandra pleaded, leaning over the desk, her face close to Hester's. "She has cracked. She's given her word. For a girl like her, that's a bond stronger than steel. At any rate..." She sighed. "There would be no ringer pointed at you, whatever happened. It's my head in the noose."
The head shook. "I just don't think..."
"You said you hoped we'd all have a pleasant summer here," Sandra blurted, firing the last of her ammunition, gambling that it would explode without killing her, too. "I thought you liked me and respected my judgment, Hester. You seemed so friendly at the beginning."
"Well..." The older woman seemed flustered, but also flattered. "Well, I do like you, dear. I didn't realize what I said meant so much..."
She began to rise, her lips smiling at Sandra like the muzzle of a friendly gun-possibly harmless,' possibly deadly. "Very well. I'll let the child stay on the conditions you've laid down."
Hester walked with her to the door, her arm around Sandra's shoulders. She squeezed her and let her hip sink into the softness of Sandra's buttocks. "I don't intend to regret it, darling. We'll be seeing more of one another."
Sandra's knees went so weak that she almost fell as she raced across the clearing toward her tent.
CHAPTER NINE
Never had Sandra seen the recreation hall so beautiful. Chairs lined the walls, and at one end was a bandstand. Bunting hung from the walls and ceiling. In the center of the roof was a large ball with dozens of tiny mirror faces coating it. Later, in the semidarkness, spotlights would catch the revolving mirror and throw a hundred bits of light about the hall.
Above the ball was a large net containing exactly one hundred and fifty balloons, one for each couple. The huge ribbon holding the net had orange letters sewn along its length: HARVEST MOON BALL.
All the girls had caught the excitement. After six weeks of rigid communal living, they were ready for a bit of real socializing. For days, they had worked on the hall and on themselves, sprucing up their party dresses or making themselves new ones in the homemaking shop.
Sandra was pleased that even Candy had caught the spirit. In fact, she had behaved quite well since that terrible night nearly a month before. A clever girl, she had fashioned herself a slinky evening gown, but when Hester caught sight of the plunging neckline, she made her go back to work-on a little jacket to cover more of Candy's sex appeal.
Now it was growing dark, and soon a hundred-and-fifty pairs of feet would come marching down the road and turn into the Treacher Camp gate. The feet would belong to the boys from the Archer Camp, and at the head of the procession would be Anthony Gibbs.
Although she hadn't seen him since that disastrous night, Sandra hadn't been able to get him out of her head. Through a bit of calculated questioning among the other counselors, she had learned that his name was Tony and that he was an assistant professor at Santa Barbara when he wasn't running the Archer Camp.
She told herself that she was foolish to keep him in her thoughts. He was older, perhaps thirty, and chances were he had forgotten her by now. As it was, he had been suspicious of her, she remembered, thinking perhaps she was Hester's playmate for the summer.
Thoughts of Hester reminded Sandra of her responsibilities for that night. She would need to keep a close watch on Candy to prevent another orgy from taking place somewhere beyond the reach of the lights.
In addition, she would have to keep watch on all her girls. Hester had been attracted to the young and appealing Nola Franchetti from the first day of camp. Until now Sandra had been able to look out for her charges.
As for herself, she, too, had been the object of the supervisor's advances. From time to time, Hester would get her in a corner and remind her of their friendship, of their unspoken pact regarding Candy, of Sandra's promised "cooperation." Sandra hadn't been able to avoid a few friendly pats here and there, but she had somehow managed to keep her clothing intact.
Hester's urgency had increased as the weeks rolled by, and Sandra could understand how girls might let their guards down when they were cut off from boys for too long. There had been rumors about several of the girls in the camp, and two had been sent home after being caught in a single bunk together. Two other girls had arrived from Los Angeles the following day to take their places.
Sandra found herself more restless. More and more the thought of an evening with Bobby Williamson seemed appealing. Although she had every second Sunday free to leave the camp, she hadn't returned to the city. She knew her yearning for Bobby wasn't real. And she knew she did not want to become involved with him all over again.
When there were men in Sandra's thoughts, Tony Gibbs occupied the dominant position. Again, she had to smile at herself. He didn't even know her, and that showed how wild her flights of imagine had become.
Under such a strain, she could understand how a girl would let herself get too close to another girl. If she herself had been a weaker person, she might well have succumbed to Hester's advances. After all, Hester was a handsome woman, and she had a great deal to offer-camp privileges, more days off and, most important, a valuable show-business connection.
She was shocked at her thoughts. At the same time, she was a bit concerned at her confidence. The summer wasn't over yet, and the final month probably would be the loneliest of all. She'd have to be extra careful.
"How do I look, Sandra?" '
The voice was at her elbow and, even among the furor of last-minute preparations in the recreation hall, Sandra was startled.
She turned to see Candy beside her, posing in her new gown, properly jacketed. She looked like a girl Sandra's age, instead of just eighteen.
"You look so fabulous I'm frightened all over again," Sandra replied. "Remember, I have your word about tonight."
"Yes, damn it!"
"You promised to stop using that language, too." She looked around and went on, her voice low. "I presume your boy friend of that night under the stars will be here. You're not to leave the building with him."
Candy wrinkled her nose. "With that jerk? Listen, Miss Counselor, that twerp was the lousiest hunk of man I ever had the bad luck to sack in with."
"Candy!" she said. "For God's sake, cool it!
The sound of voices came to them then. At that moment, as though by magic, a half dozen musicians appeared on the bandstand, tuning their instruments. At the same time, the front doors burst open, and scores of young faces-some obviously expectant, others a study in calculated boredom appeared in the recreation hall. Each face belonged to an Archer boy.
The lights blinked once and then came on again, but less intense. The orchestra began to play Harvest Moon, and the party was under way.
Sandra saw him a number of times during the evening, usually from across the floor, but not once did she see him looking in her direction. Not once did Tony Gibbs even speak to her, much less ask her to dance.
It was true, she told herself in a silent but firm voice. He doesn't remember. You're a nobody and he's a college professor and the head of an important boys' camp. Sandra Albright, please forget you ever met Tony Gibbs.
It was after ten o'clock. The party had less than two hours to go. As a special favor to both boys and girls, the directors had given permission for the festivities to go on until midnight. At that hour, the Prince Charmings would take their leave, and the Sleeping Beauties would go back to dreamland for another twelve months.
Sandra finished a dance with a pimply faced youth, stifled a yawn and made her way toward the door and a few breaths of fresh air. Tony Gibbs was at the other end of the hall, gallantly working his way through the ranks of the Treacher Camp counselors, making certain he danced with every one. Well, she wasn't going to hover about like a wall flower, waiting for him to make her evening blossom with excitement.
To hell with Tony Gibbs! Sandra marched outside.
She walked slowly in the darkness. Every few feet, light from the windows illuminated the ground before her and, here and there, couples lounged in the shadows, startled by her approach and then going back to what they were doing. It was perfectly all right, Hester had ruled, for the Treacher young ladies to let themselves be escorted out into the clearing. But the bordering rows of tents and the woods were strictly out of bounds.
Oscar was spending the evening hiking around the perimeter. The night watchman was under orders to prevent any couples from breaking through his picket line.
On she walked, around to the rear of the building, on the side away from the dance. She paused outside Hester's office, surprised to see the light burning. She climbed the steps to the porch, walking with extra softness for some reason, and went to the window.
She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the brightness. Then she could see movement. Hester, dressed in a strangely masculine outfit, was perched on the corner of her desk, leaning forward, talking to someone seated before her.
Sandra gasped. That someone was Nola Franchetti. Hester's hands cupped the pretty girl's face, and Nola's eyes were wide with fright. The hands strayed to her neck, and Sandra could see Hester's smile widen. Her lips were moving as though she were seeking to cast an evil spell over the clean young girl.
Sandra hurried to the door, throwing it open and rushing inside. Hester looked up with surprise and then annoyance, and Nola squirmed until she escaped from the chair. She stumbled across the office to Sandra.
"Yes, what is it?" Hester snapped. Her breathing seemed faster than usual and her hands worked, gripping the sides of the desk until her knuckles whitened.
Sandra put her arm around the girl's thin shoulders. They were trembling and she choked back a sob. She studied the girl for a moment. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I ... I guess so."
"Go on back to the dance," Sandra told her. "When someone else from our tent goes to bed, you go along, too. That way, you won't be alone."
"Yes, Miss Albright." Nola went out.
The two women looked at each other, their eyes wary. The spark of frustration and annoyance still glowed in Hester's glance. Sandra was filled with mingled relief and apprehension-relief that Nola was out of it and apprehension toward what might happen next.
"Well?" Hester took a few steps toward Sandra. "I asked you what you wanted?"
Sandra lifted her chin. "I wanted Nola. She was missed at the dance. I was afraid for her."
"You were afraid." The older woman said the words as a flat statement of fact, her words even, their meaning enigmatic. "Are you still afraid?"
"Of course not." She looked down at her twisting hands, almost surprised to see she wasn't wearing the eternal white of the Treacher Camp. For the dance, she had put on a baby blue party dress. It fitted her snuggly, and its low, square neckline was held in place by thin spaghetti straps.
Hester went to the door. She peered outside a moment and then pulled the blind. She did the same at the window. She came back to Sandra. "You must have something to say."
"Yes. I'd rather you stayed away from the girls in my tent. If you want to talk to them for any reason, please see me first."
Hester's eyebrows lifted and her mouth pursed. "Why you spoiled little snot!" she spat. "Do you realize you're addressing the camp supervisor? I can talk to any girl I wish and, if I choose, dismiss anyone from the camp. You hear me? Anyone?"
"I don't want you to put your hands on her again," Sandra said, her voice quaking. Perhaps it was all over, but at last she'd go down fighting.
She braced herself for the next verbal onslaught from the supervisor, and Hester did indeed open her mouth, her finger shaking under Sandra's nose. Then she stopped, and indecision flickered across her face as she let her arm drop. Surprisingly, she returned to the desk, sat down and took a package of cigarettes from the drawer.
"Come here and sit down," she called.
Sandra took the chair Nola had vacated. Accepting a cigarette, she allowed Hester to light it and they were silent for a moment, puffing quietly. "Ah," Hester murmured, "I needed that."
"So did I," Sandra admitted.
Hester put the cigarette in a tray and reached, taking Sandra's from her lips, putting it aside. "I really don't want to fight with you, my dear." She patted her hand. "It seems we've had so little time together since early in the summer, when we had our nocturnal crisis. We've been almost strangers since then."
Sandra crossed her legs, tugging at the hem of her skirt, wishing it were long enough to cover her knees. Hester watched, obviously enjoying her discomfiture.
"It's a beautiful dress, and you look lovely tonight, darling. It's refreshing to see a Treacher girl out of uniform."
Sandra squirmed. "Thank you. All the girls seem so different tonight."
Hester picked up her cigarette, drew on it, put it back on the tray. "Yes, I remember our discussion when you pleaded with me to spare that Simms tramp. There was a sort of unwritten promise that you and I would become the best of friends, Sandra."
"Everything has gone smoothly. Candy has behaved like a lady." Sandra puffed on the cigarette. "I really think she's been helped by her experience here."
"How lovely!" The eyes flickered with mischief. "You know, I let you change my mind that night. Now, for the second time, you burst in on me and tell me what I must and must not do. If I have let you have your way, my dear, you must realize there's a reason."
"I really don't..."
Hester slapped the desk, and Sandra jumped. "You owe me something! You know what I need and when the mood suits you, I get a half-promise you'll cooperate. When we've made our bargain, you manage to skip out." She breathed deeply, her breath noisy in her throat.
"Well, by heaven, you're going to begin delivery or find out who's running this camp. I can still send Candace Simms back to Los Angeles, and I can still bring Nola Franchetti or any other girl into this office for a private conference."
Sandra was aghast, although she realized something like this might happen eventually. She had baited Hester more than once, and managed to make a bargain without paying the price.
Hester was smiling now, leaning forward, her eyes twinkling. "My, don't I sound ruthless!" she said. "Actually, I'm a pushover when people get to know me. Oh, I can't count the number I've helped in show business, and for almost nothing. Simply because they were kind, and we got along so well." Her smile broadened. "I'd like to help you, Sandra, if you can show me you have real talent. I believe you said you were a dancer."
Sandra squirmed. Lord, how she wanted to accept help! How badly she wanted a push along the path to success! But would she need to be with people like Hester St. Claire in order to make it in show business? She prayed she would not.
"Yes, I dance."
"Perhaps we have time for an audition." Hester rose, clapping her hands, overjoyed at her idea. "Yes, here and now. Come on, my dear, show me how you dance. Do something slow and graceful something in which you twist your body this way and that, something which will excite me, something you love so much that you, too, will be stimulated by the time youve finished."
"Please!" Sandra half whispered, looking toward the door. "There's the party..."
"Screw the party! It won't be over for two hours and everyone's having a harmless good time-just as we are." She stood over her, her fingers resting lightly on her shoulder. "Come on. Kick off those shoes and show me how you can stimulate an audience." She laughed. "I promise you, you beautiful thing, I can be a very appreciative audience."
"I couldn't," Sandra whimpered, her body shaking at the macabre thought of her gliding about the room, exciting another woman with her movements. "There's no music."
"That's nonsense." Hester leaned over the desk. "We have the radio." She snapped it on, and instantly the strains of Dancing in the Dark filled the room. She turned it down low. "We mustn't clash with the live music on the other side of the building.
"No, please...! " Sandra felt the strength draining from her body. Dancing would be impossible. Shame and embarrassment washed over her, leaving her limp in the chair.
Hester saw. "No? Perhaps you're too tired."
"I'm exhausted."
"Very well, then." She walked around Sandra, making a complete circle of inspection. "I'll simply be forced to examine your talents in an inert state. Just sit quietly and let your hands rest at your sides."
Sandra's body felt positively leaden by now, and, indeed, her hands hung limply over the arms of the chair. She wanted to let her head loll to one side, but she managed to keep it upright. How strange it was, she thought. What black magic had Hester used to rob her of her strength?
She watched Hester hovering over her, saw her lick her lips, all the while purring soft endearments as her eyes danced with anticipation.
"Remember, darling," she said time after time, "you owe me something. You owe me this." She said it again and again, and Sandra felt like a subject being hypnotized by a swinging pocket watch.
At last, Hester disappeared behind her chair and stopped, her breathing harsh. Even over the murmur of the radio, Sandra could hear the noise in her throat. She waited, her body trembling, wondering where her tormentor would strike, wondering even more desperately why she could not leap up and flee.
The touch came, lightly, mere fingertips on Sandra's shoulders. The fingers drummed in time to the dance rhythm from the radio, tapping her bare skin, occasionally catching a spaghetti strap and pulling at it.
The fingers whispered down to her throat, coming together under her chin, and Sandra could feel
Hester's body leaning over her, bending to its task. The weight of the other woman's breasts rested against the back of her head, propping her erect, keeping her from swaying.
Down came the hands, lower on her throat, finding the first swell at the tops of her breasts, sliding still further down across Sandra's skin. The hands slipped into the valley between her trembling bosom, thrusting deeply into the warm, quaking depression.
"Hester...! "
"Hush, darling! You're doing wonderfully!"
The hands left the depths of the valley, separating and working their way up either side of her breasts, tugging against the tight bodice, squirming under the baby-blue satin, struggling to reach the high points of Sandra's mounds.
Sandra closed her eyes, the tears running down her cheeks. She clenched her teeth, her jaw working. Her hands curled themselves into fists which beat feebly at the air.
Hester was almost at her goal and her fingers trembled with excitement almost as much as Sandra's body trembled with despair.
The moment had come...
Mercifully, like a hand from heaven, a thundering series of knocks sounded at the door. Sandra sobbed aloud with relief as Hester's hands whipped away from her body.
CHAPTER TEN
Sandra sat as though she were made of wood, hearing Hester's muffled curse and then her footsteps crossing the office. The knob rattled.
"Oh! It's you!"
"Yes, it's me. One of your girls told me I might find Miss Albright in the office."
The voice was familiar. Sandra managed to turn her head to see Tony Gibbs crossing the room with long steps, coming to her. He stopped before her, half-bowing in a courtly fashion.
"Miss Albright, yours is the last name on my card. May I have the pleasure of this dance?"
Sandra worked her lips, trying to speak, waves of nausea washing over her. She might have toppled from the chair if he hadn't gripped her shoulders.
"What is it?" he demanded. He looked toward Hester. "What the hell's been going on here, you filthy . . ! "
"Get out!" Hester shot back. "Take her with you, if you like, but get out. She's nothing, anyway. Just a helpless, quivering, powerless piece of flesh." Her face was ruddy with frustration and beads of sweat dotted her forehead.
He helped Sandra to her feet, leading her toward the door, while Hester stood, gripping the back of a chair, panting as though she had climbed the steep slope of a mountain. She said nothing as they went through the door, but it slammed behind them with a thunderous crash.
They stood on the porch for a few minutes, and Sandra felt her strength returning. Her stomach was settling down, and at last she no longer feared she would vomit.
He was holding her with one hand in the center of her back. With the other he dabbed at her face with his handkerchief, first moistening it at the porch drinking fountain. He made her take a drink of water and then she felt better when she straightened.
"Thank God!" she breathed, looking into his face. He was more deeply tanned than she remembered and his body looked harder under his light summer suit. His hair was black against the night. "How did you know?"
"As I said, you were the only counselor I hadn't asked to dance." His voice was low, husky with power and authority. "I found two of your girls, one of whom had left you just a short while before with St. Claire. She seemed concerned. The other gin-a snappy peroxide blonde-confirmed what I'd already heard about that queer duck in there." He nodded at the office door. "She also told me how you'd been holding her off all summer. I'm sorry I was rude the first time we met. You see, I assumed you were one of her stable."
Sandra sighed, loving being so close to him, pinching herself as she realized that he'd remembered her after all. "I've been walking a tightrope, protecting my girls with one hand, trying to keep her off me with the other."
He nodded. "You're a brave woman, but I think you'd better move around a bit so you can snap out of St. Claire's trance. What do you say-may I have that dance?"
Something seemed to melt and give way in her' breast and she smiled into his dark eyes, loving the way the shadows played across his high forehead. "I'd love it," she whispered...
She floated, her feet scarcely touching the floor, her head tucked between his neck and shoulder. On they danced, again and again, and from time to time she opened her eyes to see others smiling at them with approving warmth. "How are you now?"
His voice came to her out of a dream, and she snapped alert, her eyes popping open, her fingers pressing more firmly against his shoulder. "Wonderful!"
"I was afraid I might never see you again." His voice was muffled in her hair, and she could feel his breath whisper across her head.
She laughed. "I don't believe you."
"It's true. A half mile can be a thousand miles when they keep us so busy." He held her away a moment, looking into her eyes, and she felt herself drowning all over again. "We met under such grotesque circumstances, and I behaved so badly toward you. I was afraid to call for fear you'd slap my face as you threatened."
She stared. "You remember all that?"
"Of course!" He pulled her close again, and their feet moved in perfect harmony. "I remember the instant you walked into my office. I also thought I detected something in your glance that night."
She nodded against his shoulder. "You should have. I felt when I saw you as though I'd slipped my finger into a wall socket."
He laughed deeply and she felt his chest move against her. That triggered something and she knew he was conscious of it, too. She was aware of their bodies-his and hers.
At the places where they touched she felt a slowly growing heat. Her fingers tingled against his back, her temple was warm against his cheek, her breasts seemed hot and hard against his chest and their hips moved together in a slow, grinding rhythm.
"Tony, I..."
"Yes?"
The music was slow and sultry and, in the final hour, the lights had been dimmed so that the shadows were deep. "It's been too long since I've ... been close to a man this way."
"Too long for me, too."
They danced on and, helplessly, she felt her heat increasing. An itching began in her loins, spreading slowly, shooting out into other parts of her body and once she stumbled against him. He caught her expertly.
"I can't hear the beat any more."
"It's not a very good orchestra."
"No, it's not that." She let her face turn against his cheek so her nose and lips were tucked under his ear. "My knees. They don't want to support my body."
"You're not tired?"
"Of course not. I'm walking on air, but something's going wrong inside me. I'm not certain ... It's never happened like this before." Her lips pursed and she kissed him on the side of the neck. His fingers pressed into the small of her back. "Oh, Tony!"
"Be careful, my darling," he whispered. "We're in the center of the dance floor."
"Then for heaven's sake get me away from here," she begged, her body stiffening against his. "I can't be this close to you any longer. I'll make a fool of myself right here in front of everybody."
He guided her slowly away from the pattern of dancers, toward a side entrance. After a quick glance about them, he released her and opened the door, urging her through ahead of him.
Once outside, she took several deep breaths and then, with hands linked, they walked across the clearing. It was a dark night now, clouds covering the moon and no one, she was certain, would know about them.
They found themselves inside the line of trees and tents and, without thinking, she led him to her tent. She stopped outside and sat down on the step and he sat at her side.
"Tony ... Tony, what is it?"
He put his arm around her shoulders and her head fell against his. "It's like the electrical attraction between two poles," he murmured, "drawing opposites together with a force no man has ever really understood."
She lifted her head and looked at him. "Or is it as I said before-too long since we've been out with a man or a woman. Is that it? Are we simply hungry, starved for the touch of another human being?"
He chuckled. "If we are, it's the most wonderful meal I've ever enjoyed." He put his hand to her chin, turning her face toward him. "But it's more than that. You know it, and I know it. We knew it that first night we met, and neither of us was starved for affection then."
"You're right."
"Sandra, I wonder if I..."
"Yes, you may, Tony. I'll scratch your eyes out if you don't. Kiss me, darling!"
He did, his lips gentle over hers, not forcing, not hungry as Bobby's had always been, but cool and easy. He kept them over her mouth for a long time, and her eyes were closed. Presently, his lips parted, and she felt the tip of his tongue move, tickling the rim of her lips, making the complete circle.
Surprising even herself, she tore her mouth away, drawing her head back, searching his face for some clue. "Tony! This is all new! I've never felt like this before. Please tell me what it is?"
He studied her, his fingers digging into her shoulders. "You've never...? "
"Never!"
"Never been ... with a man?"
"No!" She sighed, her breath seeming to tear at her throat, and the fire spread up from her stomach. Her legs wouldn't be still, the knees always moving, always moving..."I want you to show me, to make it beautiful. Can you?"
Again he kissed her, this time with more force. She twisted her body, hurling her arms around his neck, and her mouth opened wide. His tongue darted in, finding every sensitive spot, almost choking her with its powerful probing.
He freed his arms and pulled hers from his neck so he could look about. "I don't know this camp
"Come!" She reached for his hand, pulling him with her. She turned and opened the door to the tent, her poised hand ordering him to wait quietly.
She went inside, where it was almost pitch black. Slowly, she felt her way around the familiar room, touching each bunk, making certain it was empty. Good girls. All of them were staying with the party to the very end.
She returned to the door and opened it so he could slip inside. He stood by her side and she twisted to hook the latch so they would not be surprised. At that instant, she felt his hand press under her arm, across her ribs and fasten itself full on her right breast.
She started, her eyes wide in the night. His other hand came up from her other side and clasped her left breast.
"Oh, Tony...! "
She let her head fall back against his chin and, again, she feared her knees would give way. His fingers pressed in unison, pumping against the softness of her breasts, and she felt the already swollen mounds burgeon still more tightly against the blue satin.
The hands went to her shoulders, flicked at the thin straps, dropped them over each arm. Then the hands were sliding down her throat and Sandra did not remember the sickening sensation when Hester had performed the same maneuver. This was a different place and a different night, her senses assured her body.
The hands went under her neckline, forcing the satin down, shoving the strapless brassiere with it, until he was able to push his way to the ends of her breasts. He caressed the nipples, and they, too, joined the other parts of her breasts in swelling and hardening, their tips poking into his palms like eager puppies seeking further caresses.
"My God, Tony!" Her words came in broken sobs. "Please, my sweet, don't play with me like this. It's beautiful, but it's torture!"
"Yes, darling," he whispered against the back of her neck, the touch of his lips making her skin quiver as though a current were passing through it.
He turned her around and, feeling his way in the darkness, found hidden fasteners and opened the dress, working it carefully from her body. Her underclothing slid off with it, and she helped him strip away her stockings and shoes.
She waited, her body rigid, her breasts rising and falling so tremulously she feared her lungs would burst. Her skin was hot to the touch, and she wondered if she actually had a fever. She heard the rustle of his clothing, and then he was back, his hand in hers.
"You lead the way."
She did, taking him the few steps to her bunk, praying no one would walk in on them. She pulled her bed open and sat down, her knees together, waiting. "I want it to be perfect, my Tony."
"It will be, darling. Trust me."
It was, indeed, Sandra's very first time. Perhaps she would have done it somewhere, sometime, before-but circumstances had always conspired against the event. She was, truly, a virgin, possessing all a virgin's hopes and dreams and fears. But she was also with the man she loved, and she knew that it would be all right.
She felt herself being urged to lie back, and she did so, until her head sank into the pillow. Then hands were on her face, her throat, her breasts, her stomach...
"Yes! Yes...! "
On they moved to her legs, up her thighs, around her hips, digging into the generous softness of her buttocks and then, at last, into the heart of her.
She felt herself stiffen, and her heels dug into the bed to swing her body up in an arc to meet his caresses. At the same time she felt a rhythm starting in her, a rhythm much like their motions on the dance floor and she realized why she had become so upset when they moved as one to the music.
"Please...! "
She felt the weight of him forcing her back, and her fists beat helplessly into the pillow on either side of her head. Then he was taking the pillow from her, lifting her hips and sliding it under them. She felt her body frozen in the natural arc, yet she knew it was right. Her man was truly an expert in the art of love.
In the blackness of the tent they came together, as one, inseparable. She helping where she could, but Tony led most of the way.
It hurt, and he waited until she tugged at him and then worked again until it hurt. Again and again he pressed, always gentle, always patient, always easing until her pain subsided.
You're going, Sandra, her whirling brain told her. This is the night-the very instant-you cease to be a girl and are transformed into a woman. You'll always remember this night. It's the grandest thing in your young life. Enjoy it, let it burn itself into your mind, keep it locked away so the memory will return to comfort you in more difficult times.
She did, feeling every minute contact as he brought them ever closer to fulfillment, feeling her bodily sensation heighten and grow more acute with each bit of effort. He was almost to it, something told her and she willed her body to open still further until she could possess him completely. "Darling, that's itl"
Their final rhythm lasted only an instant, as she locked her limbs about him and squeezed with all her power. They rose together in a swell of ecstasy and were carried away into the depths of the night-each of them together and yet apart in the Valhalla peculiar to the individual senses.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Everything was different. The sky was bluer, the trees were taller, the pungent smells of the forest more delightful than ever before.
Sandra walked at the head of her little column, leading the way through the forest, her head high, her breasts thrust forward proudly. From time to time, she sniffed and glanced about, almost laughing aloud.
Often she looked back over her shoulder and slowed her pace until the others were able to catch up. She would call to them and clap her hands and laugh with joy, and her girls would respond with delighted calls.
At lunch time, they halted in a clearing, high in the mountains. The place had been used many times before, and there were a number of rings of blackened stones where fires had been laid. They threw off their packs and, under Sandra's direction, the girls began warming the food.
Sandra and Candy shared one of the fires, squatting on their haunches and holding wieners over the heat on sticks. The other girls were collected about three separate fires, their chatter and laughter filling the clearing. It had been a successful morning. They had found most of the plants on their work lists and caught glimpses of several varieties of small game.
Sandra hummed as she withdrew her stick from the heat and examined the meat. It was darkened and bubbling on one side, so she turned it over. Her humming continued, and there was a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.
"For cripes sakes, you sound like a bumblebee just after he made out in a flower!" Candy muttered, looking from her stick to Sandra.
Despite her words, she was half smiling. She was a beautiful girl, Sandra thought, and she was pleased that her summer was going so well. Candy had the sort of figure made for a Treacher Camp uniform-the T-shirt properly filled out by high, hard young breasts, the shorts prettily stretched across her bottom, excellent young legs, straight and tanned.
Sandra laughed. "I'm not certain what that means, but I suspect you're talking like a tramp again."
"You bet your sweet you-know-what I am. "She moved her knee until it brushed Sandra's outer thigh. "Come on, what's the score? Your feet haven't been near the ground in two days."
Sandra looked at her, her dark eyes dancing. "Does it really show that much?"
"If they could plug you in, you'd generate enough power to light Dodger Stadium through a double-header." She snorted in the direction of her blackening wiener. "And I'd rather buy one of these dogs there than cook my own."
"I think it's wonderful to get out like this all day and eat under the trees."
"Maybe, if you're a jackrabbit or one of those forest sprites, but I'm not. I'm just Candy Simms, late of Los Angeles and who knows where she's going next?"
Sandra touched the girl's arm. "I don't know where you're going, but I know it will be a better place than the one you left."
Candy smiled, and Sandra could read grudging affection and respect in the younger girl's eyes. They had grown close as the days went by, and Candy had kept her word, staying out of troubleso far as Sandra knew. She was a tough little blonde, but her word was good.
"Quit changing the subject, chief weirdo of the woods. What or who is turning you on like an Edison lamp?"
Sandra had been moving about in a trance ever since the night Tony Gibbs had changed her world campletely. Now she was a woman, a fulfilled woman who finally knew why she had been put on earth. For two days, she had kept her secret locked inside her breast, wishing she could leap up on a table during dinner and shout the news to the entire camp. Several times, she had debated telling Candy the whole story-but she was still afraid to confide in her.
Now, it seemed, the blonde knew something was going on, anyhow.
"I suppose you'll keep after me until I tell," she barely suppressed a giggle, feeling like a high-school girl all over again. She hoped, of course, that Candy would keep after her.
"I'll keep after you like the Dynamic Duo keeps after the Riddler. Come on, spill the beans or I'll sic that lesbian supervisor on you some night after you're in bed."
Sandra shuddered. "Don't even joke about such a thing!" But not even the thought of Hester could quiet her bubbling spirits. "All right, I'll tell, but you must promise..."
"Lady, where I come from nobody squeals. If they do, it's..." She drew a finger across her throat.
Sandra took a deep breath. "Tony Gibbs."
Candy stared and then grinned, showing all her teeth. "I ought to have figured it out, especially after Nola and I sent him into Hester's office after you the other night." Again she nudged Sandra's thigh. "So you two rang all sorts of bells together, eh?"
"A million bells!"
"That's good," Candy went on, examining her wiener and then trying to pull it from the stick. She burned her finger and sucked the grease from it. "You needed a good man after so long in this booby hatch. "She looked at the forest about them, rolling her eyes in consternation. "I'm starting to grow a tail."
"I realize now how much I needed him," Sandra agreed.
"You ... uh, you went the whole route, eh?" Candy was peering at her, eyes squinting.
Sandra turned her head away, concentrating on placing her wiener in a bun without dropping it into the dirt. "That's right."
"How do you feel about that?"
Sandra faced her again. "I feel perfectly wonderful, thank you. Not ashamed, but proud."
Candy grinned. "Good! I assume, from all the fireworks going off, it was your first roll in the hay."
Sandra sighed. "Must you put everything into your own inimitable language?" She bit into her roll, and juice spurted, running down her chin. She wiped with the back of her hand and chewed until she got the mouthful down. "Yes, it was my first time."
"Welcome to the club. How did you manage to keep it until you were twenty-one?"
Sandra laughed, making it a low, lustful sound. "Blame it on the backward social stratum in which I was raised."
"Anyhow, I'm glad you aren't going to pieces all over the place." Candy finished her hot dog. "Some dames make a big thing of it, like they earned a dishonorable discharge or something. They think everybody on the street will know. Some of them are even dopey enough to think they cheated on the guy they're going to marry even though they haven't met the poor sucker yet."
"I know." Sandra nodded. "I've seen other girls go through the experience. But it's no problem for me, because Tony is the man. I made love to him because I love him, because he's the one, not because I was carried away by a handsome profile or a pair of provoking hands."
"My, my! Candy said with awe in her voice. "You really are serious about this gorgeous hunk of male down the road. How far does this route lead-clear past this summer?"
Sandra lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders, jutting her breasts with defiance. "I'm betting everything I have that it will last forever. Don't you see? That's exactly why I feel no remorse. That's why I don't feel I've cheated on the man I'm going to marry."
Candy gasped. "You mean . . ? "
"Exactly. If I have my way, someday soon you can call me Mrs. Anthony Gibbs."
Candy clapped and a few of the others looked their way, smiling, but they turned away again, intent on their meals. "Keep after him, baby!" the blonde advised, her voice low and calculating. "Keep after him until you bring him down. From what I've seen of that buck, half the female hunters in Southern California must be on his tail. Strike fast."
Sandra smiled and said, "I have my plans all made, thank you, and striking fast is among them."
* * *
Everything changed as they wound down the highway, taking the curves fast with a slight squealing of the tires. The pines gave way to high brush, which gave way to cactus. The temperature climbed from eighty to more than a hundred and ten by the time they reached the desert floor.
Sandra turned the wind wing on the convertible as far as she could, so that the breeze whipped in at her, sending her dark hair streaming back from her face. She squinted into the hot wind, her arm trailing from the window, loving the feel of the warm air on her palm and fingers.
She turned to Tony, letting her knee slide over to meet his. "Now I know why Palm Springs isn't a summer resort," she said.
He nodded, grinning as he maneuvered the car around the baking carcass of a rabbit. "We're lucky. I don't think it's as hot as usual."
How she loved to hear him speak! How she loved to see him, to look at him! How she loved to touch him, to have him touch her!
Tony ... he was her Tony. Even though they'd only been together that one night, she knew he was hers from the moment they put their arms around one another on the dance floor. And she was his. She knew this, too, and she wanted him to understand how deep her love had become.
It had been a terrible two weeks. They had had to wait a full fourteen days until the Sunday came when each could slip away from camp duties. He had been adamantly against casual visiting between camps and equally strict about telephone calls. He bad warned her how easily rumors-whether true or not-could spread if they were seen together.
So she had waited, her spirits high, at first, as they were the day she took Candy and the other girls on the long hike. After the third day, when she beard nothing, she began to break apart. No visit. No call. Nothing...
The horrible thought which had always lurked in the back of her mind came forward-the fear that perhaps she was nothing more to Tony Gibbs then another conquest. She told herself it couldn't be true, that he was far too sincere, too tender, too much the gentleman to hurt her.
Then the letter came. He could get free the following Sunday if she were able to meet him. It was not Sandra's day off, but she traded with another counselor, who asked no questions, and met him on the road, out of sight of the Treacher Camp gate.
The trip to the desert was his idea, and she thought it was wonderful. If he had suggested they spend the day hanging by their thumbs from the limb of a tree, she'd have been equally ecstatic. After eight weeks in the woods, they agreed that a shot of the swimming-pool and bright-light life would do them good.
He wore white slacks and a white T-shirt. She wore a halter-type dress which was backless and sleeveless. He wore tennis shoes, and she wore no stockings. They had done all they could against the heat, but still it was hot.
By the time they reached the chain of luxury hotels at the approach to the city, they were perspiring, the moisture pouring from their skin and running down their faces. She could see the dampness coming through his shirt, and she could feel her own moisture building.
When he turned into a ranch-type hotel she pointed out, it was too hot for her to remain in the car while he checked in. She went into the office with him, not caring if the clerk should notice she wore no ring. She was with her man-that was all that mattered.
"Yes, sir," the clerk said, chattering while Tony filled in the register. "That's why they call it the Palms to Pines Highway. You can go from snow to eighty degrees in the winter and from chilly weather to a hundred and twenty this time of year." He beamed at Sandra as though he personally made the climate miracle happen.
They accepted a bucket of ice and returned to the car. Tony drove slowly to the rear, all the way to the cabana with the most privacy to offer. He parked and lifted out a small canvas bag and the ice bucket.
It was mercifully cool inside the cabana, which was done in Old Spanish with lots of tile, heavy drapes, matador posters and a corner adobe chimney. "We must come here during the winter," she exclaimed, whirling in the middle of the room like a housewife discovering her first home. "How wonderful it would be to curl up in front of a fire!"
Tony chuckled, taking the bag into the kitchen. He took out a couple of bottles and got glasses from a cupboard. In a minute, he had made them each a cool, green, brimming gimlet.
"Hey, what's wrong?" He chuckled. "Too strong?"
"How unromantic can a lug get?" she replied, pretending to complain. "His one and only gives the misty-eyes-of-love look, and he thinks she's choking on bad vodka."
She set his glass aside and put hers with it.
"Hold on! I hardly toucbed my medicine," he sputtered, reaching for his drink.
Sandra grasped his wrist and pulled him away from the table, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're my prisoner."
"I'm also thirsty."
"I have something which should satisfy any complaints you might have." She pressed her hips against him and her breasts dug at his chest, their ends hard, probing.
"God, it's so hot!" he complained, methodically peeling her arms from his neck, one at a time. "Tell you what. Let's go into the pool first. Then we'll be clean, cool, comfortable."
"Ugh!" She made a face. "You sound like a television ad for a deodorant."
"Come on," he exclaimed, taking her hands, pulling her close for a kiss and then shoving her away. He got the bag out of the kitchen and rummaged in it, taking out her bathing suit, a white, one-piece outfit. "I'll bet you drive the boys wild in this mantrap."
She laughed, catching the suit when he threw it. "All right, you terrible, frigid old man. I'll go swimming with you, but you're not going to hold me off for long."
She began to loosen the halter of her dress, untying the straps at the small of her back, her eyes dancing with mischief while she watched him slip from his shirt. When he had kicked his trousers from his legs, she struck.
She leaped on him, her weight carrying him with her and they staggered to the bed, falling in a heap on the coverlet. She climbed on his body, straddling him, holding him down with one hand while she clawed at his shorts with the other. She stripped him to the cozy sound of giggles-giggles which were designed to sound seductive.
He was pinned, helpless except for his hands, so he put them to work. She thrilled when he pulled her straps free and the halter fell to her waist.
"What a hussy!" he exclaimed. "No bra! You'll be drummed out of the Treacher Camp girls Honor Society."
"Please don't mention Treacher again in this room or I'll do something that will hurt," she warned, her small fists poised over his stomach.
He didn't. Instead he touched her breasts, and the same electric shock which had rocked her that night in the forest made her buck and lunge all over again. Her reaction to him was more violent than ever. Then he was pulling at her hips, removing her dress, flinging it away so that they were nude-nude and together as she had ached to be for fourteen days.
Then he was rolling, upsetting her so that she was a tumbling collection of arms, legs and breasts, falling to her back on the cool softness. He was kneeling over her, his face on hers, their mouths locked together in a hot, feverish seal which could not be broken.
His hands were busy again, preparing her body, massaging breasts, tummy, hips, her thighs, making her more ready than she thought she could ever be.
"Darling, darling . . ! "
Her voice was a harsh whisper as she felt things happening inside her. Things which were being mixed in the laboratory at the center of her womanhood. These things would be mixed with the product of his body chemistry, and they would fuse in a wonderful explosion.
She reached, finding him, grasping him hard until he cried out with sweet anguish.
Then he was slapping her hands away, throwing himself upon her, his body hitting hers heavily but accurately. They were one, and their motion was beautiful and effective. She felt his heat reach an animal pitch and, from the look of anguish on his lips knew his chemistry was ready for hers.
They were poised, bodies arched, hard and stiff, and then the center span of their bridge broke, and they fell heavily to the softness, their bodies expending themselves, their strength flowing freely and wonderfully for second after second after second.
"You're good ... You're good ... You're good..." he panted as his strength poured from him into her, satiating her for the moment, giving her the peace of mind which only a fulfilled woman can enjoy.
As last, she said, cradling his dripping face, "Yes, I'm good with you, dearest. I'm best when
I'm with you, and I know we'll be good for each other ... always!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
They lay by the lip of the pool, alone in the almost deserted resort, two of the few guests willing to endure the boiling heat of a Palm Springs summer.
Their bodies, covered with oil to prevent them from blistering in a matter of minutes, were comfortable on long, air-filled rubber pads. They had been out of the water for only a minute, but already Sandra's hair was drying, and she could feel the first prickle of perspiration under the halter of her suit.
She looked at Tony, who lay with his face a few inches from hers, his body within reach-all the way down to their feet. His eyes were closed, and he was enjoying the exhausted rest of a man who had been called on twice within the hour to satisfy a woman who loved him.
Sandra slept too ... and then she awoke...
It was growing dark about them and already a few lights were winking on here and there. She didn't know how long they had lain like this, but her body tingled. Thank goodness the sun had set. They would be free of its burning power until they were back in the mountains.
She didn't like to think about that, for it meant they must part again, not to see one another for, perhaps, two more agonizing weeks. She couldn't stand that long a wait. She needed him with her constantly.
She lifted her chin and put her face close to his, blowing softly until he blinked and opened his eyes. He stared vacantly for a moment, looking at her as though she were a stranger. She was frightened until he smiled in recognition.
"Lord!" he sighed, stretching his wonderful body. "What did you put in my gimlet?"
She giggled. "I didn't give you anything, lover. I simply took all you had."
"Amen! A female Hercules."
"I'm only as strong as you make me, darling." Again she laughed, a wanton gurgle in her throat. "And I hope you do, often."
"Make you?"
"Yes."
He rolled his eyes. "I've latched on to a direct descendant of Attila the Hun."
She placed her fingers over his lips until he stopped making sounds. Then she kissed him lightly, resisting the impulse to hurl herself upon him. She made herself take her lips away.
"Tony. I meant it when I said I was good with you. You make me something special. I think we're good for each other."
"I told you that first night. It's the power of electricity."
"Yes." She nodded. "Another word for it is love."
He looked at her, studying her eyes. "Love ... that word can mean many things."
"I know what it means to me-and to you." She ran her fingers over the bridge of his nose and down to his lips again, letting his teeth catch their tips and nibble on them. "Tony?"
"Hm?"
"What's going to happen with us?"
She wondered if she only imagined that a veil dropped behind his eyes. "More marvelous things, that's what."
"You know I love you, darling. I want to be with you always." She took away her fingers and replaced them with her lips, whispering directly into his mouth. "Will you take me with you? Will we go away together when this wonderful summer is ended?"
He chuckled and pulled his head away from her, his laugh a bit stiff. "Hey, aren't we pushing things just a bit? I thought the man was supposed to make the sales pitch." He smiled. "Besides I haven't discussed your dowry with Mr. Albright, that rich lumber magnate from Oregon."
"A mere administrative detail," she persisted, hitching her body forward so that her face was close to his again. "We're not living in Victorian times, darling. I can make any decision I please and tell my parents afterward. There's no one you need ask for permission to carry me off to your secret castle in the clouds."
He smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid there are no castles in my estate. Not even a six-room house."
"Shucks, I thought I was landing a prince with his own rich kingdom."
"No such luck." He shook his head. "I've been strapped all year, as a matter-of-fact. I spent last year finishing my doctorate, and I'm still paying the bills for that. Your prince has patches in his velvet cape, I fear."
"I'll take you, rich or poor."
He looked into her eyes, his wide gaze searching. "Don't run with the bit in your teeth, Sandra."
Something in his tone stopped her. "What do you mean?"
"Where I come from," he said sternly, "the men make such decisions as who will live with whom and when and how and where. A Gibbs man is never ruled by his princess, except in the kitchen and bedchamber."
Sandra closed her eyes, her heart almost stopping in the sudden wave of shame which washed over her. She looked at him again, her eyes brimming, her smile tender. "Will you please forget how stupidly I've been acting the past few minutes, Mr. Gibbs? Your friend Sandra Albright tends to get rather pushy when she becomes enthusiastic about something close to her heart." She kissed him on the forehead. "Thank you for putting a brake on my runaway emotions."
"Baby, I ... I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." He stroked her sleek hair, his touch light, tender.
"You haven't. You're making me behave like an adult, that's all." She sighed. "You're absolutely right about my being too pushy. Actually, I wouldn't think much of a man who would allow me to make plans which are properly his to make. I guess that's why I like the Gibbs type of man."
He seemed relieved, and she suspected he was glad to be put in charge again. "You're something special, Miss Albright. Remind me to tell you that ... often."
"I shall," she murmured, looking over her shoulder at the deserted pool area. She rolled against him, locking her arms around his neck, pulling him half over her so she could look up into his eyes. "I'll remind you of something else. Something I want very badly-but I'll promise to be subtle. Okay?"
"Okay."
He kissed her, their lips strong on one another and she felt her body awaken at the contact, suddenly anxious for more of this remarkable man. How wanton she was becoming! Twice in one afternoon and now, when it was scarcely dark, she was panting for him again.
Her fingers dug into his back, pulling him down on her, hard, eagerly, desperately, clutching at his muscles like a drowning woman reaching for the surface.
"Hey, tiger." He managed to pull his face one inch from her lips. "You're insatiable. If I'd known you were such a glutton, I never would have asked you to dance."
"Old insatiable, that's me." She laughed, her voice hitting a wild note, and she cut it off, embarrassed. "There I go, playing the cave woman again." She tangled her fingers in his hair. "But it's true, Oona needs her caveman, Zug. Does Zug want to take Oona back into the cave?"
He pulled himself to his hands and knees and gazed around the inner patio. Except for a light in the office, the place was dark. Apparently the manager was saving on his summer electric bill by leaving the pool lights off, too. Sandra saw these things at the same time Tony saw them.
"I know what you're going to suggest and I'd love it," she blurted, sitting up with him.
He stood and pulled her to her feet. She knew she looked good in the bikini. Its fabric hugged every curve and hollow of her body, and the first time Bobby Williamson had seen it on her he had gone wild. Tony looked her over now, and she knew he was becoming aroused, just at the sight of her.
"Okay, water sprite, let's go," he whispered.
Together, they went to the ladder and she led the way, creeping down its chromium rungs, easing her body into the cool, dark water. He came close behind and she was able to reach up to pinch him as he descended.
Then they were in all the way, only their faces bobbing at the surface, treading water, their cupped hands drawing them slowly to a shallow corner which was farthest from the light.
At last she stood, the water at her waist, her feet on the bottom, her back braced against the side. His face was only a shadow before her, the whites of his eyes and his teeth glowing dully in the night.
She felt his hands exploring her body again, pulling at the taut halter, which stretcbed and yielded to his pressure. Then he was pulling at her hips, removing the bottom, careful to keep the water from swirling too much.
At the same time, she fumbled with the lacing at his waist, jerking the bow, opening the string so she could pull at his skimpy trunks. Down they came, seeming to cooperate ever so much better than her own. But at last his hips were freed of the elastic, and the rest was easy.
They came together, their bodies cool and hard, probing for one another. Her breasts were rigid and swollen, wanting to float to the surface like cork cones. He touched them, feeling their tips, which were like chilled rubber.
Sandra spread her arms behind her, gripping the side of the pool, bracing her elbows. At the same instant she swung her legs forward, catching him at the waist, pulling him tightly against her. With a simple bend of his knees, Tony was able to guide himself so that they met exactly as they wanted.
Sandra's head was flung far back, resting on the edge of the pool through it all. With eyes closed tightly, her teeth clenched, she loved her man for the third time in just a few hours.
What, she wondered during the frenzy of their lovemaking, am I turning into? I've practically raped this man three times. Only two weeks ago, I was a girl, a virgin, a girl who only dreamed of such experiences, thinking they were only for others.
Now I'm in the middle of a torrid, pulling, whirling sex cauldron, wanting more, more, more ... But more from one man only-and that's what makes it beautiful.
At their climax, she thought of nothing at all. Her animal senses took over, giving her the strength of ten, giving full vent to all the lust of her demanding young body...
* * *
The car purred like a jungle cat as it crept down the report city's main street at ten miles an hour. It was a large, new car, air-conditioned so its owner was comfortable.
It drove the entire length of the hotel strip, a distance of almost five miles. Then it turned and came back again, slowing at the entrance to each hotel. There wasn't much to look for, really. Most of the places were next to being empty, witb only a few cars parked in their patios.
From time the entire parking area was not visible from the street, so the large sedan would turn into the hotel patio, its lights dimmed, and make a slow circle of the grounds, so its owner could see every car.
Then it would proceed down the strip again, more slowly than ever, because there weren't many places left to search ... Wait!
The car stopped with a slight squeal of brakes. It backed up and turned into the hotel, its headlights out. It was dark in the patio, but the car skirted the pool and stopped, the silhouette of a convertible between it and the lighted cabana beyond.
The driver stepped from the car, closing the door until it touched the jam to keep the cool air inside, but careful that the latch made no noise. At the side of the convertible, the driver produced a tiny flashlight, snapped it on and directed its small white cone to the steering column and the registration slip.
It was easy to read-Anthony H. Gibbs, 34 Calle Hermosa, Santa Barbara.
The light went off, and the figure walked to the cabana, stepping to one side of the window, seeking to see through the tiny space between the drapes and the frame.
There! That was the place to look. Something moved. A man's feet-bare feet-on a couch. Patience ... Ah! She was crossing the room to him. Excellent! She stopped for a moment in full view, framed by the tiny window crack.
It was Sandra Albright in there with him, and she was smiling down at the couch. She held a cocktail glass in either hand. What kind of drink was in the glasses? Gimlets, perhaps, but it really didn't matter. Sandra herself was much more interesting.
The figure at the window breathed more deeply at sight of her, hands trembling as the flashlight was tucked back into a purse.
Better to get back to camp and a good night's rest, so she could think of some pleasant surprise for Sandra Albright on her return.
She got back into the sedan and purred away from the hotel and the resort city as softly as she had come. But she didn't sleep well when she returned to the Treacher Camp just before dawn.
Her body was still aroused by the view of Sandra she'd gotten at the cabana window. She had seen a body young and proud, perfectly rounded, graceful, wonderfully feminine...
... and completely nude...
* * *
It was sunset, a time of day which was becoming Sandra's favorite time. Dinner was over and so was the busy schedule of activities which had kept her on the jump since sunrise.
A hundred-and-fifty teenaged girls didn't run out of energy as quickly as Sandra, even though she was only a few years older than they. Those kids could go and go and go and never seem to tire.
Now, except for the usual evening program, she was finished with her duties until sunrise tomorrow. Often, she was one of the evening campfire leaders, directing the group in singing or dancing or games. But tonight, there was to be a nice long motion picture film about survival in the forest.
She sat at the head of her bed, her knees tucked under her chin, pad and pen in hand. How many days had it been? She pretended to think, knowing the number was burned into her brain. Five ... it had been five days since their long night at Palm Springs, and they hadn't seen one another since he deposited her some distance up the road from the Treacher Camp gate. That had been a scant half hour before sunrise Monday morning.
They had not communicated since then. Ridiculous as it seemed, Sandra knew the only thing to do was write, as Tony had written her the week before. She would send him a note, and perhaps they could arrange to meet again soon, when they were free.
She let her knees down slightly and rested the pad on them, beginning to write. The thoughts came easily, straight from her heart.
Dearest-It's been five years, not five days, since I've been alive. You know, of course, that I'm only alive when you're near. I'll never forget our cozy hacienda, the wonderful pool and the things we did. How wonderful it is to explore with you, to discover what life is really about ...
"Miss Albright?"
The small voice came from outside the screen, and Sandra put aside her pad, getting up to open the door. It was an office messenger, wearing the arm band which made her duties so terribly official. "What is it, Eleanor?"
"Mrs. St. Claire wants to see you at the office. She said for you to come right away. All right?"
Sandra smiled. "All right, messenger girl. You've done your duty."
When the girl was gone, she sighed, looking at the unfinished letter. She'd hurry to Hester and get back before the film ended, so she could finish it before the girls poured into the tent.
She opened her locker and looked at herself in the mirror, tucking in her T-shirt and smoothing her shorts. She examined her face, thankful that the dark circles which hung under her eyes early in, the week were gone. When a girl lived the outdoor life all summer, a bit of late-dating could change her looks in a hurry.
Please, she whispered to herself, her eyes closed. Please, Tony, come and take me away now. Give me dark circles again. I love earning them and I wear them with honor.
She sighed and went outside, walking easily across the dark and deserted clearing. Everybody must be at that silly survival movie, she thought. She went across the porch outside the office, seeing the blinds were pulled for privacy. She opened the door, hoping there was nothing ominous in the closed blinds.
Nonsense! She had learned to handle Hester. With only a bit more than a week to go before the end of summer, she could hold her off until they broke camp for the season.
Hester sat behind her desk, scribbling on a mass of papers before her. She looked up when Sandra crossed the room, smiled briefly, waved at one of the chairs.
Sandra sat waiting, saying nothing, watching Hester sign papers, scribble short notes at the tops of letters and gradually work her way through the back log of office work. She glanced around the office at the old leather couch, then at the rows of group photographs of past camp classes and their leaders. By next year, she knew, the current class would be banging on the wall, and Sandra would be in the row of counselors in the foreground, just behind the supervisor. She continued looking, turning her eyes to the drawn blinds. No, that could mean nothing.
At last Hester stuck her pen back in its holder. Her desk was clear. "Well, that's that. First things first, you know." She smiled at Sandra warmly.
Then she got up and went to the door, snapping the bolt home with an authoritative click. She came back to the desk and, instead of getting behind it again, sat in the chair at Sandra's side.
"Well, darling Sandra," she said, her voice light, almost lilting with some hidden joy. "What are we going to do about you?"
Sandra frowned. "I beg your pardon."
"That, dear, was a rhetorical question. You see, we'll do with you what I choose, and I've already decided how you shall be handled."
Something froze in Sandra's breast, and she tightened her grip on the arms of the chair. The woman was smiling like a snake about to strike, positive it had full control over its victim. Well, it simply wasn't true!
"I'm afraid you're talking in riddles, Hester," she said airily.
"Of course. Perhaps I can explain to you." She took a deep breath and her look of satisfaction increased, spreading across her face like a wind-driven brush fire. "I know everything about last Sunday night."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sandra's face turned to wood and the rest of her body seemed to stop functioning. Her heart skipped a beat, quivered in terror for a moment, then pounded in her breast, threatening to tear itself from its confining cavity.
"That's impossible," She heard the words fill the room, but she wasn't aware she had spoken.
"Not for a minute, my aspiring dancer. You were at the Jumping Cholla Hotel in Palm Springs with Tony Gibbs. You went there in his car and you made love until almost dawn the next day."
Sandra's fear was replaced by anger, an anger which made her body tremble as though she were still afraid. But she felt strong. So their secret was out! So what? Together, she and Tony were strong. They could face any problem, any obstacle-even Hester St. Claire.
"You're nothing more than a filthy peeping Tom," she hissed, drawing away from the older woman. "How did you know where to do your snooping?"
"History was on my side-history and my excellent memory for it." She sighed, seemingly at peace with the world, as though she'd accomplished a much-sought goal. "Your Mr. Gibbs has been in Palm Springs before."
Sandra tossed her head. "I don't believe you."
"It's true. He was there last year." She rose and went to a door which led to another room, deeper in the office. She opened it. "Come in, please, Connie."
A red-headed counselor, the girl who had first spoken to Sandra on the porch outside that day so long ago, came into the room. She was the girl who had first warned Sandra bout Hester. Sandra and Connie Hofstedder had seen each other often since then, of course, and they were friends. Now the girl was cringing, and her eyes were red. She stood before them, like a child anxious to deliver its recitation and hurry away.
Hester looked from Connie to Sandra, and then back again. "All right, tell her."
The redhead spoke woodenly, as though she were drugged. "Last summer, Tony Gibbs and I drove to Palm Springs in his convertible several times, staying in various hotels. He made love to me in all of them. When we broke up in the fall, he told me he had taken other girls down there."
"It's a lie!" Sandra leaped to her feet, her eyes wide, her ears not wanting to hear any more.
"You're both in this together. You want to drive us apart." She pointed at Connie. "That's it! You're jealous. You want to get him back for yourself."
Connie shook her head. "I haven't seen him since last September except at the camp dance. Now I'm engaged to be married in November, to a boy from Denver. I can prove it, if you like."
"I'd like it if you got out," Hester snapped, pointing at the door. "Right now. Go!"
The redhead turned and went to the door, opening the catch, and going outside. She left like a zombie, not looking to left or right. Hester followed her and threw the lock home again.
"How could you make her tell such a lie?" Sandra demanded, shouting into Hester's face, her chin forward.
"It's not a lie. She consented to tell all because she knows I can ruin her reputation with what I know about her behavior." Hester shrugged. "It's as simple as that."
Sandra sat down on the old leather couch, her head drooping. She couldn't think. She was acting at the command of animal reflexes, clutching at hope where she could. "I don't care. Tony never lied to me. He never claimed I was the first. So there were others, but none like me. He's practically promised he'll propose at the right time."
Hester sat down next to Sandra, tenderly taking her hand, and she dropped her heavy bomb. "When will you get this proposal-after his divorce?"
Sandra didn't know what she had heard, but she felt the reaction deep in her belly. There was a sudden knot which twisted her insides, making them hurt. She merely looked at Hester, silently demanding proof.
"Anthony Gibbs. Assistant professor of English at Santa Barbara. Husband of Betty Gibbs and the father of four lovely children, two boys and two girls."
Sandra's head moved back and forth in protest.
"But yes, sweetheart. I have the address in my desk. Shall we have the telephone operator put us through? Would you like to speak to her, or perhaps to the children?"
Sandra said nothing for more than five minutes. She sat quietly, her hands gripping her knees, staring at the far wall. At last she murmured, "I'm going to be ill. May I leave now?"
"No! And you're not going to be sick." Hester commanded. "You only hope you will be, so you'll feel better later. You're going to stay right here, darling, and do your dance audition for me. Remember how the great Tony Gibbs himself interrupted us the last time?"
"No. I'm going outside."
"If you do, a number of things will happen." Hester ticked them off with her fingers as though she were reporting to a board of directors. "The Treacher Foundation will hear of your relationship, and you'll be fired in the morning. I'll make certain your friends at school get word about your nocturnal activities and, finally, one day next week your parents will get an anonymous letter-a fat letter."
Sandra didn't know why she still cared about protecting herself from scandal. Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps she hoped she might still have a life to go back to, if she survived this terrible hour.
"And if I dance for you?"
Hester turned Sandra's face to her, kissing her on the lips. Sandra could feel the older woman trembling with anticipation, with the hope of final victory. "Then no one but Connie, Tony, you and I will ever know."
"So I will dance." She stood, looked down at
Hester, feeling as drugged as Connie had, knowing she had no will left. "I'll call it the dance of the blackmailed whore."
"Delightful!" Hester leaned back on the couch. "Turn on the radio and begin."
Sandra went to the desk and snapped on the portable. Obediently, it provided music, a wild sort of music with a beat which seemed to match the wanton, hopeless, black trance into which she had been plunged.
She danced and danced, doing every step she'd ever learned and improvising a good many more, her arms and legs and hips flashing this way and that, on and on and on...
Hester's eyes grew bright with anticipation, and she leaned forward, her hands twisting and knotting together and she licked the perspiration from her upper lip from time to time. Her breathing became harsh, and Sandra could hear it, even over the beat of the drums and the thudding of her own broken heart.
As she danced, Sandra felt her trance-like depression grow, taking control of her brain and her body until she was no longer a rational being. She had become a zombie, an automaton which could perform certain functions without a will of its own. She was, she knew, the slave of Hester St. Claire-the woman who held Sandra Albright's future in her hands.
Sandra's body writhed, back and forth, up and down, in broad, erotic circles, snake-like, sensual, until she caught the excitement, drummed it against her senses until they accepted it and, therefore, dulled the pain.
Then Hester was with her, dancing by her side as best she could, taking her hands, leading her like the male dancer leading the woman, taking her gracefully toward the couch.
Hester forced her to sit, and she did so, her body still going through the motions of the dance. Then Hester coaxed her to lie down, and she did, her hips still alive with the rhythm, refusing to stop, like a snake which-although dead-will not cease writhing until sunset.
At last Hester took complete charge and Sandra, reduced to a passionate and beautiful young animal, let her do as she wished. The older woman's expert hands removed the T-shirt, the shorts and the garments underneath until Sandra's body was fully exposed.
Hester proceeded with her ritual in a cool, calculated way, taking her time, not missing a single step in the intricate procedure. It was effective, and Sandra's yielding body responded fully, first accepting the stimulation, then welcoming it, then anticipating it and, finally, demanding it.
With Hester probing at the very core of her soul, Sandra's lips opened and a stream of foul oaths poured from her throat-horrible, wanton, black words and phrases Sandra had not known she knew.
"Wonderful, darling!" Hester exclaimed. "Now we're learning just what kind of candy and cake this little girl is made of. She's so sweet and so spoiled. Spoiled rotten!"
At last she was fully possessed, with Hester down over her, her face close, working, taking her, digging into places which had once been so private, so sacred. Now they were laid bare and used until they had no more to give.
There was a blinding flash, and Sandra heard herself whimpering like a wounded puppy, minute after minute after minute...
* * *
Her hand shook so badly she could barely hold the dime in her fingers. But she held on long enough to drop it into the slot. Then she ran her finger under the number, her lips moving as she repeated it.
She dialed and heard the buzzing. A young voice answered and she asked for him. She said it was an emergency, that she had to speak to him even if he were the referee in a championship volleyball game.
He came on the line. "Hello?"
"It's me."
She heard his intake of breath. "I told you never to call me here."
"Why not? What have we to hide?"
He was annoyed now. "Well, what is it? I'm in the middle of something."
"This is more important than volley ball. I must see you. Today. At once."
He sensed her strength, perhaps, for he did not protest further. "All right. Start walking up the road, and I'll meet you halfway."
* * *
They sat in the woods, on a soft blanket of pine needles, the branches from a huge circle of trees shutting out the slanting late summer sun.
She picked up a small cluster of needles, studying the way they grew in groups, three or four to a bundle, coming from a single core. Thoughtfully, she pulled the needles apart, one by one. She held them close to her face and her eyes were slightly crossed.
"Then she was telling the truth. You are married. You are a father." Her voice was flat, dead.
"Sandra, honey," he replied, his voice soft, pleading. He placed his hand over hers and she did not draw away. "God, how I wanted to tell you! How I wanted to spill out the whole mess, but I didn't want to ruin a beautiful relationship. I admit it, I was weak..."
She choked on a sarcastic laugh. "Not as weak as I was."
"Yes. It's my fault. Perhaps you were weak, but at least you were honest."
She dropped the needles and looked at him. "Did you believe me when I told you I loved you?"
He nodded. "And I wanted to tell you of my love, darling, but I didn't dare. I couldn't. Not with things the way they were in Santa Barbara."
Sbe squinted, studying his face. "How are things in Santa Barbara?"
"Like a nightmare. You don't know what it's like to feel trapped for the rest of your life." He kicked at the earth, apparently shaken anew by frustration. "I'd leave her tomorrow if it weren't for the children and my position at the college."
"Yes. It would look bad at the school, wouldn't it? The dean and the trustees and your students would be all shook up."
He nodded. "Of course. When one's a teacher, he's under the magnifying glass, so to speak. That's why I wanted us to be discreet here. The tiniest hint can be blown up into a mighty rumor and carried all the way back to Santa Barbara."
"For your sake, we'd better call it off, then."
He stared at her, apparently wondering if she were sincere, then deciding she was. He was easily fooled. "You're wonderful, Sandra. To think of how much you'd hoped would come of this. Then to have everything-your whole world-dashed into a thousand pieces. And you're still a good sport, a friend."
She smiled. "Sure. Why not? I enjoyed myself. Didn't you?"
Again he studied her, believing her again. "Wonderful fun. I ... hope we can get together next summer, too. I'll certainly be thinking of you during the winter months."
"Those cold winter months?" She winked. "With no one around but your wife and four little Gibbs tykes?"
"I'm being sincere, Sandra."
"So am I, darling, but I don't expect to return to the Treacher Camp next summer." She sucked on her lip, wondering why she was playing this game, wondering if she were going insane-especially when she didn't know whether to laugh or tear her clothes in screaming agony. "I understand Connie Hofstedder is returning, however, You won't be completely alone."
"Connie Hofstedder?"
She started to laugh. "Good Lord, you don't remember her. Believe me, she remembers you and, I'm afraid, I'll remember you, too."
He nodded. "I'll remember you, too, honey." He touched her hands again, squeezing them. "I won't be able to turn you off like a light switch."
"But you'll recover."
He nodded. "It won't be easy but, yes, eventually I'll be a whole man again."
She wanted to laugh, to have hysterics. It was like hearing lines from a bad soap opera. "I pray that someday I'll be as I once was."
"You will." He put his fingers on her cheek and let them drop to her breast where they wandered, straying about the stretched mounds inside the T-shirt. "You're taking it hard because I was your first, that's all. You'll have others, and you'll forget."
"Do you kill your love pains by possessing scads of woman, Tony?" she teased, letting him feel her body. She didn't respond. Something inside was cold and dead to his touch.
"I..." He looked into her eyes like a lovesick spaniel.
"What is it, darling? Speak to me." She patted his head while he fondled her. Still she had no sensation. It was as though she were watching him make love to someone else.
"I know one way we can both kill our pain, a way we can part forever, but part as friends with only the fondest of memories."
"How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Do go on."
He cocked his head, frowning, perhaps suspecting her again. "You mean it?"
"Yes, yes. What's your plan ... and I'm hoping you'll say what I think you're going to say."
"We could make love one last time," he blurted. "Here and now, under the trees. It would be a fitting goodbye."
"Wouldn't it, since that sort of exercise has dominated our relationship, thanks to me and my insatiable body." She let her eyes widen. "Stand up, darling."
"All right," he said, his voice eager. He stood and she let him pull her to her feet.
"Now close your eyes and don't move.
He did so, waiting for her, exposed to her calculated plan.
But the plan abruptly ceased to work...
She had intended to do something to him; perhaps strike him in the face or in the stomach with her fists, with all her power. Or, better yet, she might have jammed her knee into his groin, seeking to ruin that part of him which had driven her so crazy with desire.
But Sandra wasn't the girl she thought she was. She couldn't be so cold and calculating. She couldn't punish him so deliberately. That would be the behavior of an animal and she was a human being-a warm, sensitive woman who was incapable of such trickery.
No, she couldn't mete out that sort of punishment. Tony Gibbs would be punished some day, by someone, but not by her. Perhaps ... Just perhaps, he would get his punishment when he was forced to return to Santa Barbara and his own woman.
She looked at him, still waiting like a faithful dog, his eyes closed, and her own eyes filled with tears so that she couldn't see him clearly.
Then she turned and ran, as fast as she could, stumbling, falling in her frantic haste to get to the road. She heard one brief call from him, and then he was out of hearing. She reached the road and turned toward the camp, still running, still falling, still sobbing as though her heart would force itself into her throat and choke her.
As she ran, she was glad of one thing. She had regained control of her emotions again. She was no longer a robot for Hester, no longer a calculating schemer seeking revenge on Tony.
She was hurt, wounded, bleeding, but she was still human and, thank God, still a woman...
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sandy waited quietly, leaning her back against a tree, while the nine girls cleaned up their lunch things and scurried about the camp ground, anxious to leave it more neat than when they arrived. The fire rings reminded her of a wild beach party ... It seemed like years ago.
In the past two months, the blonde girl from the slums of Los Angeles had emerged as the natural leader of the group and, in many ways, had become Sandra's assistant.
The responsibility had been good for her. She had learned what it meant to use authority wisely, she had learned that kindness and patience could get results better than screaming and fighting, she had learned that even a small measure of personal success can be rewarding.
Her character had done an almost complete turnabout during her stay at the Treacher Camp. If it weren't for Hester St. Claire, she would have begged to return the following year, perhaps as a counselor. In the meantime, she decided, she was going back to high school and work hard to do something for those sagging grades before it was time for college.
College! Ten weeks earlier the life of a college coed was as remote to Candy as a trip to Pluto by skateboard. Now, even though she was a year behind her former classmates-thanks to her stub-born refusal to study-she was ready to work toJ ward college campus life. She would beef up her final year of high school with college-entrance courses-things like algebra, chemistry, language and English, instead of sewing, physical education and homemaking.
Already she had sent for scholarship lists, had found out who was giving away how much for students at which schools. She was certain she could make it at college if she studied hard, earned a scholarship and worked on the side.
She smiled to herself, tossing her champagne hair in the sun. Candy Simms wouldn't have time to be bad any more.
"We're all ready, Candy," Nola called from the clearing. "Shall we put on our packs?"
"Yes," she called. "We've got to get back so we can clean up before dinner."
They seemed too young as she watched them struggling into their gear, helping one another with straps, picking up escaping knives and forks and tucking them back into pockets. The youngest among them was only two years younger than Candy, but none, she was certain, had seen life as she had.
That was what, in a sense, had made her strong today. Her life had been the crucible which had made her a leader. She was like a veteran soldier-a combat man who had seen it all-with a group of recruits.
As they hiked through the forest, heading for the camp, Candy thought for the hundredth time how much Sandra had helped her. If Sandra hadn't gone to bat for a little blonde tramp from L.A. that morning after she got caught in the woods, Candy would be back in Los Angeles today-probably washing dishes at Juvenile Hall.
What a wonderful friend the dark-haired girl from UCLA had been. If only she could model her life after Sandra's. Sandra was beautiful, intelligent and, most important, she was a lady-a true lady with a lady's background.
She frowned, remembering how she happened to be leading Sandra's little band on this particular day. Sandra hadn't been well at breakfast, and Candy had found her throwing up behind the tent just before the hike. She had insisted that Sandra return to bed and taken the group into the woods.
Candy was worried about Sandra. For the past two days she'd been behaving strangely, as though she were either ill or terribly upset. Perhaps it had something to do with Tony Gibbs. Perhaps she was mourning because the summer was almost over and they would be parting.
She shook her head. It wouldn't be much of a parting, really. He would be in Santa Barbara and she in Westwood, less than a hundred miles away.
At any rate, she'd make it her business to get to the bottom of Sandra's trouble when they returned to camp. She owed her so much-everything, in fact. Sandra's problems were Candy's problems, and that was the way it was going to be.
It was late in the afternoon when they dragged themselves into the tent area. It was a hot day, even though it was almost September, and, despite a summer of physical conditioning, ten miles in the forest could slow even inexhaustible teenage energies. But by the time the dinner bell sounded, they'd be as fresh as a bull pen pitcher, ready to down a fifteen hundred-calorie, baked ham supper.
Sandra was not in her bed, and Candy told the others to take their baths, change their clothes and stay out of trouble until dinner. Then she began to look.
She found her in the forest, a hundred yards beyond the last tent. Sandra sat on a log in a tiny clearing, her chin resting on her fists, staring at the ground. Candy sat by her side before Sandra noticed there was company.
"Oh ... Hello."
"Hello yourself. Why the hermit act?"
Sandra shrugged while Candy studied her. She didn't seem physically ill any more, but she wasn't ready to run the mile in four minutes, either.
Sandra cleared her throat. "I had things to think about."
"What things?"
"I'd ... rather not say." She turned her head away, her body slumping.
"I thought we were tell-all buddies, blood sisters and all that jazz."
"Not about everything."
Apparently, she planned to say more, but a choking sob cut off her words. She let herself sink down on the log, her face on the rough bark, her fingers stretched like claws, digging into the wood.
Sandra cried, her body shaking, retching, writhing in total misery ... complete agony. Candy waited, knowing there was nothing she could do until it was purged. Perhaps then Sandra would accept help.
At last it was over, and Sandra sat up, looked at Candy and fell against her, burying her face in the blonde girl's breasts, her tears still falling, making Candy's T-shirt wet through. This time, when she lifted her face, there were no more tears.
Her eyes were puffy, red-rimmed, and she held a handkerchief to her nose, but there was no more moisture to be shed.
"Candy ... Candy!"
The poor thing was in desperate trouble, Candy realized at last. It wasn't merely the unhappiness of a temporary parting from Tony. Sandra would be strong enough to endure that. No, this was something bad.
"Tell me. I want to help."
Sandra shook her head. "You can't."
"Just telling me will help you. I know it will."
"I'm too ashamed."
Candy squinted, her lips pursed. "He's dropped you. Is that it? Tony's given you the gate." She patted Sandra's sleek hair. "Don't worry. You'll find somebody..."
"No, no, no. It's more. I gave myself to him, time after time, and then Hester told me."
"Told you what?"
Sandra took a deep breath and the words came in a rush. "He's married. Very much married. Four children. Hester stunned me, crippled me with the news. Then she ... she..."
The hairs prickled at the back of Candy's neck and she sat up straight, like a tigress ready to pounce. "She what?"
"She caught me when I was helpless. She threatened to tell everyone of my affair if I didn't..."
"Go on!"
"If I didn't let her ... take me..." Sandra's voice trailed off to a whisper and Candy had to keep her head close to hear.
She seized Sandra by the shoulders, turning her body roughly so that they looked into one another's eyes. "She raped you? She went the route?"
"I..." The dark head nodded. "Your way of saying it is so incisive, so terribly expressive. She ... went ... the ... route."
Candy got go her feet, feeling strength surge through her body. She rocked forward on her toes, her arms also forward like a wrestler preparing to apply a hold. "It's going to be all right, Sandra. Finish your cry and get back to the tent. You'll be taking the girls to dinner."
Sandra looked up, her arm raised in a questioning helplessness. "What are you going to do? I wouldn't want..."
"Do as you're told," Candy snapped. "Straighten up and get your fanny back to the tent. You have a responsibility to those girls. Now! Move!"
Sandra got up, hesitated, and then walked off slowly toward the camp.
Candy watched her go, wishing she could break down and have a good cry herself. She couldn't afford that. Not yet. She had to make someone pay for crippling Sandra.
Hester wasn't in the office, but the girl who was messenger for the day told Candy that their supervisor was at her tent, dressing for dinner.
Good, Candy thought, going outside again. What better place tban Hester St. Claire's private tent? They would be more alone, apart from the crowd, where Hester's screams would not be heard so quickly.
She crossed the clearing, went through the rows of tents and some distance beyond until she came to the tent which was Hester's private domain, a place where the supervisor could be alone, free from the responsibility and the presence of a hundred-and-fifty girls.
She stopped outside the screen door and knocked, letting her impatient fist pound hard before she remembered her plan. She knocked again, this time with proper respect for the privacy of her leader.
"What is it?" a voice called. "It's Candy Simms."
"Oh." The voice was flat, suspicious. They hadn't gotten along since the night Hester had tried to paw her in the back of Tony Gibbs' office. "I'm dressing. See me at the mess hall."
"I want to talk to you now ... Hester." She dropped a pregnant pause in her words before she used the supervisor's first name, and her use of the first name was a departure in itself.
There was no sound for a moment, and then the voice was just a foot away, on the other side of the screen. "What do you want to see me about?"
"It's personal."
"Personal? How?"
"Well..." Candy dug her toe in the step and looked down. "Summer's almost over, Hester, and I'd sure like to come back next year. I wanted to tell you how bad I felt about that trouble I got into with the Archer boy. That night, when you tried to be nice to me later on, well, I guess I didn't appreciate it very much."
"You certainly didn't, you little hellion. My lower stomach had a blue mark on it for a week."
Hester's words were snappish, but Candy could hear a note of hope in them, as though Candy were now considered a rogue who was ready to repent-to do her duty for her leader.
"Very well," she said at last, and Candy heard the lock snap off. "Come inside."
She opened the door and let it close behind her, keeping her hands hidden until she'd set the lock again. Slowly, her eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy interior. After the brightness outside it took almost a minute.
Then she saw the room, the dresser, the vanity with its bench and mirror, the bed...
Hester was seated at her vanity. She had on her white cotton uniform skirt and a brassiere and she stared into the mirror, her hands on top of her head as she pinned her hair. Her concentration seemed almost complete.
Candy stepped behind her and waited. At last Hester looked up at her in the mirror, and her hands dropped to her lap. "You want to be nice now, so I'll allow you to return next year. Just how, Candace Simms, do you intend to be nice."
"By doing something you like." Hester smiled with one corner of her mouth. "I knew your type would know the score about ... women like us. And I know you're an expert. No girl with a body like yours could be completely innocent."
"You're so right. Shall I show you?" Hester waited, her back straight, her hands twisting with anxiety. "Please do."
Candy leaned over her, dropping a hand over either shoulder, down to her breasts. She ran her fingers inside the cups of the brassiere until she was able to grip the fullness of each mound, her fingers closing over their ends, scissoring, making them seem to inflate like rubber balls.
"Oh. God...! "
"You like it, Hester?"
"What do you think, you little fool?" She had her head thrown back, her eyes closed, but Candy wasn't ready to strike yet. She let her hands slide lower, into the waist of the skirt, still lower, and Hester began to writhe. like a giant snake, she let herself weave back and forth on the stool, her hips twisting, her breasts heaving ever faster.
"This isn't right," she breathed, placing her hands over Candy's. "I'm the aggressor, the one who always takes charge. Don't you understand? You're reversing the roles..."
Candy took her hands away and stepped back. "I didn't know it worked that way, sweetie," she murmured, her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting in a way she knew was driving the hungry supervisor out of her senses. "I don't know if I want you to touch me like that. It seems sort of nasty..."
Hester had turned on her most engaging smile, and her hands were out, palms up, begging, pleading for Candy to stop her back-pedaling. Candy kept a few feet between them, always shifting, always just out of reach.
Hester came on, still smiling, her lips moving in the mumble of a woman who is just inches from the treasure of a lifetime. "Candy ... Beautiful blonde Candy ... Come to your lover-boy ... Your man wants you..."
Candy let herself step back against the bed and be upset so that she plunged down into its softness. Hester was right over her, bending down, her hands extended like vulture claws.
"My knees," Candy breathed, choking with what she hoped was convincing passion. "Start with my knees and work up. I love it that way."
Hester smiled like a witch over a caldron. "You tramp. That's all you are, isn't it? A slum bitch who swings both ways."
"My knees ... please!" Candy pointed.
"Yes ... Yes. I'll make you give up all men and all other woman." Hester was choking. "I'll make you mine for as long as I want you."
"Touch my knees!"
The hands, still bent like claws, went to her knees, and the face hovered over Candy, exposed. Candy loved the sublime moment when she drew back her fist and drove it into Hester St. Claire's face, seeing the blood splatter when the blow broke her nose.
Hester went back and down, and Candy was on her, her tight little body straddling the older woman, her fists raining blow after blow, always into the face ... determined to make the witch ugly for life...
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sandra stood on the concrete steps, blinking in the sunlight, looking down at herself. After so long, she felt strange in a cotton print dress which was not white. And her high heels were a challenge. She wobbled in them like a teenager at her first dance.
But she had things to do, and worrying about how she looked or walked wasn't important-not now.
She began to move down the street, crossing the intersection without bothering to be careful, so that traffic stopped and honked with anger. She went several blocks before she came to another large building. She went inside and suddenly it was very clean and quiet.
People rustled in their starched uniforms as they walked past and she looked after them for a few moments before she went to the reception desk. A girl in a white uniform looked up, smiled at Sandra's pleasant face, and asked, "May I help you?"
"I'd like to see Hester St. Claire."
The girl flipped through an index of cards, her fingers moving rapidly. She pulled one out. "I'm afraid she's not to have visitors."
"I must see her."
She took a closer look at Sandra. "You're a member of the family?"
"Yes, her sister, and it's urgent family business.
At last, she was given the number, and she walked along a gleaming white corridor until she came to the room. She opened the door and went inside.
Surprisingly, the bed was not occupied. Hester was sitting by the window, a blanket about her knees, looking out. She wore a faded blue robe and her hair was a torn tangled mess.
Sandra cleared her throat and at last she turned, startled. "Oh, I didn't see you!"
Sandra wouldn't have recognized her. A wide swatch of tape ran across her nose and was anchored to each cheek. Both eyes were blue-black. There were a number of scratches on her chin and throat.
Sandra crossed the room and stood in front of her. "How are you, as terrible as you look?"
She sighed, looking tired, defeated. "Not really. A nose fracture, cuts and bruises everywhere else. No concussion and no permanent damage, thank heavens."
"I was afraid you might be worse. They were awfully stuffy about visitors."
Hester shrugged. "I wanted to be by myself with no one here except my husband..." Sbe looked outside again. "And he hasn't come."
"That's a shame!" Sandra replied, wishing she could feel compassion for Hester St. Claire, but her words came out as sarcasm. "It doesn't surprise me. I'm only here because I want something."
Hester looked down, at herself. "I'm a captive audience, but I'm not giving anything away."
"I want you to see that Candy is released from Juvenile Hall, and I want it done promptly." Sandra was pleased at the way her words snapped out with authority.
"You're insane! I wouldn't help that she-wolf for one second." She tried to smile, but the gesture was replaced by a grimace of pain. "I hope she rots in a cell until she's sixty-five and ugly."
Sandra shook her fingers under the older woman's nose. "If she does, you won't be much better off."
"You're boring me. Please leave."
"If I leave now," Sandra hissed, "it will be to go to the Treacher Foundation and tell them what you did to me. Then I'll tell your husband all about it and then I'll write a few letters to some show-business people. You won't be worth much as a human being, a camp director or an agent."
"No? You had me in the same position once, and I don't mind turning the tables." She shook her head. "I'm not here to threaten or beg. I'm giving you an order. I want you to call the police. Tell them your fight with Candy was honest and personal between you two. Tell them you provoked the whole shabby spectacle. Then tell them you aren't pressing charges-that you want her released."
Hester glared, hate spitting from her ugly eyes. "I'm not going to be blackmailed by anyone of your..."
"Yes you are," Sandra interrupted, "because you know I mean it. I'll do as I threatened if you don't pick up that telephone in one minute. Call the police and say the right things. If that doesn't convince them, invite them over. Whatever you do, get Candy out of jaill"
Hester's words dripped with acid. "If you do this to me, you can forget I offered to help you get a start in show business." Her expression changed, and she attempted to smile again, this time showing Sandra a gap where a tooth was missing. "On the other hand, I could do a great deal for you. It isn't easy for an unknown to break in at the studios."
"I'll manage in my own way. If I haven't the talent, I don't want your help. If I have the talent, I'll be able to make myself known to the right people." Sandra believed what she was saying. She wasn't going to drive herself crazy with agony over ambition for a show-business career. Not any more. There were too many other good things in life to be appreciated.
"I'd kill..."
"Stop arguing and get on that telephone!" Sandra snapped, stamping her foot.
Hester studied Sandra's face for a long moment. At last, she got up from the chair and, walking like an old woman, went to the night table by the bed. She picked up the instrument and dialed once.
She waited, holding the receiver to her ear, wincing when she accidentally touched her cheek. At last she spoke. "Operator, I want the police...
* * *
The three girls sat on Sandra's bunk. Sandra reclined at the head with a pillow propped behind her back, Candy at the other end, her legs tucked under her, Nola in the middle, leaning her back against the wall, her legs outstretched.
Their luggage was stacked on the floor, close to the door, a lonely, sad sight. The tent and the rest of the camp were unusually quiet. Almost all the Treacher girls had already been taken away, and only a handful waited for the last bus, which was to arrive at any minute.
Summer was over. It was Labor Day and time to break camp. Already, a work-crew was carting furniture from the vacant tents, storing it in the main building for the winter. Already, the breeze that rustled through the tall pines carried a cool hint of frost to come. The sun was lower in the sky, its heat noticeably less intense than only a few days earlier.
Sandra's face was drawn with weariness, saddened by her thoughts. She had come to this place ten weeks before as a naive coed who never had fallen from her pillar of virtue. Now she was off her pedestal. She had fallen in the worst way-with a man who took her and then tore her heart out, and with a woman who had made sex a vile, unnatural thing.
Tony would be in Santa Barbara by now, perhaps suffering with a wife who could not please him. For him, possibly, it would be a long, chilly winter.
She knew that Hester was being amply punished. Not only had Candy beaten her senseless, but now this other thing had happened ... something far worse.
She looked at Candy. "I suppose it had to get out about Hester. She took too many chances to escape discovery for long."
Candy raised her eyebrows and shrugged in agreement. "That's for sure. Most of the girls knew she was a dyke from the opening gun. So when the fight upset the applecart, somebody was bound to blow the whistle."
Sandra nodded, and so did Nola. What a shame that such a young thing as Nola, so sweet and unspoiled, should be exposed to such a scandal, Sandra thought, looking into the girl's eyes.
"You say somebody wrote home about the fight and told her parents all about Hester's reputation around the camp?"
"In spades," Candy muttered. "It so happens that the father who read the letter is a judge in San Francisco. Well, he wasn't going to have his little girl in a camp run by a bull dyke. He got on the horn right away, straight to the Treacher Foundation trustees in L.A."
"They didn't know about Hester."
Candy shook her head. "Not hardly, old girl! They couldn't believe it until they went to the hospital in Riverside and gave her the third degree." She grinned. "It's lucky you got to her first and had me sprung from the cooler, otherwise you would have been fresh out of blackmail ammunition."
They heard a motor and then the squeal of brakes. "Here comes the ticket to freedom," Candy said.
Sandra looked at the young girl. "Nola, you go on ahead. Tell the driver we'll be along as soon as we collect our things."
Nola hopped from the bed, picking up her suitcase. "Don't be too long," she said over her shoulder. Then she was gone.
Candy and Sandra looked at one another for some time, saying nothing, knowing that each had found a true, lifelong friend. Sandra extended her hand and Candy took it, their fingers squeezing in a firm grip.
"What will you do now?" Sandra asked quietly. "And you'd better have the right answers."
"Sure." Candy wiggled her hips seductively. "The old teenage terror of sex-ridden Los Angeles is dead. A nice, clean innocent Candace Simms has been born in her place. No Dropoutsville for this chick. I'm an honor student from here on it. Then it'll be college and, if I keep my nose clean, a nice respectable husband on the horizon."
Sandra nodded. "Be sure you pick him for love, Candy. Not for money or position or anything that isn't really important over the course of a lifetime."
"I'm not so square I don't know a wrong from a right guy, counselor." She wrinkled her nose in a reassuring smile. "I'll get along fine."
Sandra got up and went to the door, staring through the screen, and the silence was heavy. Somehow, she didn't want to go out to the bus. Not just yet.
"Sandra?"
"Hm?"
"What about you?"
"Oh, I don't know." Her voice was lifeless, without a spark of youth or innocence. "Perhaps I'll chuck it all and go home to dad's mill as a secretary or something."
Candy got up and came to her, putting her arm around her waist, and they leaned their heads together, looking out at the trees and the deserted, flapping tents. The bus tooted its horn.
"Listen," Candy snapped, whirling and gripping Sandra by the arms. "You're down now, honey, but you've got to come back. I know a man and a woman did you dirt, but if you're a good little pussycat, you'll fight. If you give up, you're no better than them. You'll just keep running downhill until you're worse off than I ever was."
Sandra's eyes filled, and she shook her head. "How can I fight when I have no heart?"
"Damn it!" Candy snapped, shaking Sandra hard so that her hair flew. "You lectured me on how to lift myself from the scum, how to get up and walk on two feet. If you can't do it now, I suppose that means you were feeding me a pack of filthy lies."
Sandra stared.
"Is that right, counselor?" Candy cried. "Were those lies about morality and education and ambition? Should I give up like you? Should I be a quitter, too?"
Slowly, a smile curved Sandra's lips, and there was a hint of twinkle in her eyes. "You're a tough nut, aren't you? A slugger from the slums."
"You bet your fanny I am, and I'm not going to give up on my old buddy." She made a fist and tapped Sandra softly on the side of the chin. "What do you say, coach? Do we ride to the top together?"
Sandra picked up her bags and waited for Candy. They stepped out into the cool breeze, walking briskly toward the bus. All the way back to the city Sandra thought of a phone call she was going to make. She had to say the right things, and she composed her message carefully.
She was going to call Bobby. She'd invite him over to her apartment, and if he wanted to take her to a drive-in movie, that was all right, too.
She needed him now, needed and wanted him near her-desperately.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hester looked around the tent, making a last check of the emptiness. Yes, everything was in the car. There was really no reason to stay any longer. She was leaving the place clean, with everything picked up and put in order. That was the least she could do after what had happened.
Tired, she put her hand to her face, feeling only a vestige of pain when she rubbed her eyes. That was the way it was now. She felt the fading throb only when her body was weary.
Two weeks had worked wonders for her battered features. The bruises were gone and so were the scratches. The tape had been removed from her nose and, except for having to be careful not to bump it by accident, everything seemed to be all right.
Except that everything was not all right. Things were absolutely miserable. She was miserable.
She had lost everything-her job at camp, her effectiveness as an agent, her home and, almost certainly, her husband. He hadn't called, hadn't come to see her at the hospital.
She had lost even more. She was no longer human. The great wave of hate which rose up against her at the time of the scandal had cut deeply-far more deeply than Candy's fists. She had been cut to the soul and exposed, to herself especially, for the "thing" she'd become.
There was no way to come back. Homosexuality was like a cancer as far as society was concerned. No one could be "cured." The stigma was always there, far worse than the shaved heads of the miserable wartime prostitutes who had collaborated with the enemy.
She walked from the tent and stood on the step, looking about the camp. The wind sighed in the trees, as though keening a mournful dirge for Hester St. Claire. The wooden sign over the gate creaked to and fro, its sound cutting into her vitals like a dull knife. It was a grinding, rasping sound, sad with the message that the winds of winter were upon them.
The tents were gone except for hers, and only plank floors and skeleton-like frames stood among the dark forest shadows. She stepped to the ground, the dust swirling about her ankles as she walked toward the car.
She reached it and looked inside. Her bags were stacked on the seat, along with her typewriter and the camp ledgers. She'd return them to the Treacher Foundation, and that chapter of her life would be closed forever.
She put her hand on the door, ready to drive away and never see this place again. Despite the recent awful memories, she would always have, she loved the Treacher Camp for Girls. Her willing acceptance of the supervisor post each year had not been completely selfish.
She had hurt some girls along the way, but she hoped she had helped others by exposing them to the better things of life. If only-she choked back a sob-if only she hadn't weakened and allowed herself to teach others so many filthy things...
She heard the car and opened her eyes, lifting her head. It was turning in the gate, and it looked familiar. The driver looked familiar, too. Somehow the silhouette in the shadows was like home.
"George!" she cried. It was her husband.
She waited while he braked the car and climbed out stiffly. He came to her and stopped, looking into her face, saying nothing.
At last he cleared his throat, wiping his hand across his mouth. "I wasn't going to come. I never wanted to see you again. But I'm here, Hester. I'm here for two reasons. I pray there's a chance we can do something for you. I've talked it over with friends at the hospital, and they're anxious for you to come in for a preliminary examination."
She nodded. "I'm willing to try." She forced herself to look into his face, choking back her shame. "What's the other reason?"
"It's selfish," he murmured. "I'm here because, despite the bad times, home is an empty place without you. Come back with me, and we'll try to fill it again." He coughed. "Get inside, I'll drive us back to town."
The car disappeared around a curve, and the only noise was the creaking sign. Somehow its sound seemed less lonesome now.
