His fingers circled his pulsating organ, marveling at the feel of its hardness, its thickness, its blood-filled veins. Light beads of sweat shined on his forehead and upper lip. Quickly he took his hand away and stared, fascinated, at his cock as it jumped up, lifted from his belly, then fell solidly back, the massive, hard, slightly tilted, mushroom-shaped head thumping against his belly button. At the urethra opening he saw a clear drop of moisture form.
He held his breath, listening to the sounds of the loving couple in the room next to his. Quietly he got out of the bed and made his way to the door, his big cock making slapping sounds against the insides of his thighs. He opened the door wider, then stepped back and checked the alignment from his bed to the slightly opened door of the other bedroom. He returned to the bed. He checked again. Yes, he could see quite clearly now. He lay naked on top of the bed, his head twisted toward the open door.
Rick Lundman felt his prick getting stiffer and harder. He knew he shouldn't look-that it was wrong, lustful-but he couldn't pull his eyes away. His nuts ached with prolonged excitement. He could see the man's big hand slowly travel down the woman's back and knead the softness of her buttocks. He saw him draw her up to him and in one swift motion kiss her. Now he could see the man grasping her massive breasts, his fingers rubbing the large, wide brown nipples.
Rick took hold of his straining cock and pumped slowly, feeling his heavy-hanging testicles jog up and down with the movements he made. His eyes remained glued to the couple in the other bed. He could see the woman reach down and take hold of the man's mighty bulge. What was she doing now? Was she going to...? Yeah! She was, all right! He pumped harder as he watched her inch her way down, down past the man's hairy chest and belly, down past his hips, down to caress his erection with her eager lips. He watched her head bob up and down between his thighs, saw the glazed look in the man's eyes. Rick's hand pumped furiously. All at once his cock sprang away from him and thumped hard against his belly. He opened his hand and put the palm of it against the underside of his shaft and rubbed it against his stomach. With his other hand he caressed his ponderous balls, admiring the feel of their silky softness.
What was the man doing? He'd maneuvered himself in such a way that his face was between the woman's thighs.
Oh, shit, thought Rick. Oh, shit, shit-he's going to eat her. Again his hand beat down harder, his thumb and finger rubbing against the puffy head, across the corded veins. He pumped hard and fast, hearing the hard sucking sounds the woman made, seeing the hollows of her cheeks, the eager mouth gorging itself on the purple-veined cock. He felt his throat go dry and he could actually hear the heavy pounding of his own heart. It sounded like the beat of a tom-tom. His head buzzed with the sounds of mouths sucking and lips nibbling flesh. He wanted to be closer-close enough so he could touch them, smell their lustful bodies bathed in lovers' sweat.
Quietly, with the instinct of a beast of prey he swung his legs from the bed and carefully crossed the room to the hallway. He poised himself on his hands and knees at the doorway to the bedroom and peered in.
The man pulled away from the woman's mouth, dragging out his long cock-out-out until Rick could see the tip of the blood-inflated head, could see her tongue run along the man's shaft, then her head pull back in startled surprise as the man's tongue thrust deep into her yawning cunt. A moan, deep and guttural came from her throat. Rick could hear the loud sucking noise as the walls of her crack opened and closed over the man's extended, lapping tongue.
"Lick me," she cried, "Lick me good."
Rick saw the woman arch her body in a way that brought the man even further into her. The end of the man's nose was touching her pink clitoris, Rick was sure of it. He could hear the man's breath come hot and fast.
"You got a nice, tight, warm pussy," the man whispered between her legs.
"Fuck me!" she suddenly screamed. "For God's sake, fuck me!" Her body swayed, intoxicated with passion.
Rick took hold of his throbbing erection and pumped wildly. The thought hit him that should he come he'd spurt all over the rug. But he didn't much care. Screw the rug!
Now the woman fell under the man, her mouth open, and enveloped his hairy testicles. She took both balls and her cheeks puffed out as though she were eating a mouthful of marshmallows. She pulled back as though she were going to rip the man's balls from his body. The man pulled his head from between her legs and tapped her on the back of the head. She opened her mouth and set his balls free. They fell to the sheet.
'Come on, baby, I'm gonna shoot you a load." He settled on his knees, his massive member standing out straight from him like a saber.
She looked down at him, lustful expectation written across her face, shuddering, gasping for breath. Slowly she settled back against the pillows, her knees up in the air. The man reached out and parted her knees, aimed his extended erection at her, and slowly brought it to her.
Rick studied the cock. It was huge, really huge, and thick, the blue veins clearly out-lined. Though it was uncircumcised, the head just about made it out of the flimsy flesh that covered it.
"Want it now?" the man asked, rubbing the tip of her cunt with his rounded head.
Without answering, the woman opened her legs wider, exposing her dark pubic region, and the man, taking hold of his throbbing cock, guided it to the quivering hole. The woman was breathing hard, as, mightily, the man thrust his hips forward, sending the inflated head deep into her.
She screamed as the searing cock sank into her. The man wiggled his hips and Rick could see the heavy balls pounding fiercely against her buttocks. One more thrust and the man was able to jab his massive thickness another inch into her. Inch by inch it plunged, another thrust, and the teeming cock sank to the hilt.
"Jesus," Rick muttered licking his lips, "Jesus, look at that!" Her cunt is wrapped around that cock ... pulling ... hugging ... squashing ... squeezing. Her curvaceous hips are convulsing like she's trying to free herself of his giant penis ... like it's burning her insides. Rick's hand beat his meat unmercifully.
The woman's scream rang out and the man silenced her with a kiss, his hand reaching out and grabbing at a breast, the thick fingers massaging while his hips pounded hard into her. Then the man fell on top of her and Rick could see her breasts flatten out under the man's hairy chest as he began a slow movement, sawing his powerful body over hers. Lifting his buttocks the man slowly pulled out his fuck rod. Now all that was in her cunt was the puffy tip of the head of his cock. Teasingly he jabbed it in, but just enough to make her thrust forward to beg for all of it. He laughed a coarse kind of grunt with each attempt she made at grabbing his vibrating stick. Then he held down her hips and held his body quite still over her. With a grunt he sank his dick so hard and deep into her that she cried out. "You fuckin' sonofabitch!" He laughed, took hold of both her breasts, and dug his fingers into their softness. Now he was suddenly gentle with her. She seemed content with the probing cock, deep in her now, and suddenly it seemed to touch off a new desire. Her body quivered with delight and her hips met his in hard, thrusting movements.
"Oh," she cried. "Harder ... harder. I want every inch of you!"
Rick's eyes opened wide and he felt the perspiration slide down the nape of his neck. He inhaled deeply through his mouth.
There was the sound of flesh slapping flesh as the couple increased their tempo.
Rick masturbated harder, feeling himself near. If only he could time it so that he could come with them. If only they would hurry ... he was so close ... his load was ready ...!
Suddenly he heard the man moan. "Baby, baby, I'm boiling-I'm ... so near."
The man's ready, Rick thought excitedly, ready to shoot his hot load of creamy sperm into that juicy cunt. And she must be ready, too. Ready to let her juices flow. Rick's prick stiffened even more with excitement and he could control himself no more. The head of his hot cock swelled up and erupted. His come spurted, hitting the wall. There was no end to it. The excited cock jerked spasmodically as he poured his thick come into his cupped hand. He heard the harsh, strangling cry escape from the woman's lips, saw her body jerk crazily under the man. Then the man gave out a guttural grunt and they both fell back on the bed, their melting loins limp, spent, and complete. Exhausted, they lay quietly.
Rick quickly got to his feet. He glanced down at the rug to make sure he hadn't spilled himself. He hadn't. He made a mental note to return and clean the spot on the wall where he'd spurted. Then, cupping his hand around his still hardened shaft, he ran quickly into the bathroom. He washed himself, then quickly dressed. He could hear them talking.
"Hurry up and get dressed," she said. There was silence and again she spoke. "You heard me, move. Get dressed. He should be home any minute now. I don't want him to find you here. How in hell would I explain it?"
"Okay," the man grunted. "Okay, don't rush me."
Rick got into his jacket, then walked out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He quietly made his way past the other bedroom door and ran down the stairs. At the bottom, he stepped inside a closet, leaving the door slightly ajar for him to see.
There were murmuring sounds from upstairs, then he heard the man say, "See you next week, Susan. And don't forget. 'Bye."
Finally the man appeared, stopped at a mirror to tie a knot in his tie, then turned and left the house. Rick looked about. There was nobody in view. He waited a few minutes, then stepped out of the closet, opened the front door, and slammed it hard. He looked up at the stairs. She was standing there, a smile on her face.
"Hi, Rick. I heard the door slam, thought it might be you."
He climbed the stairs. With no sign of emotion he lifted his hand and greeted her.
"How was your day?" she asked, stepping aside to let him pass.
He shrugged his shoulders, then noticed the liquor on her breath.
"Cat got your tongue?" There was a suspicion of a smirk on her face.
"It was okay," he said. He walked to his room, took down a small suitcase and packed; a shirt, a pair of bathing trunks, two pairs of socks, sneakers, a comb, a toothbrush, paste, an electric shaver, after shave lotion. He threw in a checkbook last, then snapped the latch shut. When he returned to the hallway she was still standing at the head of the stairs.
"Going somewhere?"
"Laguna Beach," he said, seeing by her look that she seemed pleased he was leaving. Sure, he thought, I'll bet. "Alone?" she asked. "Yeah."
"Seems to me a handsome nineteen-year-old boy like you would have a flock of gals he could call for a nice weekend at the beach. Why are you going alone?"
"I want sun," he said, "not sex!"
He saw the twitch in her eye and the way her jaw muscles clenched. Then, having complete control once more she fixed a smile on her face. "You boys, my, my!" she said. "Are you taking the Cad?"
"No, the Rolls," he answered. "Mind?"
"No. Of course not."
He looked at her. She'd been to the hairdresser; he noticed her red hair looked redder. He looked at her breasts, the same fantastic, opulent, mother-of-pearl tits he'd seen naked moments ago. Now they were held in, covered by the silk dress she wore, but he could still see the outline of her huge nipples. He lowered his eyes and walked past her.
She stopped him with a touch on the shoulder. "You in such a rush you won't even stop to give me a kiss?"
Slowly he turned. He felt his stomach muscles contract. He hesitated, then walked to her. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against her cheek. He could smell the sex of her. His lips tightened, and when he spoke it was almost a groan. "Mother-I-I-!"
"What, dear?"
"Nothing-nothing at all." He turned from her. "Money?" she asked, suddenly concerned. "If you need any, I-" He cut her off abruptly.
"No, mother, that's something I never ever need." He sighed deeply, glared at her, then quickly turned and ran down the stairs and out the door to his car.
CHAPTER TWO
Paul Harris held the paint brush in midair, squinted from the sun, and studied the canvas in front of him. He was getting it, he thought. It was really quite a beautiful study. He'd captured the youth beautifully. His eyes scanned down the hill overlooking the motel. The naked boy hadn't stirred in over twenty minutes. If he would only remain still that way Paul thought for sure he could complete the painting today. What a stroke of luck having a subject enclosed in the motel's private patio that adjoined the guest room. It was rare that anyone used these patios. Most of the guys who came to Laguna Beach preferred the pool or the beach area where they could mingle freely with the crowd. But this Adonis, for some reason, chose seclusion.
Paul felt the blood rush to his cock. The boy was extremely handsome; thick jet black hair, broad shoulders, long graceful legs below an incredibly narrow waist. He was deeply tanned, but the color was a rust, a copper; he'd never seen a tan quite like this boy's. And those lips, he thought, those beautiful, full, sensuous lips, and that straight, strong, firm jaw. He'd caught all of that on canvas, and now he was working on the boy's thighs. His eyes locked between the boy's spread legs, at the dark, wiry thicket of hair. He could clearly see the thick, circumcised cock. It was nearly as big as his own. Of course, it was limp, and it was hard to tell what it would look like with an erection, but Paul was more than sure it would stretch to at least eight inches, perhaps more.
He touched the brush to the canvas, made a circle, then carefully filled it in with black paint. He made wide strokes of the oil, then jabbed the brush in. He smiled. Looks just like black, curly, pubic hair. Again he jabbed his brush into the canvas; each time he did the brush spread out and made curly designs. His eyes returned to the youthful body and scanned the boy's legs, stopping at his crotch. He paused and leaned back against the tree. "Good Christ," he whispered, eyeing the boy's testicles. They hung loosely between his spread thighs, warmed by the hot sun, the well-shaped, limp member lazily resting to the side against his muscular inner thigh. "Too much," he sighed, running his hand through his thick head of blond hair. "Too goddamn much!"
He put the brush aside and wiped his hands against his Levi's. With veiled eyes, he stared, thinking of what he'd like to do to the young boy.
First, of course, he'd get that young dick nice and hard-real hard by playing with it, feeling the head, outlining it with his fingers; all the time kissing him. Then he'd take those gorgeous lips and force his tongue past the hard teeth and into the warm wetness of his mouth. Then he'd bite down gently on his tongue and savor the kid's sweet taste. Then he'd push his own cock against the boy's belly and lean down and nip at those brown nipples. Man, I would drive that young kid crazy-and I'm just the guy to do it. Then he'd wash the kid's navel with his tongue and sink his lips into that black, curly forest. It probably smelled good, oily with a sweetly masculine scent. And that cock, it must smell only like a young dick could smell. Then he'd lick the big balls, run his tongue around the base of that gorgeous cock, swirl his tongue madly over and around the blood-filled head. ... Jezuz ... I can almost taste that young cock in my mouth right now.
Paul got to his feet feeling the tightness in his throat and chest. The stirring in his groins made his head spin. "Hell," he mumbled, "he's too fucking much!" He picked up the brush and was about to paint some more when he decided not to. He threw down the brush and returned to the house.
Paul Harris's place was a small, one-bedroom bungalow. The living room was the largest room and contained a fireplace and shelves stocked with books, most of them paperbacks. Paintings crowded the walls from top to bottom, mostly canvases Paul had painted. The furniture consisted of a long couch, which contained a hideaway bed, a coffee table, an early-American rocker, a wicker chair, and a milking stool. There was a color television set in the comer of the room, with huge rubber plants sitting in large earthen jars on either side of the set. The bedroom was tiny and housed a double bed, a bureau, a desk and chair. One entire wall was mirrored, as was the ceiling. Paul had done it himself. It was a bad job. Most of the gold-tinted squares of mirrors had been unevenly placed and much of the underceiling and wall showed through. A huge oil of a naked boy holding a bow and arrow dominated the wall facing the bed. The kitchen was narrow, small, dark, and even with just the refrigerator, stove, and sink it was overcrowded. He paid 95 dollars a month for this.
Paul poured himself a glass of beer and drank it down. He opened another can, then walked to the window and looked out. The boy was still there. Paul frowned, for suddenly the lad raised himself from the chaise lounge and turned over on his stomach. Was it Paul's imagination or did the boy look up without hesitation to the spot he'd just left? Paul continued to watch. Yes, the boy was staring up. Paul's breath caught in his throat. The boy had known all along that he was being watched, being used as a model.
Again the boy looked up, his eyes drifting to the easel, then to the house, looking for the painter. Suddenly he got to his feet and walked to the fence for a better look.
Paul swallowed hard. Okay, he thought, two can play at the same game. Obviously this kid was looking for it. Well, he'd found the right guy. Paul finished the beer, then quickly got out of his clothes and threw them down on top of the bed. He looked at his nakedness in the mirror. He knew he was good-looking and he knew he had a good body. Lately it'd been difficult getting the young ones, the tricks he liked. When there was the possibility of getting one, it made him so excited that he felt himself dripping. Naked, he returned outside to the easel under the tree. Without looking down at the boy he took a cigarette from the pack on the patio table, lit it, then leaned back against the tree, showing his body, all six feet of it, to good advantage.
From the comer of his eye he could see the boy looking up. Paul's heart pounded hard, and he found it difficult to breathe. He turned his head slightly and looked down the forty-foot drop to the boy. He could feel his cock, which hung far down his inner thighs, begin to spring to life. The passionate longing for the boy was almost unbearable.
The next instant, they turned full face to each other and frankly examined each other's body. The boy's cock thickened and rose in little jerks. It was a big one all right, thought Paul, his own cock beginning a convulsive rhythm of its own. Now there was no need to play games.
He walked closer to the edge of the hill, aware of his own throbbing cock standing out full and straight from his body. He looked down and ran his tongue over his lips, staring hard at the boy's massive erection. Their eyes met and held. Then quickly the boy turned and disappeared into the motel room. Moments later he reappeared wearing bathing trunks. He unlocked the wooden gate which led to the pool area, looked around, and, seeing he was not being watched, climbed over the wooden fence.
Paul watched him climb the hill inch by inch, his eyes glittering expectantly. In moments the boy had managed to come up to him, then, without a word, looked at the canvas. He studied it for a long while, then turned and said, "Pretty good."
Paul smiled. "Glad you like it," he said. "Think it resembles you?"
"I guess. But you haven't finished it, have you?" he said, looking at the canvas.
"No, I've not quite gotten your cock," he whispered. He felt the blood quickening in his loins; the boy's erection under the trunks was quite apparent. To hell with it, he thought, what've I got to lose. Then he said, "I'll bet that tastes as good as it looks," his eyes fastened to the boy's crotch.
The young man stared eagerly at Paul's erection. "I do that to you?" he asked.
"Hell, yeah," Paul quickly replied.
The boy's lips parted in a smile. "You really are one hot sonofagun, aren't ya?"
Paul made the first move. He went to the boy, leaned over, and brushed his lips across the boy's. "Yeah, kid, I'm hot, real hot-and you did it to me."
The boy swayed, then opened his mouth, asking to be kissed.
Paul's heart raced at the smell of the boy's maleness. Again he kissed him, this time with a firmer pressure, feeling the boy's lips part to make room for his tongue. He embraced the young man tightly, his great cock pushing into the boy's flat belly. He pulled back and smiled, took the kid's hand, and said, "Hey, my name's Paul."
"Rick," the boy whispered, his eyes glued to Paul's hardness.
Paul laughed. "What a time to stop for introductions," he said.
"Why stop," the other whispered, then suddenly sprang forward and fell to his knees. He opened his mouth and took Paul's cock.
Paul groaned and swayed at the feel of the warm mouth over his shaft, the smooth tongue swirling, the full lips wetly sliding up and down the length of his rod. He stared down with glazed eyes at the bobbing head. "Suck, baby, suck it good," he said, his hands shooting down to caress Rick's head. He heard the boy struggle for breath. "Oh, man, like that, yeah, like that," Paul cried out, falling back against the tree. His hips made a slight movement, and he shoved his dick deeper into the boy. He heard Rick gag, pull back, swallow hard, then continue his sucking. Paul felt himself being sucked further into Rick's mouth, he sighed, felt himself tremble. The boy was making a feast of his cock and he felt himself near-damn near. His fingers tightened around Rick's hair and he moaned, "No, Rick, don't-no more-I don't want to come yet!"
The boy stopped sucking, pulled away, and shot Paul a look.
"You, Rick," Paul whispered. "You now."
Rick lowered his trunks, revealing the texture of his thighs that was burnished from the sun. Paul stared hard, his heart wildly pounding as he saw more and more of Rick's huge erection. Finally the trunks fell to the boy's ankles and Paul saw the released cock spring forward. Up closer it was even more beautiful. God, thought Paul, it's the most perfectly shaped whang I've ever seen. I couldn't catch that on canvas if I tried. It was enormous, far bigger than his own. The head was a deep crimson, smooth and swollen and throbbing impatiently. Paul got to his knees, reached behind, and grasped Rick's small, firm buttocks, bringing him closer. The boy's gorgeous cock almost touched Paul's lips. Paul felt his hands trembling. He'd never held such a beautiful boy in his arms before. This lad was perfection, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He tilted his head, leaned down, and took Rick's big balls in his mouth. Pounding waves of ecstasy shot through him at the feel of the young spheres on the heat of his anxious tongue. He tasted of them, feeling his own cock swell almost to bursting, then released his hold on them, anxious for Rick's penis. He brought the thick meat to his mouth and kissed the smooth head, then rolled the throbbing hot flesh over his face, feeling dizzy at the marvelous scent that hit his nostrils. Cock-young, clean, hot cock. There is absolutely nothing like it in the whole goddamn world. A drop of sticky clear fluid dripped from the penis to his lips. His tongue darted out and licked it clean.
He looked up at the boy, saw his eyes closed in ecstasy, then heard him say something. He didn't quite hear. "What, baby?" he asked.
The young Adonis said it again. "Fuck me. God, fuck me!"
Paul's hands reached behind the boy, his palms sliding over the smooth curves of the young buttocks. Not a blemish on that silky flesh, he thought, the smoothest, firmest, loveliest ass I've ever touched and he's asking me begging me to fuck it. "All right, baby. I'll fuck you," he whispered. Rising, he quickly disappeared into the house and came out with a jar. He unscrewed the top, dug his finger into the vaseline and applied it to the boy's tiny asshole, his finger running around it, then slowly making its way inside. He's tight, Paul thought, tight as a pencil sharpener!
"Out here?" the boy asked.
"Yeah. It's okay. Nobody will be able to see us when we get low on the ground. Besides, the bushes will hide us." He applied a bit of the vaseline to the head of the boy's cock then screwed the top back on and put it aside. He took hold of Rick's hand and led him to the bushes a few feet away. "You've got the nicest buns," he told him. "God, I love a good ass. You'll always have a nice one even when you're older. Some people are built like that."
"You're not bad yourself," Rick told him. "You've got a good body."
"Lie down on the grass," Paul directed. "On your stomach. I want to look at that cute butt."
Rick did as he was told.
Paul spread the boy's legs, then got down on his knees. He leaned forward and kissed the soft, firm flesh. "You like to be fucked?" he asked.
"I don't know. I-I never have before."
"Oh? Then what makes you think you're going to like it?"
"You!" the boy answered.
Paul smiled. "You'll like it. I'll be easy on you."
He fell heavily on top of Rick, feeling the rounded buttocks give against his belly. He ran his hand over the broad, hard-muscled back of the boy. Then he took his organ and guided it to the boy's buttocks.
"Maybe-maybe I better not," Rick said, suddenly pulling away.
"Shh!" Paul whispered. "Relax, handsome. You'll love my cock; it'll feel real good in you. Believe me you'll like it. You'll find it's the greatest thing that could ever happen to you." He put his cock to the boy's opening. Gently he guided it and sunk it in.
Rick reared back and Paul held himself still until he felt the boy relax; then with a powerful thrust he sent his cock forward between the twin mounds of white flesh. A rapture spread through Paul as he felt the tight-muscled ass against the throbbing head of his cock.
The boy screamed from the excruciating pain and tried to throw Paul off his back, but Paul thrust forward again, sending his unrelenting hardness even deeper into the boy's tight ass. The youth twisted his head to the side, and Paul could see the eyes pressed tightly closed, the teeth biting down on his lower lip. He stopped his movements long enough for the kid to get a grip on himself. When he saw Rick's face relax, he moved his hips again. Now his body began to writhe, his little ass moving busily under Paul's hips, his young cock rubbing hard against the green grass.
Paul kept a steady pace, rising and lowering, thrusting and pulling. The boy moaned in momentary pain. Another lunge by Paul, and the young man grunted and tried to match Paul's movements by throwing his ass high up into the air hard onto that driving, penetrating cock. Paul could feel his cock swell within the boy's tight hole; he thought he would go mad with the pleasure of it. Now Rick was slamming his buttocks hard against Paul's abdomen. He heard his cock make wet sucking sounds as it plunged deep and hard into Rick's ass. He began to whimper as he ground his hips hard against the moving ass and felt himself explode then pour endlessly into the boy. Quickly his hand disappeared under the youth. The moment he grasped the pulsating organ, he heard Rick groan, felt his cock jerk and his hot seed spurt in his hand.
With a groan of exhausted satisfaction, Paul fell to the side of the boy and rolled onto his back. He watched the kid, his face buried in the soft grass, the big shoulders moving as he sucked in big mouthfuls of air. Gently he reached for him and turned him over on his back. He leaned forward and ran his tongue over the heaving, sweaty chest as his hand fondled the thick black hair. He moved closer to the boy and wrapped his arms around him.
"Your ass will be sore, but not for long," he said.
The boy said nothing. He appeared disappointed that it was over. Paul didn't know why he asked the question, but he did. "Tell me," he whispered as he cradled the boy's head. "Was this really the first time you've been fucked?"
"Yes," the boy breathed.
"I see," Paul said quietly. "Where you from? "
"Los Angeles."
"Live at home?"
"With my mother." His voice was bitter. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen," he answered. "You?"
Paul coughed. "Twenty-five," he said hoping the boy didn't think he looked the thirty he was. "Why," Paul asked, "did you want me to fuck you?"
"Because," he replied, "I wanted to find out how it felt." He hesitated, then added, "I never sucked a cock before, either." Then, with a look of embarrassment, he reached over, took a cigarette from Paul's pack, and lit it.
"And mine was the very first?" Paul asked.
"Yes."
"Then you've-never had a man before-ever?"
"No," he answered, quietly exhaling a cloud of smoke, "never before."
Paul shivered. A thrilling wave of pleasure raced up and down his spine. He leaned on an elbow and stared into the young man's face. "You were wonderful," he whispered.
"You mean I know how to suck and take it up the ass?" the boy asked almost harshly.
"Well-uh-yeah," Paul said.
The dark-haired boy seemed undecided in his discovery of homosexual love. One moment he seemed relaxed and talkative, the next he grew sullen and morose with a bitter sound in his voice. Then, like now, there appeared a glint of a smile in his eyes.
Paul remained silent, studying the incredibly handsome face. There was the smell of the ocean in the cool, clean wind that passed, combined with the exciting scent of the boy and his wanting. He glanced down and saw that the boy was getting a new erection. Surprised, he looked into the young man's face. There was absolutely no mistaking the look of lustful desire he saw there.
"When I'm through with this cigarette," Rick said, "I want you to fuck me again!"
Maybe it was because he'd confessed so openly, had answered Paul's questions so frankly, or was there a deep sense of loneliness and isolation that seemed to possess him? Maybe it was the fierce urgency in the voice, or perhaps the strong, incessant physical need Paul instinctively felt from the boy. Whatever it was Paul suddenly felt sorry for him. He lay quietly on his side and watched Rick smoke, then reached up and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it gently in silent sympathy and understanding. The boy's eyes met his and held, and in that one split mini-second, Paul Harris knew that Rick was not merely a passing stranger who'd given him his body so readily and whom he'd never see again. No. There would be more with this beautiful boy ... much more!
Paul slipped his arm around Rick's waist, reached out with his other hand and ruffled the boy's hair. His eyes held affectionately to Rick's lips. "Okay, baby," Paul whispered, "I'll do anything you want if it'll make you happy."
Paul felt Rick's arms encircle him, and his cock began to swell as he heard the boy's urgent whisper, "Then fuck me, now!"
CHAPTER THREE
Susan Lundman was doing what she loved best, admiring herself in a mirror.
She'd been fascinated with her own body since she was ten years old, when her breasts began to take shape. Her body in later years had brought her great happiness and had caused her to suffer, depending on the man. She blamed her body entirely for her promiscuity and for all of her problems, and when things went well it was usually because her body was being loved. She was beautiful, always had been, and thought she'd remain that way. At least, she was determined to make her looks last by carefully watching her diet, by exercising her body, and by spending as much time as she could at the salons. And she used her body ... oh, how she used it. That, too, made her body more beautiful. For, to be loved-often-made her happy. Right now there were dark bags under her eyes, but this was understandable, she'd been boozing it up and screwing too much. Still, for forty she was really something to look at. Of course, she didn't look forty, and she certainly didn't act it. It was all in the mind You are what you feel, she'd always told herself. And right this second, Susan Lundman didn't feel a day over twenty-nine. Why, even the younger men, the real young ones did not suspect her age. She was not very big, only five feet one, but as the men said, she was a package of dynamite.
She wrinkled her nose at the mirror, flared her nostrils, then patted her French twist hairdo. She stared into her own eyes; they were so dark and warm, she thought. Real bedroom eyes. Her fingers came up to touch her lips; small and full and sensuous. Her hands went to her breasts, the full, oversize breasts so many men had desired. Her fingers touched the abnormally huge brown nipples. She remembered so well the jealous stares of the other women at the gym. It gave her a feeling of superiority. This was the day of the big tits, and she could hold her own with the best of them. Forty-eight. Some size. She was proud of that number. Even girls in their teens were jealous of her. It delighted her to see Rick's girl friends stop in their tracks and suck in their breath, their mouths falling open when she was introduced. That's something, being more sexy than her own son's dates. And what about her son's boyfriends? She knew the way they looked at her, the thoughts that passed through their minds. Those looks had started when they were sixteen and had continued right up to when they were nineteen, her son's age. Like her son, these teen-agers walked around with a hard on most of the day and night just asking for it. Once, when she found herself alone with one of them, a really good-looking boy of nineteen, saw the lustful looks he threw her, she'd decided to help him out. That was the start of it. After that she'd helped many of her son's friends out. She smiled at her mirrored reflection. And she's been cool about it, and smart. Rick did not suspect. She did it with style, taking the boys out of town to a really nice hotel, always registering as Susan and Rick Lundman. Hell, most of them looked like Rick anyway. None of this seedy motel atmosphere for her. Class with a capital C.
She touched a bit of perfume between her breasts. Men went mad for her tits. It always delighted her when they saw her naked for the very first time. One look at her breathtaking globes and they were reduced to blubbering, inarticulate puppets before her very eyes.
She turned from the mirror and walked, naked, into the dressing room that led to the bathroom, found a flowing black peignoir and slipped into it, knotting it loosely around her waist. At the tray set on a desk in the bedroom, she made herself another highball-her fifth-then glanced at her watch. It was eight-thirty.
She walked to the window and looked down at the driveway, then off to the road. It was pitch-black out. She touched a switch and the driveway was suddenly bathed in light. Her guests were late.
Her look went to the rumpled bed; the bedspread was a big lump under the mangled sheets. The ashtray on the table next to the bed was filled with cigarette butts, next to it was a cup and saucer holding the remains of cold coffee. She'd given the maid the weekend off and the room showed it.
"Fuck it!" she muttered, "they're not coming here to admire the house."
Her look settled on the framed picture of her son. She walked to the bureau, opened a drawer and put the frame in between her undies, then closed the drawer. No use in having a picture of Rick around; they'd only start to ask questions. It was always embarrassing explaining about her nineteen-year-old son. Gave away her age.
She sipped her drink, thinking how lucky it was that Rick had decided to spend the weekend away from home. She'd been wondering how to get rid of him for the two days. Worked out fine. The boy, always sitting around the house, cramped her style. He was a problem especially when she had something planned, like tonight.
The idea had come to her as she sat woozily at a table by herself at the Glass Crutch, a little dive on Western Avenue. They called themselves The Guys; there were four of them in the musical group. One, a Negro, really was quite handsome, with a goatee, and a cigarette constantly dangling from his lips. He played a mean piano. The other three were good-looking, too. It was the Negro who first noticed her. He had stopped at her table during the break. His name was Lindy and he was interested-very interested. And she, well, she was interested in all of them.
The drunker she got the better the idea became. On the third break she asked Lindy, "What are you doing on Saturday night?"
"Making bread," he replied. "We're playing at a private party up in the Hollywood Hills."
"Would you take a better booking?" she'd smiled.
"Chickee," he'd said impatiently, "this job pays three-fifty."
"I'll give you five hundred!"
His eyes lit up. "Where is this bash?" he'd asked.
"At my place. Only it's not a bash. There will only be-me!"
The doorbell was ringing. Susan pulled out of her reverie and quickly crossed to the window. A Volkswagen bus was parked in her driveway. She'd been so engrossed in her thoughts she had not heard them drive up.
Abruptly she turned, walked out of the room and down the stairs to the door.
"Hey, chickee, nice pad ... real nice."
The Negro was standing in the doorway, the other three in back of him.
"Come in," she said, standing aside.
Suddenly they didn't look quite as handsome as she had first thought. One of the men was chewing gum, his sunken eyes on her breasts. Another was taking in his surroundings. He had a long-jawed face and long arms that dangled at his sides, his long fingers moving nervously. The third one was short and on the heavy side. He kept tweaking his wide-beaked nose and fingering the beads around his neck.
Her eyes went to the Negro. Suddenly she couldn't think of his name. Rindy? No-but it was something like that. Oh! To hell with it! What in hell does it matter? He was smiling at her, a lipless kind of smile. It was the first time she noticed the bulge in his trousers. God, she thought, is that all him? "Why don't you go into the bar and make yourselves a drink. We're very informal tonight. No maids, no help, nothing," she said, gesturing to the other room. Instantly, three of them turned on their heels and left. The black man remained.
"Don't you want a drink?" she asked.
"Well, chickee, I've got to get one thing straight first off."
"What's that?"
"Well, the evening is probably going to get rough!"
Susan felt a tightness in her chest.
"And we might all really hang one on. So, if you don't mind, I'd like payment in advance. You know, just in case you forget." He tilted his head. "Five hundred?" Again the lipless smile.
"Oh, yes. Yes, of course. My checkbook is upstairs, in the bedroom. I'll be right down." She started to leave.
"I'll go with you," he said. "You know, you really must have it to just be able to write out a check for five hundred smackers."
She stopped halfway up the stairs and said, "I've got it, that's right, but don't get any ideas. Don't be greedy. There'll be more if I like-the way you play," she smiled.
After she made out the check, he took it, folded it, and slipped it into his wallet. Then he didn't waste any time.
She watched him unbutton his shirt. Desire stirred her as he stood naked and taut before her. She sat down on the bed and slipped out of her peignoir.
His eyes opened wide in disbelief at the sight of her naked breasts. "Sweet Jesus," he whispered.
Then he was all over her, his hands on her breasts, her legs, her belly, between her thighs. She felt the press of his erection against her thigh. It was without a doubt the largest phallus she'd ever laid eyes on-and she'd seen plenty.
"Please," she whispered, "take it easy. Don't hurt me."
His arm shot out and his fingers encircled her throat. She felt her head fall into the mattress. "Don't tell me that," he said with impatience. "You know goddam well you love it."
His hands kneaded her breasts. His fingers were gritty and hard against her softness.
Her body recoiled when she felt him push his long rod into her vagina.
"Take this, chickee," he said angrily, passionately.
She felt his rod sear into her and she tightened from the rhythmical beat of his long, lean body. It continued unceasingly until the agony turned into pleasure. Suddenly her hands grasped his back. "Do it harder," she groaned. Her legs opened wide and wrapped around his smooth, dark buttocks.
"Like it, chickee?"
"Yes ... yes ... yes," she moaned as his big cock flew in and out of her.
"Ever have anything this big in you?" he asked, his breath heavy and hot against her ear.
Her cunt muscles tightened around his monstrous rod. "Uugghh!" she grunted. "Never ... never this big."
He pulled his cock out to the tip, then sank it back-pulled it out-sank it back, all the time whispering, "Oh, sweet cunt, sweet, tight, warm cunt."
She couldn't stand it. "Fuck me ... fuck me!" Her cry was an animal-like cry. She felt his seed spill into her and she tightened her legs harder around him. He had given, but she had not. Fire raged through her as she sought his lips.
He fell limply to the side. "Oh, chickee," he told her, "you are one wild lay."
Through the doorway she heard a voice. "Hey, Lindy.
Come on already. I got hot nuts."
"Okay, Mac, be right out." He got to his feet and started to dress. He stared down at her. "You'll like Mac. He's smaller than I am, but thick like baloney."
Her eyes slanted and her breath came fast. "Tell him to come on in," she whispered.
Mac serviced her, and so did Tom, and after Tom there was Al. Then her own fire was put out when Lindy fucked her again.
They were all sitting at the bar rip-roaring drunk, the chimes had just sounded three times, when Susan heard the front door slam. She turned her head. The form's visage doubled in her vision. She blinked her eyes a few times, then slowly the figure came into focus.
"Rick!" she whispered in alarm.
With effort she slid off of the barstool and unsteadily made her way to him. Halfway she stopped, realizing that her peignoir was open at the front and revealing her nakedness. She pulled the material over her breasts and knotted the belt tightly around her. When she got to her son, she smiled drunkenly, her head reeling, desperately trying to think of something to say. She wrenched her face to the back bar and peered at the four men. "These," she gestured, "are some friends of mine who dropped by for a drink." She giggled. "Okay, a couple of drinks. She looked into his face. "I-I thought you went to Laguna, Rick."
His features were contorted into a mask of hate. When he spoke it was like a knife going through her chest.
"You whore! One's not enough-you need an army!"
"Rick!" she blustered.
"You dirty whore!" he spat.
She saw him whirl around, then heard the door slam.
"Hey, Susan. Who the fuck was that?" one of the men called from the bar.
Her eyes filled with tears. She lifted her head. "That? That was my baby," she whispered. Then she wiped her eyes, fixed a smile on her face, and walked back to them Their faces were blurs to her, but she didn't care; it didn't really make any difference. She fastened her lips to the blur nearest her. "Anybody for seconds?" she asked.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rick lay on his back on the bed, smoking and staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he'd screwed ten or eleven women in the past three days. They were coming so fast and furious, he'd forgotten. He went over the affairs in his mind, counting on his fingers. For some reason it was important he know the exact number. Why, he didn't know. Maybe it was because he was trying to set a record. What was the fuck record? he wondered. Has anyone ever kept a record? Who had the most fucks? What woman had taken the most cock? Interesting! Perhaps he should do some research. Hell, it might turn out to be a book. Book? Hell, he'd never write it, just like he never completed a single story idea that popped into his head. Well, mustn't think about that, nothing depressing this morning. Besides, he didn't have to write-he had plenty of money. He had to smile. He'd made exactly two hundred dollars with his eleven women. It gave him pleasure when they paid for his cock. But not all eleven had paid. No, it was ten women he'd had. The eleventh didn't count-she blew him. Ten women, and he still had one to go. He leaned on an elbow and glanced at the door. What in hell was she doing in the bathroom anyway? He'd just about got it in her when she pushed him away and disappeared into the bathroom. She'd been there for twenty minutes. Cripes! How many showers can a person take?
Well? it was a relief in a way. All she did was talk. What is it with women? They couldn't keep their mouths shut for five minutes. Gab, gab, gab! Every fuckin' one of them. Especially the manicurist he'd met at the hotel's barber shop. She was built all right: great tits, nice legs, kissy mouth, flashy eyes; she was fond of film actors, marshmallows, champagne, and steaks, in that order ("I did Gary Cooper's nails once. You know what they said about him, don't you? No? Hell, I thought everyone knew. His whang, biggest thing in Hollywood. ... Wish I had some candy. I love marshmallows, plain, not with peanuts all over 'em. But my favorite food is steak. That and champagne. I read once where Vera-Ellen ate nothing but steak and drank only champagne. So I tried it. It's great for the figure. Little expensive. But that's me, I'll spend a fortune on things like that. Isn't that awful? Wonder whatever happened to Vera-Ellen. You never heard of her? She was a film actress. Great dancer. She was in that movie with Fred Astaire and Rosemary Clooney-oh, I forgot the name of the movie. Her name was like this: Vera, hyphen, Ellen. Cute gimmick for a name, huh?") and she had the chutzpah to charge him for the manicure after he made it with her in the hotel room. ("You've got nice hands, believe me, I know, I've held thousands of hands. George Raft, Rock Hudson-whoo, boy, now there's a face. Tony Curtis-he keeps getting better-looking with the years. And, oh, is he nice. Yeah, I've done the big ones. Did you ever have your palms read? No? You should. Very revealing. Believe me you should try it.") Shut up and fuck. What's with this cunt? Talk talk, talk!
Rick sat up and rested his head against the pillows. Then there was that redhead, the schoolteacher on vacation. Trim figure, and another talker; she was anxious for marriage. ("I'm really not what I appear to be, I mean what you might think I am. Really, don't laugh. I want you to know you're the first man I let pick me up. Why, they'd be shocked in Brooklyn Heights. It just happened I saw you look at me, and you appealed to me. You've got such nice eyes, so direct, so sure, so penetrating. You took my breath away. I checked with the waiter. He knew you. He said that you were a nice fellow and that you spent time here at the hotel to get away from it all even though you lived only a few blocks from here. That made me feel better. More-well, safe.") Sure, sure, schoolteacher, and you figured this was Beverly Hills and the waiter told you I had dough and, wham! like wow! this could be jackpot time, huh? Be great to wire back and tell 'em to stick the schoolteacher job because you went and snared yourself a nice young, rich husband. ("Staying cooped up in this hotel isn't my idea of living. There are other things to do, like seeing plays, attending concerts, going to the ballet. I love to socialize.") Well socialize, cunt! Spread those legs! ("After all this is my first time in L.A., and there are so many places-I understand the Greek Theatre is a lovely-") Stop talking and fuck! ("-place to visit. I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I'll do it just this once, because I don't know, you're different, and I really believe you're sincere.") Yeah, Red, only you're over the hill and too damn anxious and you talk too goddamn much!
Not all of them paid. He left it up to them. Most assumed he charged, like that brunette he'd met at the cocktail lounge with enormous sunglasses shielding her eyes. She said she was twenty-eight, but forty-eight would have been more accurate. She was the inquisitive type; her kick was to stick her fingers in her pussy while they were having dinner in his room and make him smell them, all the while carrying on small talk. ("Why'd you pick me? I'm old enough to be your mother. Well, maybe not that old, but I'm a few years past you. What is it about me? All the young guys flip for me. I don't understand.") You're an easy lay, that's why, you smelly cunt. I don't have to fight you, or talk you into it like I would some young pussy. I need it easy, babe, see? I need to fuck myself out, see? They've got to be old because-because-? Why? Because it's easy. That's why because! No other reason. Oh, maybe because I'll learn a little something. Shit, you've been around, maybe you've got a new kick for me. Anyway it delighted him that she paid him twenty-five dollars. Just took it out of her bag and left it on the bureau and silently left.
And that rich bitch brunette he'd met in the lobby. She was married to a producer-she told him that while she undressed her overly perfumed body. She was thirty ("going on forty"), born in Savannah, had been married three times, had been to bed with forty different men, could only name five offhand, only one of whom she really loved (her present husband, who she cheated on because he had hot nuts for some cheap bleached number in New York-if she ever met up with that cunt, Jesus, would she murder the bitch-but he was rich and he had a cock the length of her arm and she'd been through the divorce courts too many times and, hell she didn't mind so much now, now that she got a little on the side herself).
Well, here comes number eleven.
He watched her close the bathroom door behind her and timidly walk to the bed. Suddenly the cunt was timid! Forty-year-old woman still playing girly games. Can you imagine that! He watched her shiver, then crawl under the covers.
"Brrr, it's chilly," she said.
He blinked his eyes.
"My hair," she said, feeling it, "It's the water here in Los Angeles. It's so hard." Again he blinked.
"Ugh! I washed it last night, but you'd never guess it this morning. You know-" Perhaps if he taped her mouth?
"-I was telling my girl friend-her name is Peg....We both drove here from Portland. Peg, I said, we'd better bathe in bottled water." She laughed a high girlish laugh. "Can you imagine what that would cost us?"
Rick shook his head.
"Look at you, so nice and tanned." Her hand tickled across his chest. She looked with an affectionate, somewhat wistful gaze at him. "How I envy you your southern California sun. Wish I could live here. But Oregon is my home."
Maybe if he stuck his cock in her mouth she might stop talking.
"I've been with the Handon Ford Company for so many years it would be stupid for me to leave for a lower paying job. I make pretty good money."
It was the source of his deepest regret that he had made eyes at her in the first place. She was much too skinny, her tits were no bigger than fried eggs, and she had bad skin; but worse, she talked more than the other ten put together. He fingered his testicles impatiently. She looked down at him. He smiled at her, reached for her arm, and pulled her to him.
"Hold on, Mr. Anxious," she giggled, pulling away.
He hated it when she patted her red hair; it reminded him of someone.
"Boy, don't be in such a rush!"
The nerve, he thought. She was playing it like a great beauty-like she resembled Liz Taylor. "Look! Are you or aren't you? I mean ... shit."
Her hand reached out and clasped his mouth. "Don't use foul language! I can't stand men who use foul language."
He gave out with a long, frustrated sigh, then lay back, his arms behind his head. Eventually she ran her hand over his chest. The blankness went abruptly from her eyes as another thought came to her mind-a thought she no doubt was about to voice.
"You know they always kid me about all the showers I take. I'm clean ... real clean. I like to stay clean. I read once where a psychologist said something about it being a person's hang-up taking lots of showers. I mean, that the person was constantly cleansing himself of sin. Well, maybe that's true, I don't know." Her voice trailed. Without being aware of it she let her hand run over his arms and chest. Her eyes went blank for a second, then filled with lust. Suddenly her voice got husky. "You've got a marvelous body. You work out?"
He nodded.
"Mmm, thought so. You know, you remind me of someone. I thought that the second I met you."
Wouldn't she ever stop talking?
"I know," she snapped her fingers. "Grush. Mr. Grush in the rental department. Yeah. You two look exactly alike. Course, he's older." She cocked her head, sucked in her cheeks and, looking exactly like Phyllis Diller, smiled, and asked, "How old do you think I am?"
"Fifty!" he snapped.
Her face dropped. A second later she smiled. "Kidder. No, come on, guess."
"I don't know," he said impatiently.
"Guess. I love it when someone guesses my age. Go ahead and guess."
"Twenty-nine." A safe number.
"Nearly," she giggled. "I'm thirty."
On one tit!
"You?"
"Nineteen." He watched her face turn red and grow solemn.
"That young." She looked at his nakedness, her gaze ending at his thighs. "You, uh," she swallowed hard, "sure got a large, uh-for somebody so young."
"My old lady fed me vitamins," he smiled crookedly at her. "Go ahead, grab it. Shit, it won't bite."
"Your language. Please!" she frowned.
This one has to be bananas, he thought.
Gingerly she ran her hand through the wiry patch of black pubic curls, then clasped his penis. It quickly blooded to life. She stared, fascinated by the jerking rod.
"Y-you're clean, aren't you?"
He frowned. "What?"
"I asked if you were-clean!"
"No! I just dipped my cock in mustard!"
"Well you know what I mean. A girl has got to be careful."
His jaw muscles clenched and he sighed in disgust.
"Don't be angry. It's just that, well, my girl friend came down with a-she cleared her throat,"-a social disease," she whispered, looking over her shoulder. "If you know what I mean."
"Look! I don't have clap or-"
Involuntary her hand shot out and covered his mouth. "You don't have to come right out and name it," she whispered wide-eyed.
"That cuts it!" Rick swung his legs off the bed and leaped to his feet. "Okay, get dressed," he ordered.
"What?"
"You heard me. Get dressed and leave."
"But-but why?"
"I'm tired of pussyfooting it with you. You're a nut. Hear? A goddamn goofball! And you talk too much. You run at the mouth with nothing but crap. What the fuck am I, your goddamn psychiatrist? Beat it!"
She glared at him. "Well! I never!" Then she turned from him and reached for her clothes.
Impatiently, angrily, he watched her dress.
"I never in all my life met up with the likes of you. You darn kids. I should have known better than to get tangled up with a teen-ager. Such terrible language, such hostility, and only because I asked a simple question." She was muttering as she stepped into her dress.
Her hair, almost the color of his mother's was her best feature, he decided. Without the hair she had absolutely nothing. But then, none of the women he'd had in the past seventy-two hours had much, yet they all had two things in common, they were twice and three times his age, and almost all of them reminded him of his mother. Was that saying something, or wasn't it? Like, wow, what the hell was he doing? He stared at the woman, wanting her to leave now, right now, right this second. There was that hair, that red hair so much like his mother's, and the fragrance of her perfume was strong, and that, too, reminded him of his mother. Amidst the stillness in the room he could almost hear his mother's laugh. "These are some friends of mine who dropped by for a drink." Damn it, she'd taken on a whole fuckin' group. The whole bloody gang. His own mother!
"You should see a doctor!"
He turned to the voice and could almost see his mother before him in this woman who was taking her goddamn time to dress.
"Just hurry it up," he snapped, "you old whore!"
"Well!" She stepped up to him, her eyes daggers. "You young punk! You can't talk to me like that. Who do you think you are?"
"Whore!" he shrieked.
She drew in her breath and backed away against the wall, suddenly, obviously afraid.
"Goddamn old cunt!" His eyes were blazing slits.
Her terror-stricken face stared at him, her rosebud mouth working flabbily in terror. "You-you're sick," she mumbled. Her hands grabbed for her purse, then fumbled at the door handle.
Suddenly Rick saw the door swing closed. He was alone. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap. He caught his own reflection in the bureau mirror. He stared. What am I? he asked himself. A nothing, he answered. A face in the mirror, focal point of nothing but an awareness of his own confusion, despondency, frustration, and fear. The steady ticking of the travel-alarm clock made him become aware again of time. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was nearly twelve. He'd been on a three-day orgy and the women had all been his mother. That's what it was all about. In my mind I've been fucking my own mother! It was getting to be an obsession!
The sun stood as though on guard at the picture window looking out over the hotel pool; and beyond the bright sunlight just a few miles away-Laguna. Why did he suddenly think of Laguna? What was the matter with him? Taking his vengeance out on a strange bird-like woman. Cursing her, frightening her half to death. For what? Why?
He suddenly felt very alone. The cold steel shell he'd built up around him appeared to be cracked. He thought he'd learned how to live an unloved existence by living without feelings-obviously it wasn't working for him. Nothing was working for him. His mother had chosen men, any man in preference to him; it was as simple as that. He knew it all along, but having caught her at it, having it erupt like this all at once, was eating at him. He had to get away from the woman completely. But where? There was no one he could go to. He couldn't do it alone-that he knew. He desperately needed someone. If only he had a good friend, someone he could stay with, but he didn't. There was no one.
Hey ... hang on! There was one person!
Turning from the window, he walked to the closet and quickly dressed. Fifteen minutes later he checked out of the hotel and was driving on the freeway heading for Laguna-and Paul Harris.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paul closed the book and carefully put a ribbon between the pages he'd been reading. He reached over and placed the paperback on the table, then looked down at the sleeping figure of Rick by his side. Paul's lips twisted into a smile. Rick was breathtakingly handsome, he thought, really the most beautiful boy he'd ever laid eyes on. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the boy's shining hair, then lightly traced his finger over the lad's full lips. He saw Rick stir, twitch his lips, and shake his head in sleep. Quickly Paul pulled his hand away. Laughing silently, he carefully lifted the covers and brought them down to Rick's feet. Delicately, he touched Rick's ankle and glided his fingertips over the dark hair of Rick's calf. He pulled himself up and sat facing the sleeping boy, leaning on one elbow. He gazed at the lad's smooth, hard body, the knot of rounded muscles of his shoulders, the tanned chest, the well-developed pectoral muscles, at the tiny belly button, the dark patch of belly hair. He stared in wonder at the tanned, muscular thighs, caught his breath at the sight of Rick's spread legs, his young manhood, now relaxed and arched downward, the tip of it and the large balls touching the sheet. He reached out and touched it, his fingers sliding over the cocktip. Hesitantly, at first, he felt the youth's prick swell in his hand, then in a great rush of force begin to lengthen until it stood upright, fiercely strong at soldier-like attention.
"My God, how beautiful," Paul whispered.
Paul quickly withdrew his hand. No use in waking Rick. Poor guy, he'd been at him four and five times a day from the moment he'd arrived. It had been like that for two weeks now, he thought, fourteen days of the most wonderful sex he'd ever known. No matter what time of day or night, he found he could not keep his hands off this dark-haired Adonis.
He lay back against the pillow and felt the relaxation flowing over him. God, but he felt glorious. Happy, content, and sexually fulfilled. He'd never known such complete happiness. Up to now his life had been empty. He'd learned how to live alone and figured that was the way it was to be the rest of his life. He began to think himself incapable of love, for surely he could not fall in love with some of the screaming fags he'd taken up with. Certainly no young guy would want to fall in love with him. Most were after bigger game, seeking successful homosexuals who could give them the good life. But then, that was exactly what he was looking for. He wasn't successful and perhaps he would never be. Besides he wasn't getting any younger. Quicksilver homosexuals were constantly flitting from one sex partner to another, searching, searching, searching, and when they found someone, it was not long lasting. They were always looking for someone better, someone more handsome, someone who could offer more security. He thought of the handsome suntanned youths he had known and had, of the butch tricks he'd dragged home from bars. Remembered the way he used to wink the rear turn signal of his car in front of trucks. He'd have the truck driver right in his own goddamn truck. Fags, straights, young and old, he'd had 'em all. Sex! That's all it had been up to now. All those good-looking guys with their great bodies and their big cocks paled now in comparison to Rick. Since Rick had come into his life, he had dropped everybody. He didn't even go to the bars or the baths anymore. Nobody seemed to interest him. There was no one but Rick. Just touching Rick, just being near him, sent shivers down his back and motivated a throbbing deep in his loins. Thinking of the boy's large hands taking his body, thick sensual male lips crushing against his, Rick's anxious tongue exploring his mouth, Rick's legs locked tightly around his torso as he buggered the youth, made him dizzy with desire.
Rick seemed equally as happy and content with him. At least, there were moments when Paul thought so.
Okay, that was the setup; a young, handsome boy had come to live with him. Now what? Just what did he, Paul Harris, have going for him? This same young boy was apparently troubled. The hatred he harbored for his mother was obvious. He had good reason. No doubt the mother had deprived the son of natural maternal love. From what he deduced, Rick's mother was a promiscuous, sexually eccentric, glamorous, and quite neglectful mother. The boy's self-image had been destroyed. There was no goal for him to strive for. He toyed with the idea of being a writer, yet he'd never really written anything, and he seldom read. A sense of achievement was missing; everything had been handed to Rick. Rick's life was dreary for want of motive, lonely for lack of love, empty because of self-defeat. Already, at the age of nineteen, Rick had an emotional scar that he would carry for a lifetime. Because of this, Rick hungrily sought friendship. In his case, the craving took the form of an avid sexual curiosity. Rick had confessed this to him readily-all those tired women he'd screwed. Fortunately, with him, Rick seemed to have found something-perhaps it was because, he, Paul, had sensed it and reacted to it. Why else would the boy move in with him?
All right. What now? He'd had similar setups, strange guys had lived with him before. At the time he had thought he would be able to have a lasting relationship with another male, but always he'd been disappointed in the results. Always! Instead of the friendship enriching him, it left him wounded. What of Rick? Would the same thing happen? Would the friendship survive a week, two more weeks, then crumble as all the others had? He didn't want that to happen. Okay, then how could he insure this relationship? By giving, that's how, he answered his own question. Friendship is not all taking. With Rick he would have to work harder. Instill courage in the boy. Be compassionate, sincere, understanding. Share confidence, repair the damage done to Rick's self-image. A tall order! Did he wish to take on this responsibility?
Why not? It was his one chance to get out of the vacuum of loneliness, of oppression, of the belief he was a nonentity. He too had his problems. By helping the boy he would be helping himself. He automatically wished to do this anyway; it wouldn't be too much of a chore for him. He enjoyed all moments with the boy, eating with him, sleeping with him, walking, swimming, seeing films with him, watching television, bowling and playing tennis with him. The fact was, as a human being he owed the boy something, he felt responsible for him; he just couldn't take what Rick offered so generously, and then ignore the boy's basic needs. And perhaps Rick would help him-financially. Hell, the boy had money. Imagine, his own Rolls at nineteen! Yes, perhaps Rick would be generous with him.
What he was telling himself was that he was in love with Rick. He was surprised by his own thoughts. Surprised and caught off balance; his own definite realization brought a flush to his cheeks. He fumbled for his cigarettes and lighter, found them, lit a cigarette and blew a long, thin line of gray smoke to the ceiling. With one hand under the back of his head and his long, well-muscled legs crossed at the ankles, he stretched out comfortably, enjoying his cigarette.
Paul's thoughtful excursion was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. Quickly he picked up the receiver on the first ring, side-glancing at Rick. Fortunately the boy had not heard the ring.
"Hello?"
"Hello. To whom am I speaking?" a female voice asked. "This is Paul. Paul Harris. Who is this?"
"Susan Lundman."
At the mention of the name Paul gripped the receiver tightly. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Lundman."
"Then the name is familiar to you. Then Rick is living there." It was a statement more than a question.
Paul hesitated. Did Rick wish for his mother to know his whereabouts?
"Hello? Mr. Harris?"
"Yes," he answered slowly. "I'm here."
"My son, is he living at the Laguna address?"
"Yes. Temporarily," he emphasized.
"I see. You know, I've been worried something awful. Rick just disappeared. Two weeks it's been. Without a word. He's never done that before. I was going to call the police-"
Paul felt his heart hammer away. Rick was only nineteen! The police would not be welcome.
"-but then I checked with our lawyer," the voice continued, "and he told me that Rick had mailed a postal card from Laguna instructing that his monthly allowance check be mailed to Laguna. I got your telephone number by checking the name and address with information. I've called many times during the week, but I never seem able to get anyone at home."
"We-uh-Rick is seldom at home, and I've been busy between my studio and the house."
"Just what is going on? I mean, Rick has never told me he had friends in Laguna. Paul Harris ... Paul Harris," she tasted the name. "I don't recall Rick ever men-"
"We've recently become friends. We-we met at a mutual friend's house," Paul lied.
"I see. How is he?"
"Fine."
"What is he doing?"
"Working," Paul blurted, "on-on a book. Yes, a book."
"Rick? Writing? My! That's rather hard to believe. Where is he now? I'd like to speak with him."
"Out. He went to a film-with a girl."
"Naturally! Well, tell him I called. You will make sure you tell him I called, won't you? I want him to telephone me as soon as he gets in." The voice hesitated. "No, on second thought, I won't be home until very late. Ask him to call me in the morning."
"Yes, I will, Mrs. Lundman."
"Goodbye."
There was a click and then the sound of a drone and Paul put the receiver back in its cradle.
"Whew!" he sighed, going over the conversation in his head. Had he said anything to make her suspect? No, he didn't think so. Now what? Would she be visiting? Was she a nosy mother? Would she size up the situation? This was something he had not thought about. Rick was only nineteen. Jail-bait. That's something else that had slipped his mind. Rick had run away from home. Suddenly an aching depression surged through him He was right back where he started. Damn it! I knew it was too good to be true.
Turning, he looked down at Rick. Leaning over, he pushed aside a wave of hair that had fallen across the boy's closed eyes. "God, you're beautiful, Rick," he whispered. "I don't want to lose you, fella, not now, not now that I'm in love with you." He felt the blood rushing to his cock. His hand lightly caressed Rick's cheek. Slowly his hand passed downward to Rick's side, down to his hip and thigh. It would be awful to have to give up this handsome boy, he thought. His lips touched Rick's cheek. Desire welled up in his throat as he gazed at the firm-muscled body.
"My love," he whispered. "My beautiful, dark-haired boy." He brushed Rick's ear with his lips. His hand clasped the boy's limp penis. He squeezed it to hardness. His other hand touched the boy's nipples, his navel, his black pubic curls. Taking Rick's heavy, now half-erect penis, he put it to his mouth, feeling it harden to fullness against his tongue. His fingers explored in the hairy cleft of Rick's firm buttocks. He sucked all the warmth of Rick's being into his mouth. In less than five minutes, Paul felt Rick's cockhead swell up like a balloon and erupt into his mouth and down his throat, hotly, fiercely, chokingly. Seconds later, Paul relieved himself into his own hand. After washing himself, he returned to the bed and lay down beside the boy. "Rick," he whispered against the youth's cheek, "I love you ... I love you."
Rick stirred, moved, turned to his side and plopped his arm heavily across Paul's hairy chest.
Paul grinned, his arms encircling Rick, cradling his head against his chest. Suddenly Paul knew what he would do. It was really quite simple. He would visit with Rick's mother in Los Angeles. Meet her face to face, on his own. He would charm the panties off her. He'd win her over, even-and he had to laugh at the thought-if I have to fuck the hot bitch!
CHAPTER SIX
A week later, Paul was beginning to have his doubts about his affair with Rick. He was finding it increasingly difficult to talk to the boy. For one, Rick spent much of his time away from the house now. For another, Rick found one excuse after another not to have sex with him Somehow, the boy made him uncomfortably aware of his own empty life and his homosexuality. It seemed Rick did not consider himself a homo; he fucked women, didn't he? Didn't that make it all right? He was fooling himself, of course, but he firmly believed that Paul was something he was going through and it would soon be over. Paul felt this, and he had reason to because of questions like: "Are fags the only people you know?" and "Why in hell do you put that sissy cold cream on your face every night? You smell like a cunt!" and "You mind keeping that hard dick of yours to yourself?" this in the middle of the night, "Is that all you think about-sex?" It upset Paul. He defended himself: "Is it wrong to be my age and have the appetites of a healthy male animal?" Then the cutting retort: "Male animal! Man, is that a laugh!"
The house was silent. Too silent! Rick was out; as a matter-of-fact, he had not returned from the previous evening. Paul wondered where he could be. Certainly not with his mother-she had called earlier. He could not stop thinking of the boy. Had Rick found someone else? Laguna was overrun with sex-hungry fags. Anybody would make a play for Rick. He wondered why Rick was no longer content with having him for a sex partner. He had tried to make the relationship more than just sex. He'd tried his best. He'd tried to give the boy something worthwhile, something permanent. Tried to steer Rick, encourage him to write, aid him mentally and spiritually. What does Rick want? What's Rick-? He was at a loss to finish his own thoughts; it was beyond him.
He bathed, combed his hair, and stood for a moment at the mirror, scrutinizing his face. His complexion was good, his flesh was firm, his eyes were clear. There were no screaming age signs. He had a good muscular body, and he was certainly okay in the cock department. No, he did not look his age. Not that he was old. But thirty nowadays seemed old. Everyone was so young, especially in Laguna. He stopped looking at himself, realizing that there was no serious point to this examination. The trouble was not him physically or mentally-the trouble was Rick!
It was true that he loved Rick, but there were other reasons he did not want to lose the boy. Important reasons, at least they were important at the moment. The truth of the matter was he was stone broke. Rick had moved in at the right time. By accepted forty-two dollars and fifty cents from Rick, Paul had managed to meet another month's rent. But it had taken all of his money. The rent for the art studio he shared with a fellow artist was also due. He could not pay it. He would lose the studio. He'd hocked a diamond ring his mother had left him, and he sold two of his paintings for a ridiculously low price, and still he needed money. It was too early in the season for tourists, so there would be no paintings sold this month. He should be working, painting like mad, so that he would have at least fifty completed works for the summer trade. But he was depressed, and, besides, he needed more canvases, more paint, brushes, and God knows what else. Without it he could not paint.
He realized that at the center of his confused feelings was a need to find a security of his own. It had always been that way with him. He'd never had anything. He'd lived with his parents until they were killed in an auto accident. After he had gone through the insurance money, he'd taken one menial job after another until he decided to make a career as a painter. After all, his work had always been admired. So he painted. And at the rate he was going he'd end up a bum. It wasn't that he was a bad painter, on the contrary, he was damn good. But painters were a dime a dozen, good ones included. The competition in Laguna was overwhelming, and it grew steadily worse. He had to be sponsored, that was the only way. Or he at least had to have someone sharing the expenses; he could not possibly do it alone. It wasn't that he hadn't tried. He'd played the field, always hoping to meet up with some old rich queen who could be talked into parting with his money, hoping to be kept, to be cared for and fed in return for his body. In a way this had been in the back of his mind with Rick. Maybe on a smaller scale.
He sighed. Now it was too late. Obviously Rick wasn't going to stay on. Meanwhile he was broke, damn broke. There wasn't even enough money for grub. The trouble with me, he told himself, is that I'm not a big enough taker. When would he learn to reach out and grab? He was confused by Rick's sudden rejection, confused and angry at his own inability to make a successful life for himself; its intensity frightened him.
He glanced at his watch. It was early. Early enough for him to give Eric a call. Now, there was a rich queen. A smile cracked Paul's face. Yes, Eric was loaded, but he was damn smart. All Paul could hope to get out of him was a free dinner and invites to gay parties and an occasional cruise on the fat slob's boat. Yet, if Eric was in the mood to play his sex games, Paul could make a bundle. Eric was like that. Eric liked him, liked his body. He'd be taken to a classy restaurant and they would end up here at his place.
"Might as well," Paul sighed, walking to the telephone. He certainly couldn't stay here and pine away for Rick. No percentage in that. Besides, he hadn't had a cock date for a long time.
After dinner, just as Paul anticipated, he and Eric were sipping cognac and watching television at his house.
"That was a great dinner," Paul said. "Thanks."
"It's always a pleasure eating with you." Eric gave him a lecherous smile. "And eating each other!"
That was the length of Eric's humor, Paul thought. Fag jokes about cocksucking. He forced a smile, "Oh, Eric," he said. "You're too much." He finished his drink, got up, and poured another. "Want one, Eric?"
"No, dear. I don't want to get too high before the big event."
Paul smiled. Then the old fag was in the mood for his sex game. Paul returned to the couch and lay on his back, staring at the television set. The fragrance of aphrodisia cologne was strong in his nostrils. Eric must have used the whole bottle. He felt Eric's fingers under his shirt across his taut abdomen. He stretched his legs and felt the all-familiar warmth in his loins. His limp cock stirred, then roused itself and began to lengthen. A friend's remark leaped to Paul's mind. 'That Paul ... if Hitler touched him he'd get a hard on." The joke happened to be the truth. Paul didn't find Eric attractive, fact was he thought him to be downright ugly. But the second he was touched....
"I think," he said, trying to ignore Eric's hand on his pectoral muscle, "that Bette Davis, that is early Bette Davis, was quite talented. What happened to her?"
"What happens to all of us, darling, she got tired," Eric laughed. "Hell, how long can one go on? Anyway, who the hell cares?"
Paul turned to look at him Eric had gotten fatter and, he seemed, shorter. He was now almost bald. Paul wondered why the man didn't buy a wig, after all he could afford the best one made. But then he thought a wig would not help; Eric had too many things wrong with him. He had jowls that hung loosely, and a complexion the color of phthalocyanine green (an oil color Paul used in his painting), and his eyes were a washed-out blue, and his lips were blubbery. He sweated something terrible (thus the heavy usage of aphrodisia, Paul's unfavorite cologne), it really upset Paul, it was all he could do to keep from gagging. Thank God, Eric refused to take off his clothes. He'd never seen the man naked, and hoped he'd never have to. The only good things going for Eric were his money and his cock. And thinking of cock....Paul's gaze dropped to Eric's lap. Sure enough, the old fag had it out, balls and all. It really is a monster of a prick, thought Paul, too bad it isn't attached to a more attractive body. His eyes returned to the set and Bette Davis.
"Oh, shit," Eric said. "I can watch the telly at home." He rose and snapped off the set. "Fuck Bette Davis."
Uh-huh, thought Paul, he's starting early tonight. He saw Eric turn and smile, finger his testicles, then gesture for Paul to come to him.
What I won't do for a free dinner, Paul thought as he got up. He'd been to bed too many times with Eric not to know what was to follow. Well, he mused, everyone to his own kicks. He reached into his shirt pocket for the capsule of amyl nitrite, then stood waiting for Eric's command.
"Get on the floor," Eric commanded. "And listen to me good!"
Paul had to suppress a smile. Eric's soldierly order was given with a sibilant s.
Suddenly Eric pulled himself tall, parted his legs, and glared at Paul. When he spoke, it was with a German accent.
"You prisoners are nothing but trouble, always trying to escape from camp. Veil, I'm going to teach you a lesson!"
Oh, so that was it. Eric was playing Nazi this evening. Well, that should be good for twenty-five dollars, Paul thought.
"Down!" Eric ordered, pretending to crack a whip.
The trick was not to laugh, Paul warned himself. The minute he did, Eric would storm out of the house. It had happened before. He needed the fat slob, so he kept his face serious.
Eric's fat, anxious fingers undid Paul's clothing. He pulled the shirt impatiently from his back, ripping the material, and was now fumbling with the belt of Paul's trousers. Didn't matter, Paul told himself, tomorrow or the next day a package would be delivered to him and it would be a very expensive shirt from Eric.
"Now, back on your knees." Eric glared down at him. "Move!"
Naked, except for his socks (Eric thought feet were ugly), Paul stared up at Eric's massive erection.
"You know what you're going to do, don't you?"
"No," Paul whispered, assuming a helpless, confused attitude.
"I'll tell you. You're going to suck my fat dick!"
Paul looked up with frightened eyes. Lay it on good, he told himself. "No, please ... don't make me do that. I can't ... I've never done that before."
Eric's rasping breathing was heavy now as he jerked Paul's head back and down onto the floor. One hand locked around Paul's neck, choking him, while the other guided his fat penis to Paul's mouth. "Just open your mouth and take it," Eric said, low animal-like moans coming from his throat.
The odor of the man's foul-smelling cock came to Paul's nostrils. It wasn't exactly his favorite smell. But a buck was a buck.
"Suck!" Eric's voice was harsh, demanding, with rising passion.
Paul reached out and touched the moist velvet flesh of the cocktip. It certainly was huge, he'd always been fascinated by it. It had to be all of eleven inches, and it was as fat as a slab of baloney, with heavy blue veins, and the head of it was massive under the silky foreskin. But what was so intriguing was its hardness-like steel. Paul had never known as hard a prick as this one. He pushed back the foreskin and brought his lips forward to kiss it. The teeming organ throbbed.
"Suck!" Eric lisped.
Paul opened his mouth, devouring the fat rod.
"Yes, like that ... like that, you damn Jew!"
Eric was really playing Nazi. Thank God there weren't any gas chambers, he was sure Eric would throw him into one.
Eric's hands rubbed along Paul's hairy, muscular torso, then he maneuvered himself down onto his knees to the floor and reached for Paul's heavy, well-formed cock. He held it tightly, feeling of its hardness. Then he squeezed it savagely.
"I am the master race. You are my slave. You will die a slave!"
God, thought Paul, he'd seen too fucking many war pictures.
Eric squeezed Paul's cock.
Paul groaned from the sudden pain. He pulled his mouth from Eric's penis and was about to curse the man when Eric cupped Paul's testicles, his fingers tightening around the full hanging balls.
"Watch it!" Paul cried. "Rough is rough, but when you-"
"Shut up. If you don't like it why'd you call me in the first place?" Then Eric smiled. "Because you need dough. Well, if you want my money, then work for it!" His hand squeezed Paul's balls even harder.
Paul gritted his teeth, sucked in a mouthful of air, took the pain as best he could. Finally Eric let the aching balls drop.
"Well! What do you think of it?"
Without looking at Eric, Paul said, "Your cock is beautiful."
"And what does it do for you?"
"It-it thrills me."
"Well, play with the damn thing!"
Paul cupped the heavy balls, huge things, as big and round as golf balls.
"You like sucking me off?"
"Yes, very much." He saw Eric stiffen.
"Yes, very much-sir! " Eric commanded.
"Yes, very much ... sir!" Paul repeated.
"And remember to sir me from now on, you slave!" He took his prick in his hand and then pressed it against Paul's mouth, pushing it from side to side, sliding it almost into the full closed lips.
Paul felt a heavy drop of come on his lips; he tongued it, taking it into his mouth.
"Yeah, lick my come, lick it good," Eric whispered. He rested his cocktip at one comer of Paul's lips. "I want to see you eat me," he husked.
It'll take some doing over that big, fat belly of yours, thought Paul. Suddenly Eric forced his cock into Paul's mouth, and then worked his hips back and forth, forcing at least six inches of himself inside. Quickly he pulled himself out.
"Say it!" he demanded.
"Say what?" Paul was confused.
"Say-I love you!"
Paul swallowed hard. Jesus, he thought, he wanted a lot for his money. "I-I love you!" he breathed.
"Damn you," Eric's rasping voice swore. "Say it like you meant it."
"I love you-"
"Better. But haven't you forgotten something?"
Paul clenched his teeth. "I love you ... sir!"
"Yeah, that's what I want to hear." Eric eased his cock into Paul's mouth, then shoved his fat hips forward, sinking it deep into the man.
Paul choked at the deep invasion, then became accustomed to the enormous rod in his mouth. He moved his mouth and lips in piston-like movements, conscious of Eric watching his every move, extracting delirious enjoyment from every movement.
Now Paul felt the teeming head working against his tongue and cheeks. Eric suddenly thrust his hips forward, sending his big cock deep into Paul's throat and Paul started to choke. But Eric could care less. Another shove, and the entire length of his fat dick pushed far into Paul's mouth and down his throat. He gagged violently. He choked and found it hard to breathe. Still the cock remained. His discomfort was tremendous, but he sucked onward, hoping Eric would come. Finally Eric gave up a few inches, and the tears rolled down Paul's cheeks. He swallowed hard, already feeling the start of a sore throat, as Eric started a slow sawing motion, easing his dick in and out in short strokes, ending with one very deep lunge, all the way down. Finally Paul got used to the rhythm and timed his breathing so that he would not choke. He felt pudgy lips kissing his navel. The mouth worked down and he felt Eric's teeth graze his cock.
"Mmmm, aghhh," Paul groaned in pain.
Then Eric seized his cock in his big wet mouth. Paul moaned at the sudden delicious feeling. Now if Eric wouldn't get rough! The mouth sucked hard, anxiously, excitedly, expertly, slipping all the way down to the very root and back again. Paul made himself suck harder at the other man's cock; he became excited. Eric's big, surprisingly cool nuts pounded heavily against his nose, his forehead, and his eyes. He closed his eyes and moaned as Eric's attentive mouth and tongue sucked ravenously.
He'd become accustomed to the short strokes of the man, but suddenly Eric changed and pistoned full length, hard into him. Paul choked and gasped for breath. He wanted to pull away. The cock was much too big; it completely filled his mouth from cheek to cheek and his tongue had a hard time under the pushing cock's underside. His throat felt raw and tight and he thought he would faint. He felt Eric's mouth and tongue swirling over his own hard cock and he tried to pull himself out of the mouth and at the same time tried to push the man's fat belly away, but it was like trying to move a Mack truck. He began to get almost hysterical and tried to moan, but couldn't; he was choking so much.
All of a sudden Eric's cock eased from Paul's throat until only the massive slippery head remained in his mouth. Saliva ran down his chin and cheeks as he struggled for air. Just as he was beginning to feel better, the cock moved, pushed forward, pulsated, and throbbed in his mouth. This is it, he thought. He felt the wiry pubic forest rubbing his chin hard, the prick deep in his throat beginning to swell. He slapped Eric on the buttocks to get his attention-was he about to shoot his load? But Eric was feasting ravishingly on the prick in his own mouth. Then the cock stiffened even more in Paul's mouth (how was it possible?), and he felt the gushes of come shoot down his throat. He remembered suddenly Eric's explicit instructions. Quickly he took the amyl nitrite capsule he'd been holding so long in his hand, cracked it open, and put it to Eric's nose. Eric inhaled deeply, let out a loud groan and Paul felt the man's big frame stiffen then go into jerky convulsions as he screamed loudly his pleasure. He lunged his fat hips into Paul's face and Paul thought he would die. It was too much, too much. Eric erupted spasm after spasm after spasm of hot, bubbly come. Paul thought it would never end.
Then Paul writhed his hips at the feel of the throat contractions around his own cockhead. But Eric stayed inside of his mouth, his cock still as hard as steel. He writhed his hips and Paul could feel his throat contracting over the man's cockhead. He was gagging and at the same time ready to shoot his load. He shoved his hips in, fucking the man's mouth brutally. Then he came, a big load. He thrust his hips hard into the man's face. Swallow that! You fucker, he thought, like I was forced to do.
They lay there for at least five minutes before Eric finally pulled his cock from Paul's mouth.
"You suck cock beautifully, Paul." Eric was being Eric again, dropping his accent completely. "I swear to God there isn't a better cocksucker in all of Laguna."
Spare me the compliments, thought Paul, excusing himself so that he could vomit out what he'd been forced to take in. That, and to gargle his sore throat and dress. When he was through in the bathroom, he returned, poured them both another drink, and waited for the big moment.
"Well, doll, it's getting late," Eric said, peeling some bills from a roll he took out of his pocket. "I know my lover boy is having a bad time of it, so here's a little bonus for you."
Paul took the money without looking at it. He slipped it into his pocket, kissed his fat slob of a date good-night, and saw him to the door. When he heard the car drive away, he searched his pocket to count the money. Fifty bucks! And he'd suck-earned every penny of it. Thank God, he thought, I'm saved for a while.
"What in hell was that all about?" a voice asked from the darkness of the kitchen.
Paul whirled around.
"Rick!" he whispered, surprised by the boy's presence. "When-how long have you-"
"I saw the whole thing."
"You could have made your presence known."
"And spoil all your fun? Boy, you must be hard up. What'd you bring that fat old queen home for?"
"Guess?" Paul said, turning away from Rick.
"He gave you money. Is that the reason?"
"You tell me."
"Christ!" How could you do it? Nobody can be that strapped for money."
Paul turned sharply to face Rick. "Well, I am. Is that so hard to understand? Not everybody has a rich mother to support them. You don't know how fucking lucky you are. Besides, what's wrong with taking his money. I gave the sonofabitch what he wanted, didn't I? I-" Paul turned away so that Rick wouldn't see the tears. "-I needed money. Shit, I don't even have any oils left, and I make my living painting. I'm about to lose my studio. Next month I won't even have the money to pay the rent on this house. Hell, I don't even have money to eat."
Rick was at Paul's side, sensing the desperation in Paul. He embraced him, holding him tightly in his arms.
"Hey, come on. I'm sorry I said those things." He kissed Paul on the cheek. "Come on, babe, stop crying. I didn't know. I was just thinking about my own problems. Babe-come on now, stop crying," he whispered tenderly, stroking Paul's cheek. "I'm back. I'm back now. You won't have to see the sonofabitch again."
"You mean it, Rick? You are back for keeps? Oh, Rick, you just don't know how much I love you," Paul breathed.
"Okay," Rick smiled, "is that anything to cry about?"
Paul blinked back the tears and laughed. It was a quick, shallow laugh, but a laugh all the same.
Rick tilted Paul's head up and grinned. "Tomorrow you go out and get yourself all the paint and canvases and stuff you need. And don't worry about the studio. I'll pay the rent. Hell, Paul, why didn't you tell me?"
"Because-I-I was ashamed."
"Not with me, Paul. Don't ever be ashamed with me."
Paul buried his face into Rick's chest. It was so strange. Rick was so tender; he'd never known him to reach out and touch him, it just wasn't Rick's way. But now, it was different. The quick male warmth of Rick reached out and engulfed him. In one split second he had managed to convince Rick of his urgent needs. Because the boy had witnessed the scene with Eric, a newfound tenderness and love seemed to come from Rick, a tenderness and love that had been missing. It wasn't his imagination-Rick did feel something for him.
"Paul?"
"Yes, Rick?"
"Remember this, Paul. Tomorrow is the very beginning of your life. Yesterdays don't count-only tomorrow," Rick whispered. "I read that somewhere, and it stayed with me. Only tomorrow."
"Yes, Rick." It was happening, Paul thought, as he felt Rick's lips on his own. He was going to get what he wanted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Susan Lundman was bored. She'd just returned from Las Vegas and in the quiet of her house now paced the floor nervously. Gambling bored her, films bored her, television no longer held her interest. She didn't read, she hadn't picked up a book since Forever Amber. So she spent most of her day at the salon, or shopping in Beverly Hills, or meeting other women friends for lunch. But even that was becoming a bore. Idly Susan drifted away from the dining room and out onto the terrace. Slowly she walked down the steps into the Japanese garden.
The fragrance of the flowers was strong in her nostrils and she stood, drink in hand, looking glumly up at the sky. She wasn't feeling too well this morning. She had a hangover and the shakes that wouldn't stop. She didn't know what was happening to her. There was a time when she could take four or five scotch highballs before dinner, then drink a few more after, follow that by cognac straight through the evening, and still manage to wake up in the morning clear as a glass of champagne-well, maybe occasionally she would have a dull ache in the head the following morning, but a glass of scotch over the rocks and black coffee always took the "blaliness" away. For the past three years, however, drinking had become an increasing problem. She craved it so. Four straight shots of scotch was what she required the second she got out of bed to bring her into a semblance of endurable coherence; she drank scotch in the morning, martinis through lunch, old-fashioneds before dinner and whatever else she craved after. Each night she'd fall into bed in a state of quasi-delirious, exhilarant apprehension, hoping-she had even prayed-that she would be able to get through the long night, taking a secret vow that tomorrow, hangover or no, she would not touch a drop. Yes, tomorrow she would be a new woman ... tomorrow she would go on the wagon ... and while she was at it, she'd give up smoking. Tomorrow always came, but she drank even more, and smoked twice as much.
What happened to her? When had it all started? When had drinking ceased to be social and had become personal? At what point had it stopped being pleasurable and had become a nightmare? That's what she was, an alcoholic. But she wasn't alone, she compensated. There were others like her who could understand the consuming, corrosive, nightmarish terror of the alcoholic compulsion. So? Why should she join that miserable crowd? Nobody held a knife to her stomach, threatening her to take a drink. Look what it had forced her to do. She found herself increasingly alone in bars. She was now drinking her dinner, her lunch; subsisting chiefly on ham sandwiches, drinking black coffee in copious quantities, and, of course, taking barbital. When would the long, tortuous cycle end? She asked the question with increasing despondence, and never got an answer. She'd been to a sanitarium, to three doctors, and to a psychiatrist. The last had told her that she obviously had been a troubled child (she could have told him that!), that she was too self-exacting, that it was a form of escape, even that she was allergic to alcohol. When she paid him the two hundred dollars, the end result of her consultation was a week's jag in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, a sex orgy with six guys, and a heavy fine for drunken driving and disorderly conduct.
Out of the three years of combined, collective bewilderment, loneliness, frustration, fear of growing old, had grown an all-increasing anger and resentment for all that tortured her, all that made her existence miserable; a resentment as strong as her despondency, which directed itself toward Rick, her late husband, and every and all lovers she took. Her hopeless kind of existence was painful, and finally her emotions and energy dissipated itself into innumerable moods of deep exhaustion. The point was to free herself from her emotional bracelet, to stretch, straighten, and clear out of the dark pit she was in. Jesus, there must be a way; there had to be some kind of answer, and, moodily, standing solitarily in the Japanese garden, drink in hand, she sought to find the way.
Susan Lundman's jaw set firmly as she sank into the depths of depression. Each time she looked at her face in a mirror she told herself that she was the most lasting beauty of them all-a regular Garbo. But inside she knew age had touched her with its ugly finger. Men no longer threw themselves at her. She really had no choice in sleeping partners anymore. She had to resort to a certain kind of man, the older type with the tire around his waist, the gray hair at his temple, married men sneaking a lay on the side. That, or she had to pay for it. She could get anything she wanted as long as she paid for it. Money talked, she knew that well. But paying men, forcing them to love her, took a lot out of her. It had frightened her when she saw the gray at her roots just before she had her hair bleached. Susan Lundman, beauty, fading away faster than any of the sad parade of bed partners she'd pursued and pitied. She turned and walked back into the house to look at herself in the mirror. Her face was a bit bloated and heavy from drink. She was overweight, and her skin was sallow without makeup, her eyes bloodshot and watery-and what was that? A wrinkle? "God, no," she muttered aloud. Why, just recently she'd studied her face and thought she looked well. She had. Who wouldn't with globs of makeup? A thin line of pain shot across the back of her head as her thoughts fixed on the fact that she was falling downhill, headfirst and heedless.
"I don't give a hoot," she mumbled. "What the hell. I'm not that bad!" No, it's just that she'd hung one on in Vegas, that's all. She was suffering the aftermaths of a big weekend, it was that simple.
The sound of a car parking in her driveway pulled her from her thoughts. She walked to the window and looked out. "The Rolls," she muttered. "Rick." Quickly she walked to the makeup table and applied some lipstick, combed her hair, and, slipping into a peignoir, went downstairs. She waited for the sound of Rick's key in the door, but heard the chimes ring instead. "Must have lost his key," she muttered as she walked to the door.
She swung the door open, the smile fading from her face when she found herself staring at a stranger. "Oh, I thought you were Rick!" She stared at the tall blond man. "Rick's my son," she explained. Her glance went to the Rolls-Royce. "He has a car exactly like yours."
"It's his car."
Her brow creased. "Has anything happened to Rick?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I borrowed it. My name is Paul Harris."
"Oh. Yes. Paul. Rick is staying with you."
"Yes. You spoke with me on the phone a few times."
She stood there, hesitating. "Yes," she smiled. Standing aside, finally she beckoned him in. "This is a surprise. Rick isn't with you?"
"No. I came alone on business."
"I see."
"My car-" he laughed, "-jalopy is more like it-hates freeways," he told her.
She laughed back. "What kind of business are you here on?"
"I'm an artist."
"Artist?" she questioned, closing the door behind her. "I paint. I thought I told you."
"If you had, then I've forgotten." She glanced at him fleetingly, her dark eyes glittering. "Funny, you don't look like an artist."
"Oh," Paul grinned. "Do they have a special look?"
"Ones I know do. Bunch of fags." She saw him flinch. "Sit down," she gestured to a chair. "I'm having scotch. What's yours?" She saw him look at her in surprise. "Too early for you, huh? Well I can get you tomato juice or-"
"Scotch will be find. On the rocks."
She made him a drink then stood studying him as he drank. "I didn't realize you'd be so handsome," she complimented him, pulling her peignoir closer around her and touching her hair. She noticed his blush. "So you came by to ogle Rick's old lady."
"To introduce myself formally," he corrected.
She put a cigarette to her lips and immediately he was on his feet lighting it for her. The cigarette glowed, casting a shine over her face as her eyes swept over him.
"To return the compliment, I had no idea Rick's mother was as youthful and as beautiful."
"You just scored with me," she smiled. "Tell me, how is Rick?"
"Fine."
"Still writing?" she asked, wondering what Rick must have told him. "Yes."
"I find that hard to believe." She hesitated, then said, "He never mentioned you. I find that strange. Oh, but then you told me how you met." She saw him swallow with difficulty. "Tell me, do you have a big house in Laguna?"
He laughed. "No, very tiny."
She caught the word tiny and wondered why he didn't say small. Tiny was one of the precious words her homo artist friends used. She gave him another look. There was something poetic about this boy. Yet he wasn't a boy, he was far older than Rick. Strange that Rick would have someone this old for a friend ... a roommate. An artist who lives in Laguna. Hmmm, and such a handsome one. She saw him light a cigarette, caught the relaxed wrist, saw him cross his knee, and began to notice little signs.
"So you paint. Tell me, how old are you?"
"Twe-thirty," he mumbled.
From his uncomfortable look he seemingly did not enjoy being questioned.
"Really. You don't look it. I'm surprised by your age. I mean, Rick's friends have always been in their teens." She watched as he mashed his cigarette in the silver ashtray. He was far from comfortable. "Rick must like Laguna."
"I think he does."
"I don't believe that stuff about the writing. I think he must have something going for him there," she laughed. Suddenly she saw the guarded look on his face. She knew instantly what that look meant. It surprised her, she had to admit. She never suspected Rick would become involved with a man. It was obvious to her. It was also strange how she felt; suspecting Rick and this handsome man gave her a vicarious thrill. Paul Harris was too damn handsome not to be queer. "Well? Does he have someone?" She cocked her head, enjoying the hint of fear in his face.
"I-I wouldn't know. He-he spends lots of time on the beach. I guess he meets girls there."
"Yes, I'm sure."
Paul Harris was queer; instinct told her that. She could always tell. Hell, she should know about men by now. She also knew the reason he'd dropped by. Paul knew that sooner or later he'd have to meet Rick's mother if the affair were to continue. Obviously Paul had decided to do it this way, alone, without Rick; that way she would be less suspicious. It was almost impossible to believe Rick would seek this kind of arrangement. It didn't bother her, but it surprised her. A smile came to her lips when she raised her face. She told herself she'd play with Paul Harris-make him sweat.
"Tell me, are there just the two of you in this tiny house?"
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"I mean," she continued, "You don't have a wife, you're not married?"
She watched him put down his glass and immediately light another cigarette. "No, I'm not married."
"Ever been?"
"No."
"Strange."
"Why?"
"You're too good-looking to have escaped. I should think women would throw themselves at your feet." He laughed off her remark.
"No, really," she insisted. She looked at him mischievously. "Well now, we've established the fact that you are not married. Do you have a steady?"
"I date now and then," he said guardedly.
She knew he was lying. "No steady. That means you don't belong to anyone," she said teasingly.
"I suppose you can say that," he said dryly. He shifted his weight, looked at the arms of the chair he was sitting in, and said, "This chair. Isn't it Louis the Fifteenth?"
He was purposely changing the subject. She suppressed a laugh. It was so obvious. "Yes," she answered. "How clever of you. Then you collect antiques?"
"Hardly. I'm a lover of antiques. I could never afford to-"
"But the chair you're sitting in only costs fifteen hundred dollars." When she said it, she knew it was bitchy of her.
"I figured it was in that neighborhood. Exactly why I could never buy it."
"Then painting is not making you rich?"
"God, no," he laughed.
Her eyes settled on his mouth, and a warmness stole through her. He had an absolutely marvelous smile, she thought.
"Tell me, are you a good painter?"
"I think so."
"One day you must let me see your work."
"I'd like for you to, Mrs. Lundman."
"Then I will." Her eyes searched his. "Under one condition-that you please, call me Susan, not Mrs. Lundman-and that we get to know each other better."
"Agreed."
A wave of sudden sexual emotion sluiced over her. "And we can start right now."
His face was impassive as she walked up to him. She smiled. He smiled nervously back at her. She leaned down, permitting him a good look at her bobbing breasts as she ground out her cigarette. "Has Rick spoken much about his mother?"
"Some." He gulped uncomfortably, unable to see beyond her half-exposed braless breasts.
"I'll bet he has. What did he tell you?" Her eyes flicked up at him. "That I'm aggressive-to use a nice, full-bodied sounding word."
"Uh-uh, no, he never said that."
"He hates me, you know. Oh, yes. Why, I will never know. He must have told you."
"No, he just spoke of his home-and-"
She cut him off by placing a finger on his lips. "You don't have to explain," she said gently. "I understand everything." She ran her teasing fingertips down his cheek, his neck, and up again through his thick blond hair. "About your being gay-" She felt him stiffen. "-relax. It doesn't bother me. I've had some damn good times in bed with gay boys. Lots of them are AC/DC. You?"
"Mrs. Lundman, I-"
"Susan. Remember? You haven't forgotten we're getting to know each other."
He pushed her hands away and got to his feet. "I think I better go," he said.
"Go? Why, you've just arrived."
"Nevertheless, I still think I better go. I don't think we-you-that we-"
"Oh, shut up! Look, Paul, I'm not stupid. I know why you came here. To get to meet the old lady. Right? To set it up so that I wouldn't think there was anything out of the ordinary between you and Rick."
"Hey, look. This is a bad scene we're playing," Paul said, turning to face her.
"Why? We're being honest with each other. My, my, my, what have you got against the truth." Her face broke into a mirthless smile. "Didn't think I'd be so smart, did you? Well, I am. Smart enough to know you can get into trouble. Rick is still underage-ever stop to think about that?"
"I never said that Rick and I were-"
"You don't have to say it."
"You have no proof."
"He's living with you, that's proof enough. Mothers can make an awful lot of noise, you know, especially rich, Beverly Hills mothers."
He turned to face her, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. "What's this all about?"
"Nothing. I just don't like being lied to. Look, I don't mind at all what you are, or, for that matter, what Rick is or isn't. Hell, my son is better off living with you than some tramp who would be trying to hook him for his money. And there won't be any babies-they've already tried that on him. I had to pay but good. No, I don't mind." She felt an angry burning sensation in her chest. "But," she whispered, "I do mind rejection! I mind that very much."
"You're asking me to-" his voice caught.
"I'm not asking-I'm telling you," she smiled. "Servants are out, we're alone, no time like the present." She opened her peignoir, revealing her huge, creamy breasts, and looked him square in the eye.
He made an effort to look away, but she saw him return his look, his eyes feasting on her massive globes. Instantly she knew he swung with women; nobody could look at her tits like that and not be attracted to her. She walked up to him and stared him down.
"You sure don't waste time, do you?" he said quietly.
"No, baby," she answered, her eyes slanting, her lips parting, her arms going around him. "Not one fucking second!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was really a laugh, thought Paul, as he got out of his clothes. He'd only half-kidded himself about screwing this woman. The most he thought would happen was that she would be infatuated with him and flattered by his flirtatious attention. But Susan Lundman took the cake, the whole cake. He'd never before met such an aggressive female. There had been two women he'd boffed, but he'd only done that in high school, to prove his masculinity on weekend dates with the other guys and their girls. He didn't like women, much, but it was not difficult for him once he got started. And right this minute, Susan Lundman had him going.
There was something about her. Maybe it was her urgent sexual need, maybe it was her complete fascination with the male body, maybe it was because every thing she did, said, felt, smacked of sex. It could also be because she was an expert at lovemaking. Her very fingertips oozed sex. It was as though sex was her nourishment. She made him feel like a god ... the way she seemed to grope for his love. She was all over him in the bed. Her hands reached out, feeling his arms, his chest, his hips, his buttocks. She moaned huskily, staring in fascination as his cock sprang forward like a sabre.
"You're beautiful," she whispered. "I hoped you'd be hung, but I never expected-" She reached for him, cupping the palm of her hand under his heavy balls, tracing the outline of his pompous, purple-veined prick with her other hand. "Cripes," she whispered, "you're enormous." Her eyes burned into his, and Paul saw the crooked smile flicker across her face. "I'm burning for you baby, really burning." She brought his hands to her breasts, leaned forward and parted her lips against his. "Kiss me," she pleaded.
He sent his tongue between her lips, kneading her breasts at the same time. Her mouth opened wantonly as she eagerly accepted his tongue.
"Cripes," she whispered, pulling back. "You sure can kiss." She let her eyes wander over his nakedness. "Damn, but you're built. Nice-strong-hard-sinewy body. I like your cheekbones, so prominent; and you've got a nice square chin and-hey, I just noticed the dimple in it."
"Yeah, I'm a regular Kirk Douglas," he grinned.
"That's not bad, baby, not bad at all."
He looked at her breasts; swollen, huge, big round red tips, straining out to him. He faltered, wondering if he were able to play the male role. Could he satisfy her? If not, she'd turn into a raging bitch. This kind of woman would. He'd come on strong with the other women, but he had failed them once they were in bed. It didn't matter then; he and the girls were so young. As for men, he found them more agreeable to his nature; if it didn't happen, there was always a next time. But with Susan Lundman it was either now or never! Besides, he wanted to try with this redhead-try to see if he were a man. He was a little jealous of Rick who was able to switch from female to male at the drop of a hat. It might not be so bad after all. One thing Susan had was tits. He was attracted to them. He laughed inwardly. It could be that he was jealous of those great, big, beautiful tits.
She fluffed a pillow, then settled back against it, striking a pose that was at once both feminine and wanton. He studied the glossy body; the generous tits, the narrow waist, the rich hips, the long legs; stared at the rigid nipples, the dome-like stomach, and frankly had to admit that she was really something for her age.
She took hold of his hands and impatiently brought them back to her breasts. His hands glided over the hard, rubbery protuberances. He felt a little giddy; they did feel marvelous, and they were breathtakingly beautiful breasts. Her lips were swollen, full and sensual. For a fleeting second her face seemed to turn into Rick. The resemblance was fantastic. Her bright eyes hooked to his cock. Even the way she did that reminded him of Rick. She slid her hand down her belly with a slow, languorous movement and rubbed her pubic region. How many times had he seen Rick do that? Paul felt his whole body tremble and go limp with sudden longing for her. Having Rick's beautiful mother, naked and begging for his big cock, stirred him with lust.
She pulled him to her and kissed him hotly, almost engulfing his mouth with hers. "Fuck me!" she begged.
He heard another voice, just as urgent, the male voice of Rick-"Fuck me!" Her lips were torrid, yet strangely soft and exciting, as was the feel of her hips and thighs pressing into him. His tongue danced in her mouth as he drew her to him in a tight embrace.
She captured his surging phallus, squeezing it, begging him to use it. "Please, oh, please," came her urgent whisper. Her body began to wiggle against his as she slid her arms around him.
He could feel her great round warm breasts mashed against his ribs, felt the hard core of her big nipples stab into him. He ran a hand across her smooth thighs. Immediately she clamped her legs tightly around his hand and shivered with uncontrollable passion.
When she smiled, her face took on a strange bright beauty. "Just being kissed by you, touched by you, thrills me," she husked.
Her enthusiasm for him engulfed him like a sudden warm summer wind. A hot feeling spread through his body. He began playing with the soft, white flesh of her tits. Then he pulled himself up and rested his throbbing erection between her mounds. He clamped her breasts with both hands against his swollen prick then moved his slim hips back and forth, fucking the velvety tits. Her body moved under him in a slow motion, enough to let him know she was enjoying it. Little beads of moisture came from his cocktip and trailed down the white skin under her heavy globes. His balls bounced against her soft tits, sent shivers through him. She guided his hand between her legs. His fingers ran through the soft, silky, moist hair. They reached further to the opening. He inserted his finger past the edge of her now puffy lips. Immediately she spread her legs, opening her crotch even more to admit him. His fingers teased her erect clitoris. He shoved his finger into the first knuckle, and he felt her shudder.
She had a tight one, he thought, real tight for a woman who obviously used it as much as she did. The inner folds of her snatch covered his finger and seemed to pull, wanting to suck his finger deep inside her. He shoved in further, this time to the second joint. Hearing her sigh in pleasure, he sank his finger to the hilt and began finger-fucking her unmercifully, ramming in, pulling out-in-out-in-out.
Her body squirmed as she begged, "Paul, please, oh, God, do it tome."
He withdrew his finger and got to his knees. He trailed his big cock along her belly down to her thigh. She was breathing hard and heavy now, staring, mesmerized by his wet, swollen cock. Staring the way Rick did, Paul thought.
Almost the same expression of anticipation. He took hold of her ankles and pushed back her legs, folding her knees back against her breasts. He wedged his frame around, arranged her ankles on top of his shoulders, and stared at her gaping cunt. It wasn't a cock, but right now he wanted very much to stick his prick into that warm slit that was so eagerly opening wider, winking, and surging toward him. He took hold of his rod and rubbed the tip of his cock around the outer ridges of her box. Teasingly he rubbed it up and down and sideways.
"Don't tease," she moaned. "Please, don't tease me like this."
Paul touched his moist penis to the soft curls that surrounded her pink-lipped cunt. Slowly he moved closer and ran himself almost into her, but not quite. Again he made as if he would sink into her, hesitated, and pulled back. Finally, after five of these teasing thrusts, he moved his hips in a long round circle and then thrust forward with a mighty lunge. He could feel his cock sink all the way into her. Another shove, and he heard her scream, "Oh, Chriiiiiiiist! Oh, shit. Good, it's good, good." He reached under her, cupped the pliant globes of her ass, and raised her higher. He held her that way for a moment, then thrust into her again.
"You know," she sighed, "Oh, God, how you know!"
He could feel her cunt contract, grabbing greedily his sliding, slippery hardness. He stopped moving, held his hips still, and let her hugging pussy pull him deeper.
"Kiss me," she pleaded.
He leaned down and took her lips.
When she pulled back, she stared into his eyes, the flicker of a smile on her lips. "Am I better than my son?"
He didn't know why the question thrilled him, but it did. It made him feel like a superman, like the greatest of all lovers. He felt bathed in glorious light. He was a lover-a son lover-a mother lover. The greatest. Unique. A lover! He grinned down at her. "We haven't finished yet, too early to tell," he whispered, sinking his cock deep into the clinging wealth of her vagina.
"Uhhh," she moaned. "I'll tell you something, lover. Now I know why Rick left home and is living in Laguna."
He smiled, then pushed her knees hard into her tits as he got himself into a more comfortable position. All thoughts vanished from his mind as he thrust his hips forward into her demanding body. The warm, wet cunt his cock was fucking, was his reason for being at the moment-nothing else mattered save fucking her hot cunt. Nothing! He smiled when he heard her muffled grunts of tantalizing pleasure. When she began a slow roll beneath the hard dick that impaled her, he clamped his teeth tightly. Her hungry snatch took all of him to the very hilt. An electric tingling sensation shot through him, racing from his balls to the tip of his prick. He felt her grind her snatch against him, felt the wild movements of her thighs, hips, and the hard brown tips of her breasts. She felt like burning hot flames to his skin and lips. Now her cunt muscles began to dilate and contract-dilate-contract-devouring his massive meat, nibbling eagerly on his swollen prickhead. The sweat was rolling down his back as he jerked his hips forward, wanting even his balls to fill that glorious hot hole. Now she started to work her body and cunt muscles relentlessly, the soft warm ridges of her pink box screwing onto his whang. He felt close-damn close. He withdrew his cock to the edge of her puffy lips. "Baby," he breathed, "I'm near ready."
"Don't stop now," she cried. "Shove it into me. I want all of you-all. I want you to flood me inside. Oh, baby, baby!"
Paul steadied himself on his knees, took a deep breath, and rammed his dick in as hard as he could. He started a quick fucking motion. He could feel the hot flowing juices in her pulsating cunt, could hear the loud, wet, slushy, sucking noises from their union. Her hips were wild, driving, thrusting, demanding, bucking! He thought he'd go mad at the crazy vibrating body of the woman. Never had he experienced anything quite like this before. He pushed her knees back almost to her ears, then pulled himself to the outer edge and began ramming his penis with direct accuracy into the hot hole.
"Jeeeeesus!" she cried.
He dropped his body heavily on hers, feeling her great tits mash under his hairy chest, her hard nipples stabbing into his skin. Holding her head between his hands, he kissed her as his bloated prick ground hard into her. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and sank it deep down into her throat. Feeling the aching, bubbling, swelling, in his balls as they flapped heavily, wildly against her ass cheeks, Paul knew that the moment was now. He sucked in his breath and felt his cock erupt, spilling his hot come into her cunt like molten lead.
"Oh, I'm going to-" Susan cried as her body vibrated uncontrollably with an explosion of her own. She locked him tightly to herself as simultaneous release carried them through space and slowly brought them back to earth.
The demands of their bodies satiated, they both collapsed on the bed. Moments later, Paul felt the strength return to his body and carefully pulled his now limp penis from her.
"You're something, do you know that?" Susan muttered. "I haven't been fucked like that since I was a young girl."
"You're not so bad yourself," Paul grinned.
"You liked it?"
"Yes. Very much."
"Then you'll come back for more?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I hope you will." She threw back her head and laughed. "You know what? You're really a mother-fucker."
Paul laughed back, then glanced at his watch. "It's getting late."
"Got to be back in Laguna-and Rick, huh?"
He got off the bed and started to put on his shorts. "Let me have another look," she whispered huskily. "Ah, come on." He almost blushed. "Just a peek."
He lowered his shorts and saw her stare at his long, hanging, soft cock.
"It's beautiful, hard or soft," she whispered, staring with glazed eyes. Then she brought her eyes up to meet his. "Listen, I want to give you the Louis the Fifteenth chair. A gift from me to you."
He stared at her in disbelief. "No," he frowned. "I couldn't accept it. It's far too precious and expensive."
"Exactly why I want you to have it. That bit of 18th-century antique is signed, I want you to know. See, that's what I do when I like someone."
The chair was worth a fortune. If he accepted it, then sold it, he could live on the money for a time-it would pay a whole year's rent. Taking a second look, Paul slowly began to realize Susan Lundman could be the very person he'd been looking for. Up till now he'd been searching unsuccessfully for a rich old man. It never dawned on him to seek out a woman. Suddenly he was intrigued with the possibilities of the situation he'd stumbled onto. Susan Lundman could help him. The woman was rich, important. She was in a position to bring him to the attention of the right people in the art world. She could quietly pull strings for him. The more he thought of it, the more he liked the idea. He'd been fiercely passionate with the woman-even felt a kind of attraction for her. As for Susan, she'd flipped for him, it was obvious. To be wanted and sought after was important to this forty-year-old woman. She needed affection. It would not be difficult to string her along.
There was only one drawback. Rick! He did love the boy. Should Rick find out that Paul was having an affair with his mother, all hell would break loose. It was a strange situation to be in. In love with a young man, and having an affair with the young man's mother. But, strange or not, there was so very much to gain if he handled himself well and wasn't obviously greedy. He would have to make it appear as if it were Susan Lundman's idea. Okay, he'd play it by ear. He'd keep his mouth shut, hide his affair from Rick, and see Susan Lundman as often as she wished.
He lit a cigarette and sat down on the edge of the bed in his shorts, facing Susan. "I can't accept the chair," he said, taking her hand.
"Why not?" She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly. "I want to do something for you."
"It's not necessary."
"I know," she said, hooking onto a new idea. "The next time you come to Los Angeles, why don't you bring a few of your paintings. I'll buy one."
"All right," he grinned, "I'll give you a discount."
"I'll have a Paul Harris original. I'll show it to all of my friends. They'll be envious and anxious for one just like it."
He leaned down, kissed her lips, and at the same time ran his fingers through the thick abundance of her pubic curls. Exactly, he thought. It's going to be easy. Resolved, he felt her hand slip under his shorts; suddenly, making it back to Laguna and Rick wasn't important anymore.
CHAPTER NINE
Something woke Rick out of a restless sleep. It was either the distant sounds of the sea, the cool breeze blowing into the room from the open window, or it might have been the first dim dawn light. Of course, it could have been the nightmare he'd had. The previous night he'd had too much to drink. He'd waited for Paul until two in the morning and, finally, when Paul had not come home, he had fallen asleep.
His eyes pained him, it was as if a needlepoint was prodding somewhere under his lids; his throat was as raw as if he had swallowed boiling coffee. When he rolled his body over a few degrees the needles penetrated upward into his head. He didn't remember undressing, but here he was completely naked, his face half buried in a pillow. When he lifted his head, he blinked his eyes, not believing what he saw.
There was a girl in the bed. He could see a head of red hair on the other pillow inches from his face. His eyes blinked uncertainly a few more times, desperately forcing the sleep from them, and darted over the well-shaped, milk-white back that tapered down to smooth curving hips and the tiny bare buttocks that were turned toward him so invitingly. He heard a feminine sigh, held his breath as the lush body stirred. He watched a hand shoot up from the sheet, then reach back, feeling first his chest and then trailing down to stop at his hip. Very slowly the long, tapered fingers worked their way to his groin. He swallowed uncomfortably and watched the hand close over his half-erect cock and squeeze possessively. Then he heard a husky, "Umm, mmm!" kind of a sigh from the female stranger. Suddenly the girl turned her head to the side, blinked at him, then rolled over, her red hair falling away. He found himself looking into sleepy, smiling eyes, a cute pug nose, and sensual, inviting lips. She can't be any older than eighteen, he thought.
"Hi," the sleepy voice greeted.
"Uh-hello."
"Surprised, huh?"
"Hell, yeah," he said.
"Don't look so scared. I'm not going to bite you," the girl laughed, running a hand through her shoulder-length hair. She rose, rested her weight on an elbow, and gave him a perfect view of her oversize breasts.
He knew she could see him staring; it was almost impossible not to stare at those voluptuous swollen tits. They were enormous, biggest tits he'd ever seen.
"Wouldn't think of harming you," she purred.
"I wasn't thinking that."
Her hand squeezed his cock, stirring it to life. Her breasts heaved, and Rick studied the thin drop of perspiration that was about to slide within the valley between her immense white mounds. His fascination was obvious as he continued to stare.
"Well, whoever you are," he said, "I don't want it to end."
"Really? I'd like to believe that. Hey, don't you remember at all?"
"What?"
"I should have known you'd forget. You hung one on last night. Happens to me, too, every time I drink brandy." Her eyes were dancing now. "I knocked at the door at midnight. No answer. I left and came back at two. This time you answered my knock. You let me in, we talked, and wham! you passed out."
"Then it was you who-"
"Yeah, I undressed you. Took me forever to get your Levi's off."
"Did we-"
"No. You were a gentleman. 'Sides you couldn't get it up. I know, I tried." She wrinkled her nose. "See, I wasn't the perfect lady."
"Are you a friend of Paul's?"
"His sister."
Rick's head shot up.
"Don't let it throw you. I know all about my brother. He told me he had a roommate. So you see, I didn't expect you to get rough with me." Her eyes raced over his naked body. "But it sure is a waste. That is, for me it is." She took her hand from his cock. "Though right now I'd say you were a bit stirred."
He glanced down. "Yeah," he smiled foolishly. "I'd say so, too." He didn't remember a thing about the preceding night. The sudden thought of Paul walking in brought him to his feet. He searched for his Levi's.
"In the closet on a hanger. I'm the neat type," the girl said.
He went to the closet and slipped into a robe. "What's your name?" he asked going into the bathroom. "Maggie," she answered. "Maggie?" He spit out the mouthwash. "Rotten name, but that's my cross to bear."
"Go to school?"
"UCLA. Freshman. I wrote Paul I'd be in Laguna this weekend. Guess he forgot. Where is he?"
Rick returned to the bedroom. "In L.A. on business."
"He take the bus? I noticed his jalopy is parked outside."
"I loaned him my car."
"Oh."
She had settled back against the pillows. The sight of her firm, rounded breasts shot a bolt of electricity down Rick's spine. "Look, maybe you ought to get into your clothes. Paul might pop in at any moment."
"Come on, baby. Who's kidding who? Why, if I thought there was half a chance of turning you on I'd-" She stopped herself, her eyes on the bulge under the robe. "You better go to the bathroom," she smiled, "you've got a piss hard on."
"You sure take a lot for granted, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean thinking I'm queer."
"Oh? I suppose you're going to tell me that you're not. If not, what are you doing with my brother? I know he's as queer as a three-dollar bill."
"Okay, we made it together, but that doesn't mean-"
She reached for his belt, loosened it, then parted it, exposing his massive erection. "Then prove it to me," she dared him.
"You're hot for it, aren't you?"
"With a cock like yours, I'd be a liar if I said no. I'm not the lady type. I like my man big. I've been playing with yours half the night. But usually that's all I ever get to do with gay boys. I can touch them, get them all hot and bothered, but they never want to continue." She raised her chest. "You going to be like the rest?"
"No, baby doll," he said. "I sure as hell am not going to be like the rest." He walked closer to the bed and ran his fingers along her smooth, flat belly down to her curly forest, all the while watching their movements in the mirror.
Her hand sought out his naked genitals. She lay back against the pillows, he stood, indulging in loving mutual masturbation.
Maggie had her long legs widely spread, her parted lips were curled in an approving smile, her eyes closed, reveling at the feel of his fingers expertly stimulating her.
Rick's fingers massaged her vagina, making quick, darting touches to her clitoris. He leaned down and took the tip of her breast into his mouth and eagerly sucked her quivering nipple, then got out of his robe and spread himself over her, feeling the warmth of her bare legs, her stomach, her breasts and the soft caress of her hand as it stroked his shoulders.
"Well, I'll be-" she whispered. "I got me one that swings." Her lips kissed and nibbled at his mouth. Her tongue made a sudden thrust.
He felt her thigh, there was a nerve twitching there, a most energetic, thumping kind of a twitch, as if her naked thigh were doing a dance of its own. The breath began to rise within her; he could feel it. A pained sigh escaped her throat.
"Baby," she moaned. "You're not bad at all. You ain't a waste after all." Her hip against his leg began a slow grind sending his blood to boiling point. She reached up to the back of his head and forced it down against her breasts. "Kiss 'em, Rick," she murmured.
He buried his face into the softness of her throbbing mounds, opened his mouth, and took one pink nipple, sucking hard, feeling it harden. He felt her push his face harder down into her. He kissed her breasts more feverishly.
"Oh, man, a little more of that and there'll be no stopping me," she purred.
And she was right. Positioning himself above her, he rammed his big prick into her yearning cunt.
"Ohhhhhhhh ... umm ... mmmm," she moaned, accepting his cock greedily.
He began a relentless series of long, coaxing thrusts. She lifted her legs, locking his hips with them, and rolled her ass from side to side, arching her hips upward for her young lover's thrusting penetrations, moaning, smiling in blissful contentment. He could feel her heels jab hard into his lower back, forcing him to sink even deeper inside her.
"Kiss me," she demanded, her nails raking his back. Her body went into spasms as his tongue sunk deep into her throat, almost choking her. Her hips battered into him like a ram, meeting his cock. Her body moved in a frantic motion, and he could feel her feet beating against his ass muscles, her tightly clenched fists against his back. "Oh, fuck me good!" she screamed.
Rick's body went rigid as he let himself go, spilling his hot come, flooding her insides. "Damn," he heard her cry. Then he felt her vagina muscles contract, pulling and squeezing the last drop of come out of his prick. He waited a second and started to pull himself out of her when her command stopped him. "Don't. Leave it in. Come again, and this time I'll come with you." She took his lips, and her hips began rotating under him wildly. Rick had no trouble keeping his prick stiff. He'd shot his load; but he was ready to shoot it again. He could go forever, he knew that. He sank his cock deeper and began to move his hips in slow circles.
Maggie's hips began to pump in a wild frenzy. He could feel her breasts push into his chest as he ground his pelvis into her, their pubic hair meeting in a tangled mass. He stared into her clear, wide eyes, thinking, She's beautiful, so eager, so good at it. He caught her hair, pulled her head back, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Maggie closed her eyes, and when she opened them they were wide and wild. "You're gorgeous," he whispered to her, running his fingers over her breasts.
"So are you, baby. I-I wish-"
"What do you wish?"
"That things were different. That I could really have you for my own." She blinked her eyes rapidly, then forced a laugh. "But having you once is better than never." She pushed his mouth into her breasts.
He kissed them, running his tongue around the stiff, pink tips. He pumped slowly but firmly, sending his rod deep into her-in-in-in-until she screamed with joy. "Now!" she cried. "Now!"
Clasping her closer, he felt her body devouring his in uncontrolled frenzy. Then he came, even more than before, in flooding spasms. This time he knew that Maggie, too, had triggered off. She twisted her smoldering body in pleasurable agony, then fell back limp against the bed sheets moaning in final heavenly release.
He was grinding his cheek against her soft globes, when his eyes caught sight of someone standing in the doorway, staring at them in cold fury. He swallowed hard, lifted his body, and took a closer look.
It was Paul!
CHAPTER TEN
When Rick heard the doorknob turn, he put down the book he was reading, turned toward the door, and felt the creeping guilty memories starting up in his body.
Paul came into the house and, without so much as glancing at Rick, walked into the kitchen. Rising, Rick followed him. He sat down at the kitchen table and quietly watched Paul warm a pot of coffee on the stove. His movements were slow, deliberate.
"Maggie get off all right?" Rick asked.
Paul did not answer.
Rick traced the flowered pattern of the tablecloth with his finger, feeling all at once a strange, confused mood. But another emotion stirred him also-an oddly exciting one caused by the tension of the morning. Looking at Paul, he knew the man felt irritable, impatient, angry. He didn't much blame him. But he was determined to let him know it was not entirely his fault.
"Look, Paul. About this morning-what happened was, well, it wasn't like it looked." He saw the line of Paul's jaw tighten. "It really was innocent."
"Innocent!" Paul raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"To tell the truth I was asleep. She was in bed with me when I woke up."
"I don't want to talk about it," Paul snapped.
"But we have to. You seem to be seething with anger."
Paul whirled about. "Do you know how young my sister is?"
The question caught Rick off balance, and its implication brought a flush starting at his throat and climbing to his cheeks.
"Seventeen! That's how young. I think you had one hell of a nerve!"
Rick was startled by the bitterness in Paul's voice. "She-she begged me to-"
"Shut up!" Paul cut in.
There was a long silence, then Rick said, "You ought not to have slapped her like that, Paul."
"I'll do what I like with my own sister!"
Rick saw Paul's shoulders sag. He knew at once Paul was sorry he'd hit Maggie, but he also saw something else in the face, something he could not define. It disturbed him.
"When I saw the both of you in bed I saw red. I-"
"I understand, Paul. All I can say is I'm sorry." Rick felt awkward. He knew there was nothing he could do or say to ease Paul's misery. He shouldn't have touched the girl; he knew that then, he knew it now. Yet he didn't completely understand Paul's fury. Maggie certainly had had affairs before; it wasn't like she was a virgin. Or didn't Paul know this? God, he wasn't the first guy Maggie gave it out to.
He watched Paul pour the coffee. Behind the man's heavy sun-bleached brows, a storm was gaining momentum. "What are you trying for, Rick-the Fuck Oscar?"
"Don't be stupid, Paul."
"My own sister," Paul muttered.
"Paul. She's seventeen, sure, but she'd had other affairs. I wasn't the first guy!" Rick regretted having said this, for it brought an expression of confusion and defiance to Paul's face.
"You had to do it, didn't you?" Paul whispered.
By that one remark and the way Paul looked at him, Rick realized it wasn't his sister Paul was concerned about, it was him. Paul was jealous. Instead of annoyance, surprisingly enough, Rick felt pleased. A bland unrevealing smile appeared on his lips as his mind took in the situation. Paul really did love him. He'd been proving his love all along. He had thought it were Maggie Paul was possessive of, but it was not, it was him. He stared at Paul, his expression turning kind and understanding. It dawned on him for the first time in his life that someone really cared for him. Fate had taken a strange way to convince him-but here it was. He leaned back in his chair, frowning faintly as his thoughts rambled on. He now realized why he'd fought Paul all the way. He was afraid to face facts. But now he knew why he'd wanted so desperately to make love to Maggie. It was because she was Paul's sister. That proved something. The revelation startled him. He was in love with Paul. The very thing he wanted so very much, to be in love and to be loved in return, had finally happened. In his mind he'd known it all along, but he had fought it, rejected it, because he did not truly consider himself homosexual. Homosexual love left him cold; it just wasn't his cup of tea. Partake, sure-experiment with the same sex, but love? Hell, that meant embracing the Third Sex-where would that lead to? But suddenly it was becoming increasingly clear to him. It did not matter if he swung with a female or a male; that was not important. Love was important. Sex had nothing to do with it. And so he had fought Paul and had made himself miserable because of his puritanical beliefs. Where before, nothing mattered, he now suddenly felt a part of someone's life. He wanted something, life wasn't a complete waste for him after all. He'd taken Paul for granted, living with him, yet not really knowing him. Now he wanted to know this man standing before him, wanted a more rewarding relationship, wanted to lavish affection on him. But more, he needed Paul. Paul was strong, protective, certain, loyal. He did need these things, desperately. Nobody had given this to him before. This was something money could not buy.
The situation was simple. Here were two people, two men, one older, one younger-two men in love with each other, two men who needed each other, two men who sexually fulfilled one another. This was something one did not take for granted.
Rick looked at Paul. Alone with the man, he knew he had to mollify Paul's apparent injured feelings. He would never have even considered doing this before, but now it was different. Now he cared for Paul. He would tell Paul what he wanted to hear. He shifted his weight in the chair, then sank into its depths. How does one say-I love you? Three little words-three important words-three simple words-yet he could not say them, the words were like lye on his tongue.
He stood up slowly. He felt a weakness in his legs, a dryness in his throat, the blood pumping heavily through his body; it was an instinctive reaction to the feelings surging through him, of emotions that were alien to him "Paul," he whispered. "Look at me."
Paul turned from the window and met Rick's eyes.
Rick cleared his throat. "I want you to believe what I'm about to tell you." He shrugged his shoulders, trying to find the right words. The truth, he told himself, tell the truth.
"Yes," Paul said, "go on."
"It's difficult for me. See, Paul, I'm not an emotional person." He laughed a hollow sound. "No. That's a lie. I am emotional, but I've curbed my feelings all of my life. I-did you know I couldn't touch anybody because I thought people found me distasteful? Couldn't touch anybody. I guess that comes from neglect as a kid. I-I still can't touch, can't show affection. Even hugging is hard for me. I touch people in bed, that's the only place. I've just realized this. I-what I'm trying to tell you is that, with your sister-well, I tried to bring myself closer to you by making love to your sister."
Rick saw the startled look on Paul's face, could hear the thick quiet of the room.
"It's true. I know that now. As ridiculous as it sounds, as unbelievable, I was loving you-as a man-through your sister. I-I was trying to reach out to you the only way I knew how, through Maggie." He felt his face turn scarlet. Revealing, soul-opening moments like this were rare, it threw him, embarrassing him. He felt awkward, stupid, tongue-tied, and he felt close to tears. He didn't wait for Paul's further reaction. Instead, he quickly left the room.
When Rick had gone, Paul sat down at the table and put his head in his arms. Rick's presence, in fact his very smell-that special hair tonic he wore, the smell of his sneakers, the freshly laundered sweat shirt-seemed to fill the kitchen; the boy's very words still seemed to echo in the room, as palpable as the summer heat. Or was the heat in his own cheeks because he was ashamed of himself and a little angry? He'd reacted violently this morning. It tore into him seeing Rick with his sister. Yet, at the same time, it had thrilled him. He had watched for a long time-too long for an angry brother.
It was strange. He didn't know just how to react. His confusion was understandable, having just returned from spending the night with Rick's mother. Imagine how Rick would have reacted? Who was the greater sinner?
He had been bound for an entire evening with Susan in a complicity of shame. The thought stung deeply into him. What right had he to become angry? What right did he have slapping his sister, yelling and accusing Rick of molesting his sister?
He raised his head and turned to look out the window. He could see the long stretch of ocean before him. The dirty, gray-colored sea gulls were like brush marks against the blue and white background of sky-an oil come to life. The view seemed to bring him back to reality, forcing him to face the truth. The view always had that effect on him, and he was grateful for it.
What Rick had confessed was blessedly true. He understood perfectly because he, too, had experienced a special closeness with Rick through the boy's mother. He couldn't quite understand it, but it was there. Oh, it was mad! The whole scene was ridiculous. What was happening? Why had he gone to Los Angeles? He shook his head, not wanting to think about Susan. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. Rick had come so close to professing his love. Why had Rick waited so long? He felt a stab of compassion as he thought of the boy, remembering his pitiful confession about not being able to touch people, not being able to show emotion. It had tom into his heart when Rick had confessed this. How the boy needed to love and be loved.
Paul felt a tightening in his chest. Had he ruined something between himself and Rick because of his own greed? How would Rick react to the news when Paul told him he'd visited his mother? Worse, how would he take it should he ever find out he'd had an affair with Susan? Man, he had really created a problem for himself. It wasn't as if the one affair with Susan was it. Susan didn't work that way. Besides, he wanted to use Susan. She could make a whole rich life for him if he handled her right-yet-he was in love with Rick. He had to choose-love or security!
Every time he thought about it his stomach muscles tightened into knots. His head began to ache when he thought of Susan's last words: "See you in Laguna. Time I paid my son a little visit." And she was arriving this evening-and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The spicy, fragrant odor of food and the clatter of silverware and dishes synchoronized into a sharp smell and sound as Rick sat stiffly at the dinner table in a mesmerized state. He'd been that way ever since he'd answered the knock on the door and found himself staring into his mother's face. Now her voice closed like a trap around him.
"It was getting to the point where I almost forgot what my son looked like. So I thought, why not pay him a visit." She glanced over at Paul who was serving the salad. "And his roommate," she added.
Rick's look went to Paul. He did not seem disturbed by his mother's surprise visit. As a matter-of-fact, he seemed to be enjoying her. Ever since they'd been introduced they seemed to be coyly playing a little game with each other. Paul's dark eyes were humorous and boyish beneath arched, corrugated brows. He was smiling, listening to her speak, looking disdainfully youthful. Rick had never seen him look like this before; there was something strange about his appearance, about the way he conducted himself. It was as if he were putting on a show for his mother.
"I gave the servants the weekend off. You should have seen them beam. Oh, Rick, I brought your tennis rackets. I thought you'd want to play." This his mother said with an affectionate tap on his hand. Then to Paul in the way of an explanation, "Rick and I often play tennis together-course I have to force him into it. We're pretty good as a team."
"I'll bet," Paul smiled.
"Rick, I've missed not having you around." When his mother looked at him, her face seemed to become larger, encircling him.
He flexed his knees agonizedly together. Panic! That's what he felt every time he looked at her; but she was unaware of the way he felt, her high-pitched voice flowed on obliviously, her stuffed mouth chewed her food obliviously.
"Rick," Paul said, "you're not eating."
"Yes, yes, I am "
"Rick's always been a slow eater. Haven't you, Rick?" Her voice droned on, explaining episodes out of his childhood to Paul. It had been weeks since Rick had seen his mother. He had not missed her, had had no desire to contact her, was hoping to keep the distance between them permanent. Then suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, here she sat at the same dinner table with him.
"What a gorgeous table you've set, Paul," his mother said, her heavy-lidded dark eyes roving with voluptuous appreciation over the sparkling dinner table.
"Thank you, Susan." Paul beamed.
Rick raised the wineglass to his lips and saw that his hand was shaking. He swallowed a few drops of the red wine, then put down the glass. She had that effect on him. She made him nervous, insecure-damn it, he hated her. And he was annoyed at how well Paul was treating her-angry and annoyed.
"I must confess I didn't make the salad. Rick did. He's quite good at it."
His mother's face darkened, but only for a split second, then she imposed a half-smile on her lips and wrinkled her nose. "Rick? Rick made the salad?" Then to him. "Why, Rick, how domestic of you. I'm real proud of you." Quickly turning back to Paul she said, "I never thought he could even make a peanut butter sandwich."
Rick chewed his food, the lamb was like leather in his mouth. He had a subliminal thought of tearing off his mother's diamond bracelet and shoving it down her throat. He watched in silence, watched as his mother adopted one of her usual comical poses, her fingertips at her chin, wrinkling her forehead into a brooding frown. "See what happens when my son meets up with a man of the world?" she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling, and speaking in a purring voice.
A stifling irritation surged through Rick as he watched his mother's gestures. There she goes, he thought, being bitchy, getting her digs in. Why was she here? Did she know? The questions burned through his mind.
"You'd be surprised at the things Rick does. He built that brick bookcase over there," Paul gestured, throwing Rick a complimentary smile.
She spun her head around to look. "You're telling a fib," she said, putting the back of her hand to her mouth in a theatrical gesture of surprise. "You're joking!"
"No, I'm not. He also did a miniature oil painting. I have to say, it's pretty good. He shows promise."
Her look quickly went to Rick, her eyes widening dramatically, and she let her mouth fall open; the grimace turned her face into a mask of astonishment. "Rick, but this is marvelous."
Paul and the mother talked of other things; Susan kept it going in a steady, forceful flow. She was using her finest mannerisms, thought Rick; her voice was huskily low, and she dramatized with vivacious posturings and outlandish facial expressions. She was forty, he thought, looking at her breasts. She kept her body in shape with swimming and tennis and obviously no amount of hard drinking showed or took away from her beauty. He wondered if she were flirting with Paul. And did Paul think his mother beautiful? Was that why he was so attentive?
"What does one do around here for excitement?" his mother asked.
What you really mean to ask is, Whom does one fuck around here for excitement, thought Rick. He knew that's what she wanted.
"We have several theaters that show the latest films. There is The Playhouse and the shops. Got a few good restaurants, expensive but good. Then there's the beach," Paul explained.
"I'm the indoor type," Susan said.
You sure are, thought Rick. He stiffened when he saw his mother's eyes race over Paul's body.
"Tomorrow night I'll take you both out for dinner. I was hoping there'd be a nice restaurant."
"Tomorrow night?" Rick was surprised the words left his throat.
"Why, yes, Rick. Are you free?"
"Uh-asamatterfact," he tumbled the words out, "I'm not. I'm leaving for Los Angeles tonight. I'm meeting Mr. Arlen," he lied.
"Arlen? Since when do lawyers work on Sunday?"
"I'll be seeing him tomorrow. Tonight I've got a date and tickets for-for-Plaza Suite."
His mother looked disappointed, but he knew better. "Oh, that's too bad. Then, of course, I couldn't stay-"
"Oh, sure you can," Paul cut in. "I'll take the couch."
"I couldn't think of taking away your bed," she said, fluttering her eyelashes.
The moment held a curious stillness, and amidst the quiet, Rick got suddenly to his feet. His mother came-saw-and was about to conquer Paul. He knew that without a doubt. She'd done it before with his teen-age buddies and she was about to do it again. Only, and he had to stifle a smile, she was in for a surprise. She didn't know that Paul was queer. Well, he had that going for him at least. He didn't feel so bad now that he realized his mother would be in for a bit of a disappointment. This was one time she wouldn't have her way.
He didn't want to stay around while she was here. He'd leave, check in at a motel here in town, spend tomorrow on the beach, and wait until his mother left the house. Paul would be busy all day tomorrow with the art show and she would be left alone. She'd have a miserable time in gay Laguna and would think twice about visiting again. It was that simple.
"I better be going," he said.
"I wish you didn't have to, Rick. It's not often I can get away and-"
"Good night, mother," he interrupted.
She held her chin up and tilted her face, waiting for him to kiss her.
He brushed his lips against her cheek lightly, nodded a good-night to Paul and left the house.
Paul knew that Susan was drunk by the time they parked the car in front of the house. They had gone to Victor Hugo's restaurant for drinks, then stopped on the way back at Dante's Inferno for a nightcap. Susan was fascinated with the gay crowd at Dante's, and after her fifth drink made a spectacle of herself by dancing with a lesbian and falling on her ass. It had been in good fun and Paul didn't mind-that is, he didn't mind until she really got drunk. All evening he had been concerned about Rick. It had been a mistake letting Susan come to Laguna. Rick had clamped up, wouldn't eat, and seemed tense and moody. He felt guilty having kept secret the fact he'd met the mother on his own. It was stupid pretending through the introductions; he was sure Rick had seen through it. In a way he was sorry he'd gone out of his way to meet Susan. In one short evening he'd discovered she couldn't control her liquor, that she flirted outrageously with every male she met, was loud and undignified, and, to top it all, got bitchier with each drink. He just could not control her. Take, for instance, the queen in the back seat of the car. Susan had insisted he come home with them for coffee. But Paul knew exactly the reason Susan wanted the boy. He hadn't missed that look of hers when she fastened her eyes onto the kid's basket. He had told her he did not think it a good idea, explained to her the guy was a queen and not the least bit interested in her, but she ranted and raved so that he had to give in. Well, she could have the queen. He'd take the couch.
"Susan?" He reached over and shook her shoulder. "Wake up, we're home."
"What-where the hell am I?" She blinked her eyes and looked at him. "Oh, Paul. Hi, honey."
"Listen, I think I better take you into the house then drive queeny here home."
"The name's Forest," the boy lisped. "Forest Greene."
"Isn't that a lovely name," Susan smiled. "No, Paul, he's coming in. I can't be rude. I promised our friend some coffee."
"But it's late," Paul insisted.
"Never too late," Susan chuckled.
Paul looked toward the back of the car. Forest Greene was staring at him, his eyes dark and flirtatious. Paul hunched his shoulders in defeat, then got out of the car. "Okay, come on," he said, opening the door for Susan.
Once inside the house, Paul made them coffee, excused himself, got undressed, and plopped down on the couch. He was much too drunk and too tired to make idle conversation this early in the morning. He turned off the lamp and turned on his side, burying his head under the pillow.
An hour later he was awakened by the sound of voices. He turned over and lay on his back, looking toward the bedroom. He could see the naked reflections of Susan and Forest Greene in the mirror-paneled ceiling. The boy was lying full length over Susan. She was kissing him and whispering small sounds.
"Nah, I'm not much good at this-with a woman, I mean," the boy said.
"I gave you twenty dollars now, didn't I? Bet nobody ever gave you that much before."
"Yeah, but, just the same, this isn't my bag. Now that guy in the other room, he's more my speed. He's really groovy."
"Great compliment to me," Susan muttered under her breath. "Forget him, he's out," she told the boy.
Paul smiled, leaned back against the pillow, and let his glance roam the contours of the boy's body. Undressed, he looked pretty damn good. Nice, hot ass, he thought, feeling the pleasant thrum of desire as his eyes feasted on the boy's small buttocks. He cocked his head to one side. Susan was working on the boy's cock, but it was limp.
"I'll give you more money if you'll try," Susan muttered. "Maybe if I sucked on it awhile."
"That won't do it. I can't stand lipstick on my prick."
"You do have a nice way about you, I must say," sighed Susan. "Maybe if I played with it awhile."
"I can't get it up. You just don't excite me."
"Thanks a hell of a lot," Susan said.
Paul laughed to himself. She really wanted that cock. Hell, she wanted any cock.
"Well, I can't help it. I thought he was going to get in on it. I can do it then with you, just as long as I've got a hot cock in me."
Paul saw the excitement in Susan's face. "You mean, if he stuck it in you, then you could-" The very thought of it seemed to charge Susan with newfound desire.
Actually, the little queen did have a nice tight body, Paul thought, feeling his cock harden. He swung his legs off the couch and got to his feet. Silently he made his way toward the bedroom. Maybe he should join them. After all, Rick wasn't coming home, and he was aroused. Besides, if Susan received some pleasure on her weekend in Laguna, she might be quite generous with him.
"I thought you two were having coffee," he said, stepping into the bedroom.
"Paul," Susan said, surprised.
The boy turned sharply, his eyes opening wide when he saw Paul's nakedness.
"I see our little friend here needs a little help." Paul stood with his legs spread, knowing the effect his hard cock was having on the young boy.
"Yeah," Susan's eyes glistened, "look at you now."
Forest Greene's prick blooded to life. It was smaller than Paul's, uncircumcised, and purple in color.
"He was telling me-"
"Yeah, Susan, I heard," Paul smiled. He gestured for the boy to resume what he was doing. The boy complied. Immediately Susan wrapped her arms around Forest and kissed him. Then she pulled back and said, "Paul, it's freezing in here. Turn on the thermostat."
"Don't have that kind of heating." He pointed to the gas stove on the floor in a comer of the room. "Gas is all we have."
"Turn it on, it's cold in here."
"Hate to use it. Smells the room up with gas. Besides," he grinned, "you'll be warm in a minute."
He lowered himself onto the bed and arranged the boy's legs over Susan's. He ran his hand down the boy's back and over the twin mounds. Then he reached over, opened a drawer, and unscrewed a bottle of vaseline.
Scooping some of it on his middle finger, he ran it to the outer ridges of the boy's asshole. Slowly he slipped his finger in, gently lubricating the tight asshole. With his other hand he reached under the boy and felt the stiff rod. "Now you're all right," he said, guiding the boy's prick between Susan's legs.
"Paul," Susan whispered, "kiss me."
Paul rested his chin on the boy's shoulder and kissed her. Her lips parried for control, brushed gently, and finally submitted, taking his tongue all the way. At the same time she pushed the boy's face into her breasts.
Forest looked at her excited tit an inch from his eyes, at the swollen tip. The pressure of her hand against his head told him she wanted him to nibble her. He opened his mouth and suckled the brownish nub.
Paul meanwhile worked Forest's cock until the head of it swelled double its original size. He guided it to the lips of Susan's cunt, then stuck it in, at the same time pushing the boy's ass hard into her.
"Aagh! Ohhhh," Susan cried, feeling the fiery rod plunge into her. "Oh, good, good, good," she muttered over and over, lifting her hips to meet his lunges.
Quickly Paul climbed carefully over them and swung one leg over so he was kneeling, straddling the boy. His hand caressed the boy's ass cheeks. He looked down at his own cock; he was noticeably aroused. He clasped himself, brought his cock to the boy's buttocks, then, spreading the firm muscles, sank the rounded head of his prick in and lowered himself slowly.
"Oh, shit," Forest cried, his body shivering with pleasure. "Shit, shit, shit," he cried over and over again as he thrust his hips hard into Susan.
Paul saw Susan's body move wildly, one hand on his shoulder, the other on Forest's cheek.
"Two of you," she cried joyously, "hell, this is something."
Paul leaned down when he felt Forest groan in pain. "God, you're a big sonofabitch," Forest whispered.
"Easy, huh?" he said with mounting passion.
Paul's mouth moved against the boy's earlobe, whispering, enticing, encouraging the kid to take all of his meat. The boy's warm, tight, moist ass felt marvelous. His hips seemed to be acting by reflex action alone. As the boy thrust deeper into Susan, Paul lunged forward sending his hot, hard cock deep into the warm hole of the boy.
Now the three bodies moved as one, Susan meeting Forest's, and Paul meeting the squirming, cock-hungry tight ass.
Thinking of Forest's hard prick in Susan; of her cunt, contracting and grabbing his sliding piston, made Paul wild. He could feel his moment was near.
"I'm ready ... oh, shit, I'm ready," the boy cried.
Susan rammed her hips up hard into the boy, clutching both him and Paul. "Me, too," she whispered, "oh, yes, yes."
Their breaths intermingled, their perspiration ran together, and Paul was conscious of the odors; the smell of sex was super strong in the tiny bedroom. Paul lunged; Forest lunged; Susan cried out her joy. As their movements became faster, wilder, Paul pressed his groin hard into the boy's buttocks, pressed with all of his might so that he could feel the crisp patch of hair of the boy's rear. His cock swelled and he felt himself shoot. "Ahhhhhhh," he groaned, sending his prick deep into the boy.
"Ohhhhh, shit," Forest whispered, taking Paul's eruption and sending his own into Susan's hot cavern.
"Jeeeeeesus," cried Susan as she wiggled her body uncontrollably, feeling her climax near.
The three of them spewed their come and moaned and groaned their pleasure as their bodies fused in mutual ecstasy. Susan collapsed back onto the bed, her glistening body in a heap, her disarrayed hair scattered over the pillow. Forest, breathing hard, pulled his now limp cock out and fell facedown on the bed, his small shoulders heaving, his breathing hard. Paul fell to his side, his face buried into the blankets, his eyes closed, exhausted, spent in the complete fulfillment of threesome love.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was almost two weeks from the day of their lovemaking before Susan heard from Paul again.
Hurt and angry at not hearing from him, she tried to busy herself with other things, but always her thoughts returned to him. Many a time she had the receiver in her hand, was about to dial him, but had caught herself in time. She wasn't about to throw herself at him, not that way. But always his face came to her. She found him sexually fulfilling. Nobody had ever thrilled her so much. Obviously he did not feel the same toward her, or he would have called by now. Beyond the personal hurt, she was puzzled. After all, this young man was clearly searching for the way up, desperately trying to cut a niche for himself in the art world. Didn't he need her as much as she did him? She knew he was penniless, that he was having a bad time of it. He knew she had money, that she was generous. Why didn't he jump at the chance? Perhaps it was because she had not made it entirely clear what it was she could do for him. Or perhaps the thought just never entered his mind.
Then there was the problem with Rick-at least, it was a problem to her. Could Paul possibly be in love with Rick? He had always avoided her questions whenever she'd tried to find out. And Rick? Was he in love with Paul? She rather doubted it. Besides, if they were both in love with each other it did not matter to her in the least. What mattered was her own personal feelings. Somehow she had to convince Paul of her urgent desire to help him establish himself as an artist.
A thought came to her mind: Perhaps I should throw a party. Invite Paul, have him bring some of his paintings, introduce him around, get him started. She did know a few people in the art world, powerful people. They were impressed with her because she was rich. It wouldn't be difficult. Yes, that's what she would do. Rising, she walked to the telephone when the sharp ring stopped her in her tracks. Lifting the receiver, she answered:
"Yes?"
"Susan?"
"Yes."
"Paul, here."
"This is a coincidence. I was just going to call you. Your ring scared the hell out of me."
"I'm in town. Thought I'd drop by."
"Why don't you?"
"Okay. Hey, I brought a few of my paintings."
"Wonderful, dying to see them."
"Be there in fifteen minutes."
"Hurry, I'll be waiting." She hung up and quickly raced to her bedroom to change into something more flattering.
Fifteen minutes later, the maid led Paul into the den. "Hi, Susan," Paul said, walking to her.
"I shouldn't even talk to you," she told him, looking over the brim of her glass. "Why?"
"Silence for two weeks. Not very flattering for me." She turned to the maid. "Bring another scotch over the rocks for my guest."
The maid smiled, then left the room.
"You had nothing to do with it," Paul told her. "I've been painting my ass off."
"Too busy to pick up the phone?"
"Well, I was working at the studio. We don't have a phone there."
"I'd advise you to put one in immediately."
"And have the customers call San Francisco every chance they get?"
"Where are your paintings?"
"In the hallway."
"Well, get them, I'm dying to see them."
He left the room, returned with three enormous canvases, and arranged them by the window. One by one he showed them to her.
"Paul, that one is wonderful. Such detail on the landscape. How long did it take you to do it?"
"Three days."
"Marvelous. And that one-why it's the view from your house in Laguna, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I love the thick white oil in the sea, gives it almost a three-dimensional look." Her mouth dropped open when she looked at the third painting.
"Recognize him?"
"It's Rick, of course."
"Yes."
"That's not hard to see." She made a face. "And in all his naked glory."
"Male nudes are very popular now."
"I know, I know," she said irritably. "But did you have to paint him that nude? Why, I can see the veins in his cock!" she remarked dramatically.
"You don't like it?"
"What? The veins?"
"The painting!"
"Oh, it's good, I guess. I just like the others better."
"But why don't you like the one of Rick? It's one of my best paintings."
"I just don't dig it." She lit a cigarette, her eyes returning to the nude. "You didn't exaggerate?"
Paul grinned. "I thought you of all people would know. No, I didn't exaggerate one bit."
"The things mothers do not know about their own sons."
"I think this will sell, Susan."
"Without a doubt. Some queen will go mad for it."
"You're angry."
"Why do you say that?"
"You sound it."
"Not angry, Paul. Surprised." She butted out the cigarette, then took a sip of her drink. "You know, I was just thinking of throwing a party for you."
"For me?"
"Yes. I thought it would be a good way of introducing you. Maybe have a few of your paintings framed and hung and then invite-"
"You don't do it that way."
Susan looked at him. He was anxious, she thought, damn anxious. Biting at the bit. "Oh?" she tilted her head, "then how do you do it?"
"With a showing. At the best gallery in Hollywood."
"For instance?"
"Ambrick's Galleries on La Cienega. They're the best."
"Well, then, why not have a showing?"
"It's expensive. You have to do it up big, cocktail party, circulars, all the canvases have to be framed just right, lighting of the pictures. Then you practically have to pay a fortune for the right guest list-the real money people and-" She didn't let him finish.
"Oh, hang the expense. And no hard liquor-it's champagne all the way. And I can get all of my friends to attend. We'll put the paintings up for grabs with sky-high prices. I'll say I discovered you. And I did, in a way."
"You'll have a showing for me, then?"
"Would you like for me to?"
"Yes-very much."
"Then I'll do it." Her mind raced. This was wonderful, she couldn't have planned it better. Paul was asking for her help. If she could really put him on the map, it would be an insurance for her. Then she would have him for good. But more, why not really insure the bargain? Why not marriage? She hadn't thought of that before. As a matter-of-fact, she never thought she'd ever want to marry again. But now the idea seemed marvelous. Paul was ideal. She liked the fact he was gay. It made it easier for her. He was gentle and kind and understanding; she liked that. That and the fact that nothing shocked him. Whatever she did, he took with a grain of salt. He was just as bad as she. It meant they both could have their men on the side. And since he swung both ways, it would be a diversion for her. They could have some wild orgies. She might as well have one last fling. He was fun to be with, they were never at a loss for conversation, and she could control him. That was important, her having the upper hand. But the question was, would he go for it? She was sure he would. Not so much because he had flipped for her, but because he was attracted to her money. But that did not matter to her, as long as she got what she wanted.
The maid returned with his drink. Susan waited for the maid to leave, then walked over to him.
"I've got an idea. I'll hire a publicity man for you."
"Why?"
"To get your name going in the columns. It's important. The art world is very snobbish, that much I know. You have to come on big."
"I have no objections," Paul grinned.
Susan watched him as he sat on the sofa. He looked incredibly handsome, she thought. Oh, the things she would do for him. She'd buy him a whole new wardrobe, real mod stuff. He had the figure for it and the personality. He'd look marvelous in loud colors and scarfs and striped pants. It would be fun helping Paul to get started; besides, it would give her something to do. She could really throw herself into something like this. She so needed a new interest. But more, she desperately needed Paul. The more she thought of it, the more the idea of marriage appealed to her. But that was something she would have to ease into. Perhaps even make it come out as if the idea was Paul's. She knew how to do it; she was clever enough. Meanwhile, it was her job to get his career going. Tomorrow she would have lunch with her artist friends; she'd ask them questions like mad. It would be a project that she'd give her all for. She'd hire Stemler, Publicity. He was the best PR man in the business.
"Paul?"
"Yes."
"When will you be ready?"
"I've got a few more paintings I must do. I'm not sure."
"Well, just about when? A month?"
"Yes, I'd say a month."
"Good, that'll give us enough time if I start right now." She walked to the sofa and sat down next to him. "You know, this is going to be fun. You're a talent, and this whole city is going to know it soon. I'll make sure about that."
"Thanks, Susan," Paul said, simply.
"Oh, Paul, don't thank me." She kissed his cheek. "I should be thanking you. You don't know how much you mean to me. You know I flipped for you the second I set eyes on you."
She felt him stiffen, then twist his body so that he could reach for a cigarette. He didn't want to hear what she had to say, she felt that immediately, knew that by the way he kept his face so straight and sober, busying himself, ignoring her words.
"Paul?"
"Mmmm?"
"Don't show the nude of Rick."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. It's-it's-well, vulgar."
"Vulgar?"
"Well, it's embarrassing-sick."
"Aw, come on, Susan," he grinned. "You're just jealous I haven't painted you."
"That's not true," she fairly shouted.
"Okay-okay, I won't show it. I didn't want to sell it anyway."
"Paul?"
"Yes."
"One thing I want to get straight. I'll help you, sure. But I want something in return."
"What's that?"
"That you break with Rick!" Paul turned from her look.
He knew it, too, she thought. Rick was the only link separating them. "I want you completely," she said, her eyes holding to his.
"You're giving ultimatums early in the game, Susan."
"Yes, it is an ultimatum, isn't it?" She saw his gaze go to the wall, the pictures, then to the drapes. "Is that too much to ask?" She wet her lips. "Are you in love with him?"
He didn't answer.
"After all, Paul, it is a touchy situation, isn't it? He's against me as it is, so you're going to have to be the heavy in this one. Well? Don't you agree it's touchy?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll break with him?"
Again he remained silent.
Rising, she walked to the window and, without looking at him, said, "Think about what I can do for you, Paul. I can give you a great deal, you know. I can buy a place for you in the art world. It isn't talent that does it, not really. Half the successful artists around have been helped by people just like me. You know that. I know it. But you've got enough talent to make it interesting, and with my money, you can be a household name in no time. You'll never get a chance like this again, of having someone like me this interested in helping you. I won't go back on my word; I'm not that kind of a person."
There was a long silence as Paul shifted his position.
"What I'm really saying is that I've fallen for you, Paul, hook, line, and sinker. I want you. I want you very much." Turning from the window, she faced him. "That," she forced a laugh, "is about as serious as you will ever see me get again, darling." Abruptly she glanced at her watch. "Four o'clock. If you leave now, you'll avoid all that freeway traffic," she said, dismissing him.
Paul got to his feet. He seemed a bit confused.
"I'll leave the paintings here, if it's all right with you."
"Fine. But take the one of Rick."
She watched him walk to the painting, lift it, stop, then set it down, and return to kiss her cheek.
"I'll be in Laguna this weekend," she said. "Any objections?"
"No, not at all."
"I won't interfere with your work," she promised.
He picked up the painting and went to the door where he turned to face her. "About Rick. I-I-"
"Don't say anything now," she silenced him. "Just think about it during the week and give me your decision over the weekend."
"Good-bye."
"Au'voir, cheri," she said.
From the window she saw him put the painting in the back seat, then get into the Rolls and drive away. She twisted her hands together, feeling a flash of panic surge through her. She had given Paul his choice-her or her son! Whom would he chose? She felt a numbed emptiness as her face hardened into a sharp line. Never had she hated Rick as much as she did right now!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rick was holding a package with the label Leading Man printed in thin, long, black letters, and showing a picture of an athlete, nearly nude save for the strip of film covering his crotch. He walked down the side steps to the house and made his way to the beach.
Except for a few surfers in the distance, the beach was deserted. He walked a stretch of the beach until he came to Paul, who was seated under a huge umbrella, paintbrush in hand, squinting his eyes toward the water.
"Hey, that's great, Paul," Rick smiled. "I can almost see the waves coming at me."
Paul made a few strokes with the brush, stood back to survey his work, shook his head, then put the brush down. "I don't like the green I've used," he said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Going to have to mix more of a sea green."
"Well, I like what you've done."
"No, it's got to be better."
"You're too much of a perfectionist," Rick grinned. "Oh, this came for you just now."
Paul glanced at the package. "I know what it is without looking."
"What?"
"Eric does his shopping at Leading Man. They've got some great things, but knowing Eric's taste I'm going to be shocked."
"Why'd he send you a shirt."
"That's how far back your memory goes. Because, idiot, he tore my shirt off my back. Open it, will you? My hands are dirty."
Rick snapped the string, opened the package, and pulled out a yellow shirt with white ruffles along the sides and on the sleeves.
"Be great for Halloween, huh?" Paul frowned. "I'll take it back and exchange it for something else tomorrow. Oh, can't do it then. Well, one of these days."
Rick covered the box and set it down. "You're really painting up a storm, Paul. Gosh, you haven't stopped in days."
Paul made a circle of white around the sun on the canvas. "I know, I know."
"Is there a reason for it? You got a deadline or something?"
"No."
"Well, is there somebody interested in buying your stuff?"
He saw Paul turn from his painting and look at him. It was a quick look but a revealing one. He didn't understand why Paul suddenly shifted the conversation with:
"Rick, you're getting as brown as a coffee bean. Are those new bathing trunks?"
"No. They're yours," he answered.
He saw Paul's gaze go to his crotch. "I wish I looked as good in them as you."
"As for my tan. Hell, what else is there to do with you painting all day and half the night."
"Come now," Paul said. "Don't tell me you're angry because I've started to throw myself into my work. It was long overdue. I thought I couldn't paint again, it was that long."
Rick kicked some sand with his bare foot. "I was thinking that maybe we could go out for dinner tonight and maybe hit a movie."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"I've got to finish this, that's why."
"But you said that last night."
"Okay, so I did. So what?"
"Jeez, suddenly you don't want to do anything but paint."
"I'll grab me a sandwich later. But don't let that stop you from going out."
Rick tried to pinpoint the vague anxiety flickering on the edge of his thoughts. He saw a change in Paul. He didn't know exactly what it was, but something was wrong. Paul had been evasive for days now, ever since he picked up his brush and started going crazy with it. He had all but ignored him. Rick found himself more and more alone. And there was something else. Paul had taken to sleeping on the sofa. He wondered why.
"No. I think I'll stay home myself," he told Paul. "I'll make dinner though. Hey, how about a nice thick steak and some-"
"No," Paul cut in, stopping him. Then his voice got softer. "I'm trying to stay on a diet."
"You? Why? You're as slim as a toothpick."
"Yeah, but I don't like the tire around my middle, at least the start of one."
"Don't be silly. I'll get a nice salad and bake some pota-"
"You heard me, Rick. No! Try to understand I have a lot of work to do."
"Shit, you can't work on that painting twenty-four hours a day!"
"I can if I want to!" Paul said with a surprising twist of anger.
Rick sensed the leaden weight of Paul's annoyance. He curbed his own growing irritation, feeling his hands go tense and prickly. They always did when he felt frustrated. He reached down and took a cigarette from Paul's full pack on the canvas chair and lit it. He remained silent as he watched Paul at work. This is the way he's been for nearly a week, he thought. There was no way he could please Paul, for there was nothing Paul seemed to want; he stopped watching television, stopped going out, stopped talking to him, and stopped sleeping with him. That spoke volumes. It was the strangest thing, he thought, for, with Paul suddenly wanting nothing, having no preferences, remaining alone as much as possible, Paul could not be pleased. Rick found himself looking for little things to do, thinking of topics to discuss, anything to make contact with his lover. But Paul seemed to grow more distant daily. No wonder he was frustrated.
"I'll take the shirt back for you since you don't have the time, Paul," he said, "I'll do that today."
"No need."
"What color shirt would you like."
"Don't bother."
"No bother for me. It'll give me something to do," Rick smiled.
"I said forget it!"
Rick's smile disappeared. He kept his face straight with an effort, ignoring Paul's sharp look of annoyance.
"Guess I'll go for a swim," he finally said.
"Brilliant idea. Water must be marvelous today. Wish I could."
Rick saw that Paul was relieved to change the subject, as relieved as he was, he thought. Ah, he was only going in full circles with Paul anyway, and getting nowhere. Disgusted, he buried his cigarette in the sand and, without another word, raced down to the water.
As a rule, a good fast run along the beach and a swim refreshed him. Then, sitting on the sand, looking out toward the horizon and the sailboats, gave him a calm and comfortable sense of well-being, especially knowing that Paul was by his side or somewhere near by. This morning it just wasn't happening. For one, Paul was not by his side-oh, he was near, but he might as well have been a million miles away. And the water was too cold and dirty, there was a chilling breeze that cut through him, and there were too many surfers in the water. It added to his annoyance. He got out of the water and, without even glancing at Paul, made his way back to the house. What he had done was change his life, that's what, he told himself. Paul had become very important to him. The fabric of his life was now so tightly woven with that of Paul, so strongly stitched, that he asked himself what would happen if anything ripped the tiniest part of it. Was that what was happening now? If so, why? There was another force entering, a force that was nameless and destructive. He sensed it, but for the life of him did not know what it was. There was too much anxiety, too much hollering and bickering between them, and it was building so that the emotional climate between them had become raw, driving them apart.
He showered and dried himself, feeling depressed. He walked to the bed and stretched out on it, relaxing as best he could. Fumbling for a cigarette and matches, he lit it and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Just as he finished the cigarette, the bedroom door opened and closed with a soft click.
"Sleeping, Rick?"
"No," he answered, his voice tight.
"I'm sorry I've been so-well-tense," Paul said.
"Forget it," he answered, dabbing his cigarette into the glass ashtray. He heard the soft whisper of Paul's shirt as he threw it across the bed, followed by that of the Levi's.
Rick swallowed hard when Paul slipped in bed beside him and he felt Paul's body straining against him, his arms clinging to him. Paul's cheek was oddly wet against his own.
"What's the matter, Paul?"
"Oh, Rick. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Don't cry. I've never seen you cry."
"I've been so uptight, I guess I need the release."
"What's been happening to us, Paul?"
"Oh, let's not talk, Rick. Just hold me close to you." Paul lay on his side, breathing unevenly.
Rick put his arm around him and rubbed Paul's bare chest. "All right," he whispered, feeling his own blood stirring strongly. He pulled the sheet from his body and let his thick cock free. It wound itself upward from the thick brush of curly hair surrounding the thick, hard base. "He's missed you," Rick whispered. "Very much."
Paul reached for it almost timidly and took hold of it. He squeezed the hard cock in his hand, then, pulling himself closer, he ran his tongue lightly over Rick's smooth chest, taking his tiny nipple in his mouth and feeling it harden against his tongue.
"Baby, baby," Rick whispered.
Paul's lips moved downward until they met Rick's cock, and then he opened his mouth, taking all of it, cupping Rick's balls at the same time. Suddenly Paul's head shot up and he looked into Rick's eyes.
"Oh, Rick, I've been so miserable. I don't know-just so damn miserable."
"Kiss me, baby," Rick said. "Don't talk. Just let me hold you in my arms and love you."
They lay embracing each other for a moment, then Rick's lips closed over Paul's, his tongue forcing its way inside Paul's mouth, running lightly over his strong, even chalk white teeth and firm gums. Rick held Paul even tighter, savoring his tongue between his teeth, his jaw moving slowly up and down as he tasted the velvety sweetness of the man. He could hear Paul's muffled cries, and could feel his quickening need. Suddenly he wanted desperately to be fucked.
Paul enjoyed the feel of Rick's fingers as they massaged his back. He was conscious of their warm bodies pressed against each other as they lay on the bed. He rested his head once again in the crook of Rick's arm and felt Rick's mouth kiss his forehead, nose and eyes lovingly, tenderly.
"Feel good?" he heard Rick ask.
"Mmm," he replied. He felt Rick move his legs closer against his and draw his fingertips lightly over his stomach.
This is what he loved best, he thought, the both of them lying close to each other after marvelous sexual release.
"Feel like talking about it now?" Rick asked him.
Paul wondered with an uneasy pang if it were at all possible to tell Rick the truth about himself-about Rick's mother. He would have to, sooner or later. It hurt him deeply, trying to kill his feelings for the boy. For that's what he was doing, little by little. "Oh, it's nothing," he answered. "Just overwork."
"No, it's more than that. I can feel it in you. Tell me," Rick said. "I want to know."
He thought of Susan's words: I want you to drop Rick! and his stomach muscles turned into a hard knot. "No, really, Rick. It's just that I've been tired," he lied.
"No wonder. You've been driving yourself too hard."
"I guess."
Would he be able to drop Rick, Paul asked himself. Was it worth it? "Paul?"
"Yeah, babe."
"I wish I could buy you your own studio. I wish I could do a lot of things for you."
Paul smiled, reached up, and put his fingers to Rick's lips.
"Some day I'll be able to do it," Rick said. "I only get four hundred a month. But when I'm twenty-five I come into a great deal of money. Did you know that?"
"No."
"What I'm saying is, well, I can buy us a big house. Anywhere you want. And a car-a Cad, a Lincoln, a Rolls, any kind you want. And," he laughed, "I could buy all of your paintings. You can charge me anything you want. I'll pay it gladly."
Guilt surged through Paul. Guilt that made him depressed and angry at the very thought of giving Rick up. "Yeah," he said, "when you're twenty-five."
"But that's only six years from now."
I'll be thirty-six, Paul thought. Hell, I might not even be painting then. No, it had to be now-right now! "Yeah," Paul whispered, "six years from now."
"Well still be together, Paul. I know we will."
Paul twisted his head so that he could look better into Rick's face. "Will we, Rick?"
"Don't you think we will?"
"It's hard for me to-"
"We will," Rick interrupted. "I'll tell you why. It's because I found something in you that has been missing from my life. I need you, Paul. And I know you want and love me. I want to have you forever. I-I love you."
He saw the flash of tears in Rick's eyes, but only for a moment.
"There, I said it," Rick said in an unsteady voice.
Yes, he had said it, Paul thought. The very words he so wanted to hear. Rick was in love with him. But the words had come too late. He did not want to hear them now. He couldn't hear them now. There was too much to lose. He needed success, damn it, and he needed it now. Susan could give him that-now! It was worth every sacrifice. He must not falter, must not get carried away by this beautiful youth. He'd made a mistake falling in love with Rick; he would have to undo it all. But he did not want to hurt Rick anymore than he had to. It would be difficult, especially now that Rick had confessed his love for him. And Rick would take it hard. He was a troubled boy, rejection would not come easy. Could he do it? Should he do it? He pulled himself from Rick's arms and straightened up.
"You're wonderful to say that, Rick. But I don't think you're really in love with me. Fond maybe, yes, but not in love."
"But I am. I could never say something like that unless I meant it."
Paul put his finger across Rick's lips, urging him to be quiet. Then he looked with delighted wonder at the youth's lean body stretched over the bed. Soon it would be his no longer, he thought. It was a great sacrifice. He reached out and touched Rick's trembling cock. "That's what we've got going for us." he winked. Rick was becoming far too dramatic. He had to stop this and now. Besides, he could not bear to hear those words repeated.
Rick smiled. "Our cocks? Yeah, that's no lie. But it's more than that."
"Maybe, but not much more," he lied. He saw Rick's organ slowly begin to stiffen. Quickly he pulled his eyes away. He must change the subject, he told himself. He got to his feet.
"Where you going?" Rick asked.
"Back to work. Oh, there is something you can do."
"What's that?"
"Clean up this house. Looks like pigs live here." Rick looked about. "It's not any worse than usual."
"The bathroom is filthy."
"I'll find a maid tomorrow. Hell, I'm no housemaid."
"You'll have to clean it today. Tomorrow will be too late." Paul paused, knowing the reaction he would receive. "Tomorrow your mother is coming."
Rick's face grew serious. "How do you know?"
"She called late last night. You were asleep."
"What the fuck is she coming for?"
"To spend the weekend."
"Shit!"
Say it, Paul told himself. Start it going. It has to start with an argument. "Rick," he said. "A word of advice. Try treating your mother with a little more respect."
Rick's head shot up.
"I mean it. Give in a little. It won't kill you. You're so miserable every time she comes here. Certainly she must feel it."
"Good!" he snapped.
"No, it's not good. Christ, she's your mother."
"Tell her that!"
"After all, Rick. She's coming to see you."
"It's too late. She can't make up nineteen years of neglect in a weekend. I hate it when she comes here. This is our home; she has no right here."
"She has every right here!" Paul shouted. "Besides, it's my house!"
Rick stared at him, his face darkening. "What-what are you getting angry for, Paul?"
"Because I hate the tension in the air when she's here. You cause it, you alone."
"Then tell her to keep the hell away from here."
"I won't do that."
"Why? For Christ's sake."
"It's wrong, that's why."
"What goes here?" Rick asked, his voice rising. There was an instant of silence. Then Rick shook his head slowly and said, "Something's happened to you. It started with her visit here. I felt it then, and I feel it strongly now. What is it? Has she got you snowballed?"
"No. I was just thinking of you."
Paul saw Rick get to his feet, glare at him, then heard him say:
"Well, don't think of me. I'll handle my cunty mother my own way, hear?" He turned and strode out of the room.
Paul stared after him. He sighed deeply. He'd started it, he thought, feeling a little sad. He'd planted the seed. It was going to kill him, he knew that, but he was determined to break with Rick.
He dressed and walked down the steps to the beach. Under the umbrella, he sat, and moodily stared out toward the sea. When he dipped his brush into the dab of heavy green paint on the easel, his mind started to reel. There flashed before him the faces of Rick and Susan, and he heard a voice cry Choose! and suddenly he felt as if he were on the edge of some nameless danger.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rick had slept past four o'clock in the afternoon, killing time before returning home and seeing his mother. He'd dreaded her visit for two days now, ever since Paul had told him she was coming. He stretched his arms, feeling the pain in his legs. He'd been lying out in the sun much too long without once turning his body. He applied some sun cream lotion to his calves and ankles, then wiped his hands on a towel and got to his feet.
He'd been doing a lot of thinking. Perhaps Paul was right. Maybe he was being spiteful concerning his mother. He had every reason to be, he knew that, but his attitude with the woman grew steadily worse. It did not ease the situation between them. One thing for sure, she was going to be paying them a lot of visits. He knew that. And he also knew his mother was intrigued with their living together. She may have suspected by now, he wasn't sure. Whatever, he realized now that fighting the bitch was not the answer. Perhaps that was what Paul was trying to tell him Maybe if he gave in a little, tried to get along with her, it might work out for the better.
He walked resolutely to the house, rehearsing as he went the exact words he would use on his mother. Glad you came. Yes, he'd tell her that. You look very nice. That would make her feel good. How would you like to go to a movie, just the two of us? He'd hate it, but she'd eat it up.
It was a real surprise for him, however, on entering the house to find both his mother and Paul engaged in quiet conversation in the bedroom. He thought it strange their being in the room About to knock on the partially closed door, he hesitated when he heard his name.
"What about Rick?" his mother asked.
There was a silence on Paul's part.
Rick stood motionless, trying desperately to follow the drift of their conversation. Then he heard his mother's voice again, only this time on a completely different subject, and her voice had changed, sounding higher, lighter.
"Oh, Paul, everything's working out so well. I've been as busy as a queen bee in Los Angeles."
There was a rustle of paper as she fished into her purse.
"Look, Paul."
Rick got closer to the door and peered in.
Paul took the circular from her and looked at it.
"Three thousand of them have been sent through the mail. The showing will last a week. Seven parties from seven to ten. And all the art collectors will be there. Oh, yes, it'll be covered on Tuesday night by channel thirteen. That's what a publicity man can do for you," she laughed.
He handed her back the circular. "It's great."
"Like the color?"
"Yes."
"That's my idea. I designed it. Oh, they got me so mad. They had it all wrong. I made them do it all over again. You should have seen me licking three thousand envelopes. I had a girl come by the house to handle it for me."
"You know, just thinking about it, I get nervous."
"I know. But that's only because it's your first showing. Don't worry, you'll win them over. Oh, I saw some of your new work. Peeked when you weren't around. Paul, the sea you painted is absolutely gorgeous."
"Glad you like it."
"It's happening, Paul," she whispered. "Finally."
"Yeah," he smiled. "Thanks to you."
"Oh, I've tracked down the fifteen paintings you've sold. Managed to buy three of them back, the rest have given their permission for us to show them."
"That's great. I'll have nearly fifty paintings."
Rick stared frozen to the spot as he watched his mother slip her arms around Paul. She reached up to accept his warm kiss. Rick wanted to cry out, but he remained glued to the spot, his throat dry, emotionally stunned beyond words or actions.
"Now," he heard his mother whisper. "Tell me of your decision. Are you breaking with Rick?"
Rick felt numb, as if all the blood had frozen in his body.
Another pause, and finally Paul whispered, "Yes." Rick saw his mother's face light up, then lean forward to kiss Paul fully on the lips. "Oh, Paul, Paul, I'm so glad." Rick's breath quickened.
"I haven't told him yet, Susan. It-it isn't easy for me."
"Yes, darling. I know. I know. But you've made me so happy. You'll see, it'll be marvelous. You'll have a whole new life."
Rick's body stiffened and his knees felt wobbly, so much so he had to hold onto the door for support. Jesus, he thought, that's why Paul has been so busy. His look went to his mother. She crawls, he thought, my mother crawls like a snake. What he had been listening to could not be true. It was not happening, these words were not being spoken, he was not standing here. It was a bad dream.
"Now I can say it," he heard his mother almost giggle. "I was going to be very feminine and work it so that it was your idea. But knowing you, it would never work. Paul, I've been doing a lot of thinking. I-I want you to marry me."
Rick saw Paul stare at his mother in complete bewilderment. "Marry, Susan?"
"Yes, darling."
"I-I hadn't thought about it."
"Well, start now," she laughed. "Marriage?"
"You'll be a very rich young man. That's something that should tempt you," she kidded.
Rick began to feel a dizziness come over him in waves. He hardly dared to move as he listened to their muffled voices.
"I don't mean to rush you into it, darling. And I don't mean to marry you tomorrow. But soon. We'll have a lovely wedding-a big one-and a wild party after. And I'll take you to Europe. And-" Suddenly she broke out laughing.
"What's so funny?" Paul asked.
"I was just thinking," she said, through another peal of laughter, "you'll be Rick's stepfather!"
Rick made the gap between the door and the sofa without falling over. Somehow he staggered down the steps that led to the beach and threw himself onto the sand. His fists beat against the sand until they felt raw. Finally he stopped and regained control of his emotions.
That's what it was all about. That's why Paul had been acting so strangely. How blind he'd been. How stupidly, naively blind! Of course, his mother! She had been seeing Paul all along. When? When had it all started? He felt ill-terribly ill. He turned away from the sun and stared up at the house, his face a mask of contemptuous hate. The two of them! The two of them! He felt drained of all emotion as an emptiness took hold of him.
His mother now claimed the one person he really loved. She had taken Paul from him, just as she had taken everything else from him. He'd put up with it all-but this-this was something else!
He threw himself onto the sand, buried his face in his arms, and, shuddering gently, plummeted nauseously into hooded sleep.
He didn't know how long he had slept, but when next he looked up, it was night. He was cold to the bone. He hugged his arms around his bare chest and pulled the bathing trunks tighter up around his hips. Slowly reality returned to him by successive expanding degrees. Voices and visions and remembrances emerged as movie slides; and recognition, from amidst the swirling mixup in his mind, assumed tangible, shattering form.
His throat felt dry. How he would like a drink, beer, scotch, anything. He rubbed his eyes, then stared up at the house, the house which had represented a new, happy life for him. He stared at the windows, the doors, the brush, as though expecting to find it vanished. Yes, that would be marvelous, he told himself, if it would vanish at the snap of his fingers. He snapped them hard, and stared, and snorted a hollow laugh.
"Oh, Holy Jesus," he muttered; but Jesus bore no significance, the mutter held no surcease. The need to go to Paul, the need to warn him about his mother, protect him, the desire to profess his love for the man, was so imperative that he found himself halfway to the house on the run before he stopped himself. Then the sense of revulsion for his mother-and suddenly for Paul-hit him so violently, it fairly choked him.
Mistake! Mistake! Mistake! The word hit into his brain like a hammer. It had all been a mistake. Seeing it now, clearly in his mind, he observed the mistakes he'd made. He should have never let his mother know where he was. Once she knew, he should never have permitted her to visit. He should never have led Paul to believe he was rich. He should never have told Paul of his true feelings for him. The whole thing should never have happened. He should have left home a long time ago-cut out-got away-away from his mother's clutches-away from her evil fingers.
An inner weariness took hold of him when he thought of his mother. Ruthless, conniving, jealous, horrible bitch! The evil in her was eating her body like a cancer.
Unsteadily he got to his feet and slowly, with great effort, made his way up the stairs. He did not want to see either of them again. He would go back into the house, put on a shirt and Levi's, grab his checkbook, get into the Rolls, and drive. Drive anywhere, as long as it was away from them.
Inside the house he glanced at the clock. It was ten p.m. He made his way down the hallway and stopped cautiously at the bedroom door. Her car was parked outside in the front, as well as Paul's jalopy. They were still in the house. He pressed his ear close to the door. Then he heard Paul's voice.
"I wonder where he is."
"Rick? Oh, who knows. He's a loner."
"But the least he could have done was join us for dinner."
"Leave well enough alone. But I did enjoy dinner. I always do when it's with you, darling."
Rick crept closer, his hand twisting the doorknob, opening it slightly. Inside the bedroom he saw them lying side by side, the only light coming from the opened bathroom door. They were both naked and she was rubbing his neck.
"I feel so wicked," she laughed. "And daring. I mean, being this way with you in your bedroom-with Rick on the loose."
"You really have a thing about him, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like he's your competition."
"He is, darling." She cocked her head, smiled and said, "Correction. Was!"
"Why do you dislike him so, Susan?"
"Because he hates me."
"Does he really?"
"You can see it, can't you? You're not blind. Every time I come here he's off somewhere doing anything he can to avoid seeing me. Oh, you don't know. The things I could tell you."
"Like what?"
"Like how different he is with me when we're alone. You know what he does? He just stares at me." She shook her head. "Just stares at me like a cat. When he was a kid he used to sneak in and watch me bathe and put on my makeup. He'd run home from play just to watch me do that. But it wasn't because he wanted to be with me, his mother. Nothing warm and tender like that. He just watched me with his cold eyes. I finally had to lock my door. But he would look at me every chance he got. At the dinner table, while watching television. It's scary having someone stare at you all the time."
"That's all, Susan? I mean you said he was-"
"He was always getting into trouble all the way through school. Not the usual kind of trouble like the other kids. No, he had to set the girls' room on fire. Can you imagine? The girls' room. Now tell me why would he do a thing like that? Oh, Paul, he never fit. I saw him go through the hippie period. I had to bail him out of jail because he was involved in those damn college uprisings or whatever in hell they call 'em. If it meant trouble, there was Rick. He was arrested three times because of dope. Did you know that?"
"No."
"No? Well now you do. I don't think he's on it now. He's probably drinking now. He goes from one to the other."
"With me he's been-well-fine. I never for one moment would have suspected any of these things. He seems to have made an effort with me. I wish I had known how much of an effort."
"That's because he wanted something from you. Look, he has no bearings, Paul. He's a poor soul, malformed in a malformed culture. Isn't that the pattern for our typical lousy American youth today? No, baby, I'm not the heavy that little shit makes me out to be."
"Perhaps if he had a motive. If only he were just a bit more ambitious-"
"Oh, hell, Paul. You saw the way he works. He wants to be a writer. Okay, did you ever once see him pick up a piece of paper and a pencil? Of course not. I bought him a typewriter to encourage him. The very thing you do to encourage him is the very thing he hates you for. No, Paul. He's a hater. He destroys anything good in himself."
Paul shook his head. "He's terribly troubled. I had no idea just how troubled."
"He hasn't got any friends, you know. He's a loner. He's been that way all of his life. Listen, I was concerned, believe me I was. I tried sending him to a psychiatrist. He went twice, then told the poor doctor off in no uncertain terms." She sighed. "I don't want to talk about him. He gets me depressed. Let's talk about us."
Rick's ears burned at her words. He watched, as a curious weakness crept through him. He gazed with silent, unblinking eyes as she pressed her mouth to his.
"Oh, darling, nibble!" she sighed. She pressed his mouth to her breast and moaned at the feel of his lips flitting over the taut, puckered pinkess of her aroused flesh. "Oh, Paul, hold me, love me. I need you so," she whispered breathlessly into his ear.
Rick saw Paul swing his body over hers where he rested himself on the palms of his hands and his knees. He saw his mother spread her legs and throw back her head, her body moving from side to side as Paul's penetrating fingers plunged deep within her hot, eager vagina. He held them there as she moaned her delight. Then she reached down and ran her fingertips around the outline of the head of his cock. Her breath came quick and heavy and Rick saw her eyes slant and her lips part, her face a mask of lust. Paul's hands reached forward to grasp her bouncing globes. His fingers rubbed the brown nipples, his other hand was busy at her crotch.
Swallowing hard, Rick dared to open the door wider. Quietly, he brought his face closer to the door.
Now Paul lowered his body on top of Susan's and his hands reached down to her calves. He ran his hand over her, sliding over the firm muscles and the smooth skin. Paul stared at her breasts. The sight of the huge, upright, spherical tits, seemed to turn Paul into a wild animal. Rick watched Paul as he held the globular breasts and brought them to his lips, running his tongue over her nipple.
Rick's eyes slanted hatefully as his glance returned to his mother. She lay there, her eyes fluttering, watching Paul's every movement, seemingly enjoying his searching hands over her body as she became more and more aroused. She began moving her hips from side to side, then upward, pushing against him.
"Oh, Paul, fuck me. Please, fuck me."
"Now, Susan? Now?"
"Oh, yes, yes, now."
Paul smiled, kissing her eyelids. "All right, baby," he whispered.
"Oh, Paul, Paul," she cried aloud at his growing strength.
Rick's eyes darted to Paul's cock. He saw it swell and gleam as Paul guided it to his mother. Rick wet his lips. My cock! he thought. That's my cock! And now his mother reached for it, clasping it, holding it tenderly, loving it. Paul's cock! The cock that belonged to Rick! He held his breath when he heard his mother's gasp of delight as Paul entered her.
"Oh, Paul, Paul," his mother cried. She bit into Paul's shoulder, thrusting her hips upward to meet his wild attack.
Rick saw Paul lunge his hips forward, sending his hardness deep into his mother's cunt. He stared for a long time, listening to their moans of pleasure. Finally he heard Paul whisper:
"Ohh, Susan, you're a wild fuck. I can't hold it any longer. I've got to-" Then suddenly he saw Paul lunge deeply into her cunt. He stayed that way for a moment then fell down heavily on top of her.
"Oh, Paul," his mother cried. "Fill me with your come. Fill me!"
Rick felt the perspiration slide down the nape of his neck. He inhaled deeply and as silently as he could through his mouth, desperately fighting the nausea that was enveloping him. Quickly he stepped backward. He had seen enough. He couldn't watch any longer. Quietly, with great effort, he made his way out of the house and back to the beach where he fell to his knees, digging his fingers into the sand for support as his stomach heaved. When he could vomit no more, he got to his feet and hurried down to the water. He cupped his hands, filling them, splashing his face with the cold sea water.
For what seemed an eternity, he stood by the shore, overcome by the experience he had just witnessed. At length he walked along the sand, wandering aimlessly. He was the only one on the darkened beach, and the only sound was that of the water at high tide. He was hardly conscious of his movements.
The feeling of loneliness was so intense that he found himself staring in despair at the sea, at the black horizon, and at the barren stretch of gray beach. He was swept with the sad and hopeless feeling that he had been stripped completely of everything he had left.
The air was soft and cool on his face. He walked for what seemed miles before he stopped and looked about curiously. He shook his head, and pressed a hand to his temples, as if this gesture alone would take away the pain he felt there. He sat on his haunches and stared at the darkness beyond, seeing an occasional light from a passing ship. He wished with all his might that he might be on that ship, that he had not heard or seen what he had this day. He wasn't sure just what he felt, other than an aching emptiness that was almost physically painful in its intensity. The resentment of his mother tortured him. God, he thought, she's a horror. There was nothing she would not do to satisfy her lust. She had taken the one all important thing from him. She had taken the man he loved. He had never loved before-anyone. He did not think he could live without this love. It was like a confused nightmare; he did not quite believe it. Yet it was true. His own mother had taken his lover! His own mother!
God damn her! God damn her! GOD DAMN HER!
"Paul," he cried. "Paul ... Paul ... Paul!" There was a moment that had become elongated beyond endurance as though time had stopped save the enormous, thunderous, painful pounding of his own heart. He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. There was nothing left for him. He'd been stripped of everything. His mother had taken the one chance he had left. The one man who could help him, give him some sense of being, some sense of belonging.
Why had Paul turned from him? Was it greed alone? Could he possibly be in love with his mother? He did not believe that, it could not be. No, it was she! She had poisoned their love. She had thrown herself at Paul. She had promised him a whole, new, rich life. And he had believed her-the stupid bastard believed her. The lengths she would go to hurt him, he thought. She was rotten to the core-every muscle in her body-rotten. Every thought in her head-rotten!
He stood motionless at the water's edge as the idea came to him. His thoughts were spinning so fast, so clearly, that he felt almost drunk. Yet his thoughts, as wild as they were, were at the same time calm and quite sober, despite the excitement that was welling up inside of him.
It was over for him, he knew that now. He would never find another Paul, he knew that, too. What more could he lose? Nothing mattered to him now. Nothing but the idea generating in his mind. Maybe he'd be playing a trick on himself, maybe he would be hurting himself more, but he didn't care anymore. His thoughts raced so fast in his mind that he found himself running back to the house.
It would be so simple, he told himself. Really so simple. Nobody would suspect. He could get away with it. And for once in his miserable life he could throw off, by the very force of this decision, by the sheer force of the act, the tedious, frustrated, lonely, angry, impotent feelings that had been with him all of his life and were with him now. In one moment he could do this, he told himself. The flick of a wrist and it would be done.
No longer did he feel lonely, oppressed, angry; now he felt only an enormous elation. As he ran he could feel his cock swelling beneath his tight trunks. The idea had not only stimulated his spirit but his physical senses as well. He slowed down when he came within sight of the house, then stopped, studying it. There was a moment of doubt, but it was only a moment.
Inside the house it was warm, the only light coming from a lamp in a comer of the living room. He saw that it was past midnight. He lit a cigarette and dragged hard on it, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. His mind was reeling. His hands shook and he felt a sliding line of perspiration down his back and under his armpits. He snuffed the cigarette out in a flowerpot. Silently he edged his way along the carpeted, narrow hallway. Slowly he crept until he came to the door. His hand gripped the brass doorknob and he slowly twisted it to the right. A smile came to his face. His hands had stopped shaking. He would be fine now, he told himself. The sharp clicking sound made him hold his breath. He waited, swallowed hard, his hand still gripping the doorknob tightly. Carefully, slowly, quietly, he edged his way inside the doorway. He dared not breathe as he slowly permitted his eyes to become adjusted to the darkened bedroom.
Then he saw them. With an intake of breath, his eyes widened. A nerve began to twitch in his eye.
Both of them were asleep. His mother had thrown off the bed sheet and was lying on her back completely naked. His breath came in nervous spurts at the sight of his mother's immense breasts, her shining red hair framing her face against the white pillow. His eyes traveled to Paul. He, too, was naked, his now limp cock resting against his thigh, his balls hanging down to the sheet. Rick's eyes took in the slightly rounded stomach, traveled the length of the slim hips past the long, muscular legs, to the cock, down to the tips of his toes.
Rick swallowed hard, then made his way to the bed. Slowly, holding his breath, he leaned down and brushed his lips against Paul's forehead. Paul did not stir. Again Rick leaned down, this time kissing the head of Paul's cock. "God," he muttered, "Oh, God, oh, God."
Paul stirred.
Rick drew back as quick as a flash. He waited, then backed away, careful not to bump into anything, then turned and headed for the window. Reaching up, he very slowly and carefully lowered it, locking it. Then, turning, he silently made his way to the comer of the room.
Quietly he knelt down by the gas heater. He reached out. His hand began to shake. He sucked in a lungful of air through his mouth and waited until he had himself in control. Carefully, silently, his hand reached out. He felt the cold brass handle. He hesitated, turned to look over his shoulder, then quickly turned the handle to the right. There was an immediate hissing sound. Another twist and he had opened it as wide as it would go. Already he could smell the heavy gas filling the room.
Rising, he held his breath, then made his way to the door. Opening it, he suddenly turned to look back. His eyes were dark with an odd lifeless stillness as he looked at the naked couple, then at the wide-open gas heater. He allowed himself a thin grimace of satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork, then carefully, very slowly, very silently, he pulled the door shut.
He leaned heavily against the wall for a brief flash out of eternity, then sighed deeply, walked out of the house, down the steps to the beach, and across the sand. He seemed to be unconscious of the change in the consistency of the sand particles under his feet as they went from dry to moist.
He did not even give much thought to the fact that the sea was inordinately calm as he permitted it slowly to swallow him whole....
