These catch-phrases have glared at us from so many headlines, blared at us from so many television and radio broadcasts, that it is easy to shrug nd dismiss them as clich�s. Similarly, we tend to ignore the barrage of alarming statistics concerning rising crime, teenage alcoholism and promiscuity, narcotic addiction, devastating divorce rates, environmental pollution, political corruption, and so forth. Until one or another of these fearsome factors actually intrudes on our smug individual existence-until our wives are robbed and raped, or our children are arrested at an orgy for possession of pot-we like to pretend that all's right with the world, and if some other fellow has problems, it's none of our business.
For several years now, it's been the policy of The Publishers to bring our readers face-to-face with every situation, however shocking or ugly, which has important implications for our society. We sincerely believe that one of the major dangers of our troubled times is the tendency toward apathetic acceptance and/or the blocking out of unpleasant realities. Moreover, we are convinced that a hard-hitting approach which strikes close to home is the only way we will make the public sit up and take notice.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
"Oh, Spike! Really! Is that any way to show Christian Spirit?" The young woman irritably brushed her fair hair back from her perspiration-beaded forehead and prayed that her unholy impulse to smack the teenager's smirking face wasn't evident in her voice. "Of course you'll be happy to give poor Cordelia a hand with her luggage. Look, she's not strong enough to carry more than one of her big bags . . . and you're a husky guy with only a flight bag."
Something told the harassed blonde that she wasn't taking the right tactics, and she suddenly wished that her Sunday school and practice teaching experiences had been with adolescents. Spike, his impudent grin fading to a rebellious glower, stared intently out the wide glass windows of Paris' Orly airport lobby as though he hadn't even heard her, and then his sneaker shot out to give one of Cordelia's brand-new white Samsonite cases a vicious kick.
"Awhh, shit, how come she had to lug all this crap along, anyhow?" he mumbled. "If she's gonna be that dumb, then it's her tough luck!"
"Spike Soderberg! What kind of lang--"
"You stupid slob! You've ruined my suitcase!" Cordelia's elaborate hairdo had wilted during the overnight charter flight from Chicago to Paris, and her white dress was rumpled and stained, but her air of arrogant insolence was in no way impaired. "Look what he did, Miss Blakesley! Look! He'll have to pay for getting it cleaned, won't he!?"
Monica Blakesley's attractive face tautened with barely repressed exasperation. If she weren't a Christian chaperone who was supposed to be setting a good example, she'd tell these spoiled brats exactly what she thought of them in no uncertain terms; but as it was, she felt obliged to smile patiently and modulate her voice. Her summer job as a translator-chaperone for the World Worshipers Youth Group tour of France and Italy had seemed the chance of a lifetime, especially considering the unemployment situation in the States ... but after that harrowing plane ride she wasn't so sure.
"Please, Spike. Stop arguing and give Cordelia a hand with her bags." Despite her best efforts, her voice cracked, rose too thin and shrill, and tour leader Dubois shot her a questioning glance from across the lobby. "Don't you think you've caused enough problems already?"
"Huh? Who, me? Whaddya mean?"
There seemed no point in reminding him that the freaky clothes he'd insisted on wearing and his blatant rudeness to the self-important customs inspector had so offended the official that he'd spent an hour tearing apart the bags of everyone in the group. Sighing, she hoisted her own sensibly lightweight suitcase and flight bag.
"Never mind, Spike," she sighed. "Just take Cordelia's things out to the airport bus now, please."
"I dunno why everyone's picking on me. Hell, I-" Suddenly Monica started as a firm hand was placed on her shoulder and an even firmer masculine voice sounded just behind her. Alan Dubois, the handsome young tour director, had come to her aid, and from the way the boy jumped to obey his command she could see he was a good deal more experienced at dealing with teens than she was. Although she'd disapproved of the way he'd asked the youngsters to carry in duty-free alcohol and cigarettes for him, he did have a warm, friendly smile and the way he took her own heavy bags away from her was most gentlemanly. Monica liked men who were polite and respectful, even though she knew that her views were a bit old-fashioned.
"You handled that very well," she complimented shyly as they made their way through Orly's busy lobby toward the row of buses parked out in front. "I'm afraid I just don't seem to have the knack, Mr. Dubois."
The tall man grinned down at her, an irresistibly sunny smile which made his sun-bronzed face more attractive than ever and which caused Monica to relax even though strange males always made her feel very self-conscious and ill at ease. He seems really nice, she thought, and thank goodness for that, because the kids mostly are little terrors.
"You'll catch on soon enough," he reassured. "And don't call me 'Mr. Dubois', okay? Makes me feel like an old man! Even the kids on my tours call me 'Alan'."
Monica rather hoped they could continue their conversation on the bus so he could give her some useful pointers, but it was so crowded that she found herself squeezed next to an obese female World Worshiper while the director crouched on one of the fold-down seats in the back aisle. Her seatmate, a dishwater blonde who wore an expensive gold cross with her bulging jeans and oversized tee-shirt, appeared to be one of the few dedicated Christians among the group. None of the young chaperone's attempts to engage her in conversation brought much response, so she rather gratefully turned her attention to her first glimpse of Paris. It looked a good deal less romantic than she'd expected for the fabled "City of Light", but nevertheless she was too enthralled to be aware of the pair of intently burning male eyes behind her.
The owner of the interested brown eyes had to snap orders to the unruly, over-stimulated teens now and then, but he found plenty of time to study the shapely blonde who was to be his assistant on this particular three-week tour. What a piece of luck! he rejoiced silently, ignoring the industrial ugliness of the auto-route leading into Paris which he'd seen dozens of times before. And what a piece of ass! This is going to be one hell of an interesting three weeks .. .
CHAPTER TWO
The Hotel Modern was situated on a narrow alleyway located just off the Boulevard de Clichy, smack in the heart of the infamous Pigalle section of Paris. Even the least perceptive of the Sunday School pupils were ogling the pornography shops and tawdry striptease joints with avid curiosity, but Monica Blakesley was so enthralled by the cobblestones and corner bakery displaying long loaves of genuine French baguettes that the seedier aspects of the neighborhood quite escaped her attention. It was all exactly the way the travel brochures had promised!
Even after she'd lugged her luggage up the warped staircase and flung open the fly-specked window to find herself staring down at a shop window displaying a dusty collection of obscene books and magazines, her face still glow with childlike delight. Of course she didn't want to look at the nasty pictures, hut she considered herself broad-minded enough to accept that each country had its peculiar customs. In any case, the same glossy-covered publication seemed far more offensive lying on a newsstand in downtown Chicago than it did here, where it could be classified as local color. Feeling rather smug for having assumed this non-provincial, liberal attitude, she turned from the window and began changing out of her rumpled traveling costume into a lightweight pink cotton shirtwaist.
She'd failed to identify the buxom bottle-blonde poised hand on hip across the street as a hooker, even though the girl had approached a swarthy North African type and sauntered away down the street with him.
A shower would have felt wonderful-Paris was every bit as hot and humid as the Midwest-but the Hotel Modern provided only a tiny cold-water basin and an object shaped like a distorted toilet which she identified as a bidet from her knowledge of French literature. She turned away from the thing, embarrassed though she didn't quite know why, and gave herself a quick sponge bath.
As usual, she modestly refrained from looking at her high-set white breasts, or the golden-brown triangle of sparse pubic curls nestled between her full-fleshed thighs while washing.
Then, lips parted in an unconscious half-smile of excitement, she skipped down the steep stairs to join her young charges for their scheduled bus tour of the French capital. For twenty-two years she hadn't traveled further from her tiny hometown in Southern Illinois than Chicago, but now life was unfurling before her like ripples radiating from a pebble tossed into a wishing well and she knew she would be magically transformed from a shy country girl to a radiant, worldly-wise sophisticate. Long suppressed, inexpressible longings stirred inside her, misting her amber-brown eyes with tears so that she had to hesitate on the lowest landing to regain her composure before descending to face Alan Dubois and the rambunctious adolescents.
* * *
Alan Dubois' spirits were at least as high as his female assistant's as the group scrambled on board the big bus, despite his annoyance at having to play pious pacifier to another noisy bunch of kids-and this particular contingent seemed the most troublesome he'd encountered in his nine months on the job. He'd nothing to complain about, however: he'd neatly upped the balance of his secret Swiss bank account by booking the World Worshipers in dirt-cheap dives instead of the respectable hotels he'd cited on his official itinerary-budget; he knew a sexy French lady by the name of Francine with whom he had every intention of spending an erotic evening once the brats were bedded down for the night; and, as an unexpected bonus, his helpmate on the particular trip wasn't the usual sour-faced old maid with sagging breasts and soggy buttocks.
Yeah, she's a good-looking woman, all right, he reflected, tuning out the tape-recorder travel monologue which was blaring throughout the bus. Even in that dowdy school-marmish dress, you can't miss those superb tits and ass! Wonder what she'd look like writhing around on a bed just after she'd cum . . . hair all tangled and no more prim little smile, I bet! Well, I've got three weeks to find out. But tonight I'll ring up Francine and get the old pecker in practice with a real Paris-style fling!
Twelve hours later, the man's mood had switched to one of sullen gloom. What kind of red-blooded American male wanted to spend his sole night in Paris holed up in a grubby hotel room all alone with only 16 assorted bottles of best-quality booze for company? Not a guy like himself, an international swinger who'd made it with one hundred and thirty-three chicks in nineteen different countries, not counting his wife Gayle or the members of their swap club! Where the hell was Francine, anyway? He'd dropped her a postcard telling her to hold this night open for him . . .
"So what the fuck am I going to do now?" he muttered.
Perhaps a drink would help him make up his mind. Alan opened a bottled of Jack Daniels and rinsed out the smudged yellow plastic toothbrush glass, noting that the water looked distinctly rusty but deciding that the bourbon would counteract any contaminating substances it contained. Church bells chimed ten times; he'd try Francine's number once more, then give it up as a lost cause and go out alone before it was too late. Thanks to his detested job, he had to be up at the ungodly hour of seven tomorrow morning.
This time the receiver was picked up after the first ring, but the voice at the other end was shrill and clipped, quite unlike Francine's husky, provocative drawl. Her name was Marie-Claire, she chirped, and she was staying here to watch Fifi and Mouchette because Francine had gone to Martinique for a month to work as a secretary-companion for a traveling businessman.
He took a long gulp of the lukewarm drink. "Fifi and Mouchette .. .?" he asked blankly.
"Her poodle. And her Siamese."
"Oh." Even though bird-voice's way of speaking grated on his nerves, she couldn't be too bad if she were a friend of Francine's. Might as well ask her for a drink and see what happens ...
"Listen, Monsieur, I don't fall for that sort of trick twice!" her voice rose several octaves. "I'm not crazy!"
"Huh?
She switched into broken English. "I know of this telephone game from my experience. You men, you are crazy! You look on the phone number book and pick a name until you find someone like me who does not know how your face looks, and then you make the invitation. I have the experience! He invite me for dinner, and I must pay the bill because he is without money. Then he takes me home and .. . and molests me!"
"Gee, I'm sorry about that." It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard-so bizarre he suspected it must be true. "But look here, I'm not that sort of guy. I'm really Francine's old friend, and I'd just like to meet you because any friend of hers is a friend of mine. What do you say to some oysters in La Coupole-I'm 'fraid it's too late for dinner most other places now."
"I say-NO!"
The receiver at the other end banged down so hard that Alan's eardrums vibrated, and he slammed his own phone down with equal vehemence. "Bitch!" he snarled, pouring a second drink, and wandering over to the tiny window.
The streetlight was broken, but the narrow side street was still fairly light thanks to the numerous bars and illuminated sex shop windows and the full moon glowing high above the aged tenements. Arabian music issued from the nearest tavern, haunting minor tones which sounded most out of place in this setting, and some of the voices which floated up to his window spoke French with strong accents. All the females looked French ... they also looked very available.
"All I need to begin a lousy trip through France looking at churches is a case of the clap ..."
Alan considered the other possibilities for this evening. There were prettier, higher-priced colleagues of the girls down below hovering around the Champs Elysees-Avenue Foch area, but he disliked paying for what could be had for nothing. In fact, he was so tight with his money that he appreciated Francine almost as much for her home-cooked gourmet meals as for her sexual skills. But Francine was on some goddamn African island, so he had to think of something else . ..
Suddenly the sullen young tour director recalled an article about "Swinging European Capitals" which he'd read in PENTHOUSE some time ago, and he put through a call to Plainsfield, New Jersey, to ask his wife to hunt for the magazine. If he listed it as a business conversation, the suckers at Worldwide Worshipers would pick up the tab, just as they trustingly accepted such expense accounts items as "Business Dinner for Two at Maxims, FF 372,00". That was why he'd stuck with the job, even though he was no fan of either religion or young teens.
Across the Atlantic, the phone rang once, twice, ten times . . . Gayle was out, most likely with some man. For the second time that evening, Alan slammed down the receiver with a loud oath. It wasn't that he was jealous-he considered himself too modern to be plagued by such a Victorian hang-up, and besides the passion had faded from their marriage long ago-but he did resent the fact that she was having herself a good time while he was cooped up in this hideous hotel with sixteen boring brats and-
And Miss Monica Blakesley! Why hadn't he thought of her sooner? Within minutes he'd descended to the first floor where the girls were quartered and was knocking on her door. His smile faded rapidly.
"Said she wanted to take a walk," yawned the acne-scarred desk attendant from behind his tattered copy of something entitled "Les Femmes Sexy". "No place for a pretty Mademoiselle to promenade after dark, if you ask me."
"What did she say when you told her that?" Alan demanded.
The youth turned back to his magazine with a shrug. "I did not speak with her, Monsieur. It was not my place to interfere with Mademoiselle's desires."
Dubois shrugged too, and climbed back upstairs. Either his shapely assistant was incredibly naive, or else her prim exterior disguised a most audacious secret, self. He decided there was time for another bourbon before going out on the town .. . perhaps by then the mystifying Monica would have returned and they could get to know one another better . . . much better ...
* * *
As a language major planning a career as a high school French teacher, Monica was naturally Well-acquainted with the literature, history and culture of France. In fact, she'd read lots of books which weren't on the required reading lists, for something about the country had always intrigued her. Perhaps it was the striking contrast between the Gallic nation and the very conservative Illinois village of Orchardburg which had caught her fancy: smoky cafes where artists in berets and starving writers sipped coffee or wine and argued about Love and Life and Creativity, versus plump housewives gossiping at a kitchen kaffee-klatsch; haute couture and exotic perfumes, versus overalls and aprons; passionate poetry and romantic love songs, versus the Bible and the 6:00 a.m. Farm Report; lovers kissing on a bridge over the Seine after watching an art film instead of furtively groping at each other in the backseat during a drive-in movie.
Sometimes the young coed worried about her obsession with all things French, for she knew full well what her family, her divinity student boyfriend, and old Pastor Briggs would think of the reproductions of nudes and anecdotes about adultery in some of her textbooks. What would have bothered them especially was her unholy hunger to taste the Devil's temptations of luxury and "loose" living. Still, despite a certain amount of guilt, Monica clung to the daydreams which enlivened her rather dull existence in Orchardburg. After all, she rationalized, she didn't want to smoke cigarettes or get madly drunk on absinthe or elope with a penniless poet. . . she just wanted experience in a world where any exciting thing was possible.
And now she was actually experiencing! The mere thought was so electrifying that it sent a rash of goose bumps tingling along her bare arms and legs and temporarily blinded her to the unscenic squalor of Place Pigalle. Only when the loud babble of English, German, Spanish, Arabic, Scandinavian, and occasionally even French finally caught her notice did she begin to realize that the Paris she was exploring was quite different from the Paris of her dreams. Neon-glaring cafeterias, cafes, sleazy nightclubs, and pornography shops ringed the traffic-tangled square, each establishment crowded with customers who were obviously not Parisians. From something called "Le Grill" came a rancid grease odor disappointingly reminiscent of the Burger Chef back in Orchardburg which made Monica's stomach churn with nausea for a moment. Where were those quaint little bistros exuding an appetizing aroma of world-famous French cuisine, she wondered helplessly. And was this really the Montmartre where so many artists were supposed to live . . . these people certainly didn't look like artists to her.
A swarthy-complected man suddenly swayed against her, his hand accidentally--she hoped--brushing over her buttocks and sending a shudder slithering along her spine.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle. "He pushed his face right up next to hers as he spoke to half-suffocate her in a wave of garlic and onions. "I can perhaps have the pleasure of buying Mademoiselle a cafe?"
There was a look in the strange man's dark eyes which alarmed the American girl, even though she tried to tell herself she was acting ridiculous and that in Paris it was probably quite normal to invite someone for a coffee. It was the look of an animal . .. a hungry animal who'd just caught the scent of a hunk of raw meat. Instinctively she backed away, knocking an indignant German matron off the curb in her haste to escape.
"I don't speak French," she lied, then slipped away into the crowd.
Thank God he hadn't followed her! Nevertheless, she was still feeling uncomfortable and somewhat ill from the oppressive heat and smells and noise, and particularly from the wealth of obscenity which glared at her from every side. She tried to refrain from looking at the dildos and provocative lace underwear openly displayed in one window-was that really a pair of panties without any crotch? Oh, God!-only to find herself face-to-face with a huge photograph advertising the attractions of the striptease show inside. How could any girl ever let her picture be taken without any clothes on? she marveled, then hurriedly turned away for fear that someone would notice her looking at such filth and think she had a dirty mind, too. And maybe invite her for a coffee again . . .
Thinking things might be better if she turned off down a quiet side street, the bewildered blonde rounded the first corner she came to. There were still plenty of pedestrians, but at least she could catch her breath here . . . until she grew aware that most of the men and women were just sort of standing around, not walking anywhere in particular, and that they all stared at her as she passed. She hurried as fast as possible without being conspicuous toward the lights of another large boulevard ahead then headed into a cafe to try to regain her composure and to figure out just exactly where she was and how far she was from her destination, the beautiful Sacre-Coeur church they'd seen today during the bus tour. How lovely it must look by moonlight...
No sooner had she settled herself in an empty plastic booth and ordered a cafe au lait than two dark-haired young men slid in after her, one beside her and one across the beer-splattered table. For one horrible second she thought the one opposite was the man who'd asked her for a coffee earlier, but then she realized that he was just a similar Mediterranean type. Her instant of relief was short-lived, however, when she began wondering why they hadn't taken one of the empty booths and especially when she realized they had the same brutish glint in their eyes.
Monica stared fixedly at the stained table top while both males lit up rancid-smelling Gauloises and stared at her body with equal concentration. She could feel their eyes burning into her flesh like four red-hot daggers stabbing into her sensitive breasts, which for some reason had swollen and were throbbing uncomfortably against the cotton fabric of her sensible brassiere.
"Cigarette, Mademoiselle?" asked the one beside her. He pressed up so close to her that his thigh grazed hers as he thrust the blue package at her, and his breath reeked of garlic just as the first man's had. "You like cigarette with filter?"
By now, her nerves were too jangled to think to say that she didn't speak French and she only shook her head no, eyes still glued to the table. Why didn't that waiter hurry with her coffee so she could gulp it down and get out of here?
"You like American cigarette?" the other one got into the act. "Very good, very good!" He produced a pack of Camels, which he thrust against her hand, taking the opportunity to squeeze her fingers in his hot, clammy palm. "You like, yes?"
Her hand jerked down into her lap to tightly clasp her other hand. "I don't smoke," she managed to gasp, hoping she didn't sound as jittery as she felt. After all, they were harmless enough.
"Mademoiselle would like a drink?" persisted thigh-presser, who not only stank of his last meal, but also of perspiration and cheap after-shave lotion-a combination of odors which didn't help Monica's already queasy stomach. "I buy you a drink!"
"No ... thank you. I-"
As she raised her gaze at last, she saw the man's beady black eyes slanting into evil slits of resentment. Apparently she was not playing the pick-up game right, and he was starting to lose his temper. He leaned even closer, letting his arm graze the edge of her full breast and making her nipples harden and sting almost painfully, then let out a laugh of sorts.
"She doesn't smoke, she doesn't drink," he leered at his friend. "But I'll bet she likes to fuck. How about it, Mademoiselle"! Do you fuck?"
Monica honestly didn't understand the words, although the other boy's giggling reaction left no doubt that he'd said something obscene. For one thing, they spoke in accents totally different from anything she'd learned in her University French classes . . . and for another, they used words she'd never heard before despite her nearly straight "A" .language record.
"D-do I like to wh-what?" She suddenly wondered if they carried knives-they looked the type. "Ex-excuse me, but-"
Another chorus of depraved mirth. "Fuck!" snorted the one beside her, who'd pinioned her against the far side of the booth by how. "Fuck! You see, I speak the English. Do you like to fuck? For fifty francs you like to fuck us both?"
This was only the second time in her life Monica Blakesley had heard the profane word uttered aloud; the first occasion had been a high school pep rally when one of the two "bad boys" had shouted it at the top of his lungs through a microphone and had consequently been expelled. She felt as though she were about to faint, and almost wished she could just to escape from this humiliating situation. These disgusting creatures thought she was a prostitute! It was too dreadful to be true!
"She has an ass made for fucking, nice and round and tight. You like ass-fucking, Mademoiselle?"
Her head shook numbly back and forth, back and forth, but the sheltered small-town girl was simply too stunned to speak. To her horror, the Arabs misconstrued her gesture completely, and a wetly warm hand suddenly squeezed her bare leg below the hemline of her dress.
"We'll have a great time! We fuck you together okay-me in your ass, him in your cunt. At the same time, okay? One hundred francs at the same time!"
Suddenly something snapped inside the harassed young woman's brain. The North African's hand was clammily climbing right up under her skirt onto the most sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, while his hard-muscled arm rubbed against her equally tender breast-it was driving her insane. Clutching her handbag to the straining mounds of her breasts as though it were a protective shield, she leapt to her feet and forced her way past the surprised man. As she squeezed by, his bony knees dug against her upper legs in a humiliatingly intimate manner that made her want to scream, to hit him, to die.
"Fermez la boucheV she sputtered when she was clear of him. It wasn't much of an expletive-"close your mouth"-but it was the rudest thing she knew how to say in French.
And then she ran, or rather stumbled, out of the cafe, colliding with the waiter who'd finally arrived with her drink drenching him in hot coffee with milk. He began swearing at her, but by that time she'd already hailed the first passing taxi and never even noticed. She also neglected to note that the driver had failed to turn on his meter and charged her triple, for by now all she wanted to do was reach the privacy of her tiny room and huddle down under the covers.
Had Monica know what awaited her at the Hotel Modern, she'd have been a lot more reluctant to return . ..
CHAPTER THREE
The Hotel Modern boasted a vintage elevator large enough to hold about one and a half normal-sized persons plus a small suitcase, but it had broken down in June and the electrician had not yet arrived to repair it. A few days ago, the bare bulb illuminating the stair case had burned out, and although the desk clerk could easily have replaced it, he had no intention of undertaking this minor chore. The electrician was coming sometime next month, and no self-respecting Frenchman would put himself out to do someone else's work .. . especially considering that he was stuck here in the city while the electrician and hotel manager and his girl friend and at least two million other Parisians were enjoying their annual monthly holiday.
Monica, handicapped by the stinging tears which kept misting up her brown eyes, was unable to see the signs designating which floor she was on and was far too distracted to realize she'd climbed up one flight too many. Half-stumbling, she hastened toward the door at the far end of the corridor to the left, then came to an abrupt halt when she spied the crack of light under the door. How on earth could she have possibly been so careless? Wasting electricity-or anything else, for that matter-was a paramount crime in the Blakesley home, and she'd been so well-conditioned in habits of thrift that it seemed incredible she'd leave the lamp burning. Still, with all the excitement of finally being in Paris, she must have done so.
All excited. . . and for what? To be mauled and insulted like a common streetwalker, that was what! Monica's full lips tightened into a bitter line as she fished the oversized room key from her purse and inserted it in the rusty lock, and fresh tears pricked at the edges of her eyes.
The key went in, but it wouldn't turn. Monica tried again, exasperated because she was loath to face the desk clerk who'd given her such a curious stare when she'd come in, and then twisted the handle in case it had somehow jammed. It turned easily, but before she'd opened it more than an inch, she heard a sound that made her freeze in shock.
"Ooohhhh, Christ, Arlene, that's outta this world!" the eavesdropping Sunday school teacher recognized the voice of Spike Soderberg, although all she could see of the youngster was a pair of well-muscled legs shod in filthy sneakers. "You suck my prick so good I can't stand it!"
The reason Monica couldn't see Spike was that a completely naked young brunette was crouched over his head and torso in the most obscene posture the spying chaperone had ever imagined. From where she stood clutching the door jamb for support she had an alarmingly vivid view of Arlene Hixson's frizzy dark curls dancing up and down upon the tautened tendons of his upper thighs and of her lipstick-smeared mouth straining open to accept the boy's burgeoning penis. The girl's cosmetic-layered eyes were tightly shut, and her plump-pudding face twisted as though in the throes of some incredible frenzy.
The older woman knew that she either had to say something to stop this disgraceful display of unchristian indecency, or else shut the door and beat a hasty retreat; but a strange paralysis had seized her muscles, and they refused to move in response to the commands of her conscience. If she let this immoral depravity go unchecked, she'd be sinning by omission and would be at least as guilty as the corrupt couple in the eyes of the Lord .. . more guilty, even, since she was older and had been delegated the responsibility for their spiritual well-being. On the other hand, if Arlene should happen to open her eyes and find herself staring straight at her chaperone, every child in the tour group would be whispering that Miss Blakesley was a peeping Tom.
Of course I'm not a sick-minded voyeur, she told herself frantically as she made another unsuccessful effort to budge her traitorous limbs. I don't want to see this ugliness! I don't! And in fact, the twenty-two year-old virgin was so innocent that she honestly didn't understand the significance of the dampening patch in her panty crotch band or the churning sensation in the pit of her belly.
"Oouugghhh!" gurgled the incorrigible adolescent in a cock-muffled voice. "Yeah, yeah, like that! Kiss my cunt, Spike! Lick it! Liiiiccckkkk it deee-eppppppp! Oooohhhhhhhh!"
No! It wasn't possible! Monica's shock-stiffened face blanched white as chalk, then blushed a fiery shade of scarlet as she realized what the purpose behind their peculiar posture really was. Not only was the fifteen year-old schoolgirl sucking Spike Soderberg's erected phallus deep into her wide-stretched mouth, but she was allowing him to do unspeakable things to her own most private flesh.
The most amazing thing of all was that the little girl obviously loved every minute of this bestiality!
"Little girl" . . . what was she thinking, anyway? When she herself had graduated from Orchardburg Junior High, she'd certainly been a mere child, breasts the size of two half-lemons, hips as flat as a boy's, and long, spindly legs with knobby knees protruding above the woolen knee socks Mother had insisted she wear to school in the winter. Even the girls in her class who'd already developed womanly figures hadn't gone beyond the stage of crushes on movie stars, or at most playing Spin the Bottle at occasional boy-girl birthday parties. Nothing else would have been tolerated in the largely Fundamentalist community, and it was only when the sixteen-year olds won their drivers licenses and gained some degree of freedom that the "wild crowd" could begin experimenting with sex. Monica had never really known just what the "bad boys" and "fast girls" were up to, for she wasn't a member of their gang.
But these kids were a different breed, that much was blatantly obvious. When she'd read about oral intercourse in the Family Health course which was required for Education majors at college, she'd been so embarrassed that she'd skimmed through the short section without her normal conscientious note-taking. After all, normal people surely didn't do things like that . . . just uneducated slum dwellers, or perverted sex maniacs. Now, watching the fifteen-year-olds lick and slurp delightedly at each other's obscenely exposed genitals, the astounded Sunday school teacher felt as though two generations instead of a mere seven years separated her from her students.
Even as these turbulent thoughts careened through her boggled brain, Monica-though she'd never have admitted this for the world-found her initial revulsion gradually being replaced by a certain prurient curiosity. This was the first time she'd ever actually seen a male penis except in scientifically sterile textbook illustrations, and she was simultaneously appalled and fascinated by its thick-veined girth and by the two heavy testicles bouncing rhythmically against the girl's saliva-speckled chin. If a young teen's thing was this enormous, what was a grown man's thing like? Suddenly she thought of her boyfriend, Gene, and blushed again, for somehow she'd never thought of him in that way before now.
"Aaahhh . . . ooohhhh . . . uuuhhhh . . ." Spike's groans were growing more and more inhuman by the second as the girl's ovaled lips pumped furiously from the mushroom-shaped tip of his cock all the way down to his swaying balls. It was impossible to catch more than a brief glimpse of what he was doing with his mouth because Arlene's ripe-melon breasts were blocking the view, but from the way her cosmetic-smeared face contorted in pleasure it was obvious she was experiencing sensations more powerful than the watching woman had ever dreamed of.
Was this the sort of thing those two vile strangers in the cafe had wanted to do to her . . . ?
Remembering that humiliating incident suddenly brought Monica to her senses and she shuddered in shame for having stood here so long gaping at this sinful debauchery. She started to shut the door, but before it was closed she heard Spike's frenzied scream and peered in again for one last look.
Thick jets of cream-white sperm splattered over the moaning schoolgirl's cock-swollen cheeks, even though her Adam's apple worked up and down furiously in an effort to swallow his spurting male seed, and from the grotesque noises she was making it sounded as though she were gagging on the endless flow of cum. Unable to take any more, she slid her mouth from the exploding penis with a lewd slurping sound and let his semen splash over her eyes, her forehead, her throat, her tangled chestnut curls. Monica pulled the door closed with hands that shook like leaves in a gale and leaned her burning forehead against the wall of the corridor. For the second time that evening, she wondered if she were going to faint.
Surprisingly enough, the Hotel Modern's paint-peeling walls were practically soundproof. All Monica could hear now were muffled mewls and whimpers, sounds so inaudible that only someone who'd seen the salacious spectacle inside would have noticed them. She had witnessed the children's crude carnality, however, and the faint noises hammered at vicious volume inside her throbbing temples.
It seemed hours before her bones stopped feeling like unset jelly and the obscene echoes faded from her head. Suddenly she remembered her Duty, and guilt swept over her in tidal waves of demoralizing self-disgust. Those nice, dedicated Chritians back at the World Worshipers office in the States were paying her-and paying her rather well, too-to keep a judicious eye on the spiritual health of these innocent adolescents--and here she'd let them down on her very first day on the job! It was her responsibility to nip Spike and Arlene's outrageous immorality in the bud, but instead she'd stood there gaping like a sick-minded peeping Tom.
"But I can't go back in there!" Her breath caught in a constricted sob as she whispered aloud to the empty corridor. "After seeing the nasty things they did, I just can't face them . . . and what if they're still naked or doing something even dirtier?
On the other hand, she couldn't j ust go to bed with this on her conscience. There was only one solution; mortifying though it would be, she'd have to ask tour leader Alan Dubois to deal with this serious breach of Christian propriety since she herself was incapable of handling the situation.
Still trembling, still suffused with a strange heat, the conscientious Sunday school teacher propelled her reluctant loins down to the far end of the hall and rapped softly on her superior's door. She more than half-hoped he wouldn't be in ...
CHAPTER FOUR
"Well, well! If it isn't the very gal I was looking for!" Smiling broadly, Dubois held the door open and gestured Monica inside. "And just in the nick of time, too."
The girl stared at him blankly for a moment, and then paranoia broke through her confusion and her brown eyes grew wide and afraid as a wild fawn. Had he been looking for her and seen her watching, was that what he meant? Oh, God! Her summer--no, her whole life!--was falling around her head in ruins before it even began!
In her acute distress, she entirely failed to notice the sweet-sour bourbon scent on Dubois' breath, or the barely perceptible slur in his hearty voice.
"I stopped by your room earlier to see if you'd like to go out on the town with me, but the kid down at reception said you'd gone out." He took her arm and led her into his room when she remained frozen in the doorway, not at first noticing her stricken expression in his effort to come across as a jet-setting man of the world. "Want to join me for a late supper now? After, we can see some real nightlife d la Paris. I happen to know some pretty great spots."
Even when Monica finally comprehended that her boss hadn't been accusing her of peeping, she was still too flustered to control her overwrought-nerves. Her voice caught in her throat as she started to stammer, "I-uh, Mr. Du-Dubois ... I can't-I don't-I mean, I've got to . . ."
Alan shot her a sharp glance. There were feverish red spots on her high cheekbones although the rest of her face was bone-china white, her eyes were-un-naturally glassy, and her breathing was so ragged that her full young breasts thrust spasmodically against the thin cotton of her high-necked blouse. Was she so shy that a casual dinner invitation sent her spinning into such a state, he wondered. He was just vain enough to half-consciously decide that the shapely schoolteacher must have a violent crush on him.
"Awh, come on, Monica! Cafeteria chow'll do for the kids-if they're like most groups, they're gonna spend the next three weeks bitching 'cause they can't get a hamburger and a shake, so it doesn't make any difference what you feed them. But that's no reason we should pass up a meal in the food capital of the world!"
"I-I'm really not hungry, Mr. Dubois, I j-just-"
"Oh, come along anyway-you'll feel an appetite when you smell that good cuisine cooking, I bet," Dubois interrupted. He was putting on his suit jacket and checking his wallet for credit cards, as though everything was all decided. "And hey, didn't we decide you'd call me Alan? No need for formality among friends."
If only he'd stop talking and let her get a word in edgewise! She simply wanted to tell her embarrassing story and then flee to the privacy of her room.
"Please, Mr.-uh, Alan! You've got to listen to me!" Her voice rang too shrill in her own ears, and she drew a deep breath to steady it. "Something dreadful's happened!
Alan stared at her again. Was she ill, perhaps? "Hey, what's the matter, Monica?" he asked solicitously, easing her down onto his bed. "Don't you feel well-you look awfully pale?"
Without realizing what he was doing, the man had switched from his role of debonair playboy cautiously stalking virgin to one of almost fatherly sympathizer. Though there were many who called Alan Dubois a hypocrite thanks to his talent for changing character to suit his own selfish interests, Monica wasn't one of them. Innocently, instinctively, she began to relax.
"No, no, I'm not sick," she managed the ghost of a smile. "It's just that I feel sort of-uh-dizzy. You see-"
"Drink's what you need to bring the color back to those cheeks!" Alan interrupted again. "I know just the thing to fix you up in no time flat!"
She tried to explain that she really didn't much care for alcohol-it sounded altogether too prudish to say that she honestly didn't feel it was right for a church group chaperone to consume liquor-but he merely laughed and continued mixing the contents of several different bottles into the toothbrush glass. It seemed ungrateful to argue when he was being so kind to her; besides, drinking as medicine was entirely different from drinking to grow intoxicated. Even Grandma Blakesley had prescribed hot toddies for spring colds, hadn't she .. .
The Black Russian tasted so good it was easy to pretend it didn't contain anything more powerful than a drop or two of Grannie's homemade spirits. When she looked up at Dubois, her full lips were parted in a nearly normal smile.
"You were right-this does calm me down," she took another sip. "I do feel better, and I'm sorry I was such a nuisance. It's just that something happened I think you have to know about, because I don't know wh-what to do . . ."
As she spoke, a larger-than-life image of Spike's pulsating red penis lunging in and out of his girl friend's saliva and male fluid slickened lips rose before her mind's eye. She began quivering again, finished her Black Russian in a nervous swallow, and nearly jumped out of her skin as the man beside her laid a paternal hand on her bare shoulder.
"Did something happen on your walk?" he asked. 'This isn't the best neighborhood to go strolling around in-guess I ought to have warned you."
For the first time in many minutes Monica remembered the humiliating incident with the North Africans. A blush spread over her face, and she grew hopelessly tongue-tied as she fiddled with her empty glass. Alan, watching her closely, made a fairly accurate guess as to what had happened and noted with lecherous delight that the girl was physically excited without realizing it. Here was one hell of a situation to capitalize on!
"Come on, let's go have that dinner." He really wasn't very hungry anymore, but there was only one toothpaste glass and he was thirsty. "You can tell me about it over a good bottle of French wine."
* * *
It required a couple glasses of Beaujolais before Monica's inhibitions evaporated enough for her to stammer a heavily edited account of the lurid cock-sucking scene she'd stumbled upon. Much to her astonishment, he wasn't the least bit shocked or angry. In fact, he actually laughed aloud as he refilled their wine glasses and signaled the waiter that they were ready to order.
"My God, Monica, from the way you were carrying on I thought something really serious had happened!"
"I think it's serious enough! That little girl's only fifteen, and she's got no business even knowing about dirty things like that. You can't mean you approve?!"
Dubois saw he'd made a tactical error, and swiftly sought to rectify this indiscretion. Shit, he didn't want to spoil a good thing just when little Miss Goodie-Goodie was unwittingly starting to feel the effects of the booze he was pouring into her.
"Of course not!"
"I certainly hope not! What would World Worshipers think about that?"
The waiter was hovering above them, pen poised over his order pad, so the argument had to be postponed until he'd ordered escargots and veal escallops a la creme for both of them. In this interval Monica began to regret her angry outburst and to worry what had come over her. She never talked back to people, particularly people who were in a position of authority, and she certainly didn't want to alienate kind Mr. Dubois . .. uh, Alan .. . before their joint trip had begun. Now he would think she was a silly, immature college girl who didn't know the first thing about life.
Which I am, I suppose, she thought in a rush of self-inadequacy. But I don't want to be that way. . . she took another fortifying gulp of wine; its rich fruity taste was so refreshing, so light, that she never thought to associate it with her uneven mood.
"I'm sorry," she murmured as the white-jacketed waiter left their candlelit corner table. "I didn't mean to snap like that. It's just that I feel a responsibility . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized she was sounding like a prig again.
Alan was all smooth smiles. "I just think you should look at things sensibly, my dear. Fifteen year olds from suburbia are pretty sophisticated these clays, you know, and it's not unusual for them to-uh-experiment with their budding sexuality. This doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing, either. Have you read the new book by Reverend Gordon Thesander, I wonder?"
As she shook her head no, he congratulated himself on this stroke of genius. Must have been all that first-rate Jack Daniels that inspired the invention of the good Reverend! And here came the snails, fragrant and sizzling in their garlic and herb butter, to provide food for both body and creative invention! He called for another bottle of Beaujolais-Village.
Good Dr. Gordon Thesander's avant-garde theories about the compatibility of spiritual and physical love carried them all the way through the coffee and liqueur, and by the time they were once again out on the street trying to hail a taxi, Monica realized that deep in her heart she'd carried doubts about the strict Fundamentalist dogma preached in her hometown parish. She also realized she was feeling extremely dizzy, and caught herself giggling at things that weren't really especially funny . . . yet she was still unaware how intoxicated she actually was. In the cab, when Alan's arm snaked around her shoulders, she allowed it to rest there despite a spasm of guilty discomfort. After all, Thesander said bodily contact was an important tool for touching another person's soul . . . and hadn't she longed for deeper communication all through her lonely adolescence ...
The scheming church school tour director gently, very gently kneaded the satin-smooth flesh of the girl's warm upper arms, and his penis jerked into eager alertness as she quivered slightly beneath his touch. All during the meal he'd been bothered by the way his incipient erection strained against his tight-crotched French trousers, and now the titillating tension was so extreme that he decided it was time to drop the subject of avant-garde Christianity in favor of more personal topics. All this talk about tactile contact and passion being God's message of love and so forth, combined with his earlier fantasies about the delectable Francine and his detailed recreation of the scene Monica had described between the teenagers, was putting him in a mood for some immediate satisfaction.
"Look at the lights on the Seine," he inched closer, letting his taut-muscled thigh press her softer, feminine leg as he whispered against the clean-smelling silk of her baby-fine hair. "Paris is so romantic at night, don't you think? Look, there's an almost-full moon hanging over the Eiffel Tower . . ."
Monica swung around to look, giving Dubois the chance to ease his hand around to the side of her firm, melon-round right breast. It felt warm under his stroking fingers, even though she was wearing one of those goddamn heavy-duty brassieres that he loathed, and a fantasy of her naked figure turned him on so much that he gave the luscious mound a hungry squeeze.
The young girl didn't seem to notice his attentions. "Oh, yes!" she breathed, staring in romantic rapture at the glowing lamplights on the Pont Alexandre. "This is the way I knew Paris would be-not like that horrible Place Pigalle with all those nasty shops and people like those two Arabs who ..."
"Paris is a city where you should be with someone you care about, someone who understands you . .."
For several moments he waxed poetic, not noticing that she'd broken off her speech in a gasp until he perceived that her body had grown rigid and that she was pulling away from him toward the far corner of the lurching cab. Crap! he thought. He was going too fast, scaring her away. Jesus Christ! Tonight he wasn't in a mood to have to sweet-talk a chick into the sack, and he'd hoped the liquor and lecture would have resolved that problem by now.
The instant Monica had recalled the swarthy North Africans who'd tried to pick her up, she'd felt the hand squeezing her breast, the leg pressing her skirt-protected upper leg. Just exactly the way that greasy Arab had touched her! Was it possible that Mr. Dubois, despite the fact that he seemed so very cultured and intelligent, was harboring the same lewd ideas? She didn't want to believe that of him, but all the same she was heartily grateful to see that the taxi was pulling to a stop in front of the Hotel Modern.
In an effort to re-ingratiate himself, Alan helped her from the car with old-world gallantry and made mindless noises about how he'd have a man-to-man talk with Spike. What a naive little sucker this Blakesely dame was! He felt her arm relax in his, heard the relief in her voice, and his pulse quickened and penis hardened in optimistic anticipation.
"Would you like to borrow Reverend Thesander's book, Monica?" he stopped her before she continued up the next flight to the girl's floor. "It's something I really think you ought to read . .. something that'll help you deal with the kids better."
Monica hesitated; she was really very tired by now, and after having stumbled three times on the steps she was unwillingly having to admit that she'd drunk a good deal more than she ought. Still, when he put it like that, it didn't seem possible to say no without acting as though she had no interest in her job.
"That would be nice," she said in her prim, schoolteacher voice, then hiccuped. "But I'm afraid I'm too sleepy to read it tonight," she added hastily, hoping he'd not noticed the image-destroying sound.
"Well, let me dig it out of my bag now, while we're thinking of it. And I've got some super stuff to drink that'll keep you from having a hangover tomorrow."
"Oh, I feel so ashamed for having drunk so much!" They were back in Dubois' room, she hunched against the wall by the door like a guilt-stricken schoolgirl while he fixed two drinks in the glasses he'd lifted from the restaurant. "It's disgusting! I promise you I'll never do it again!"
Dubois laughed as he handed her the "anti-hangover" elixir, a mildly sweet but very potent concoction of his own invention. "That's just the kind of promise I don't want," he said, pulling her down onto the creaking bed beside him. "You know what your trouble is, Monica?"
She bit her lip, feeling suddenly like a stupid sixteen year old instead of a supposedly mature college graduate. It was an unpleasant sensation, and she heartily wished she were a different girl, one who could toss back flippant, flirtatious banter instead of blushing.
"You're too inhibited, that's what. How can you enjoy life to the full when you're afraid of living, really living, I mean? Hell, good wine's one of the world's greatest gifts. Even in the goddamn Bible-remember the story about Jesus turning water into wine?
It was impossible to argue with such airtight logic, though Monica did think it unlikely that the founder of her religion had overindulged in homemade spirits. Still, now she thought about it. her parents' and Pastor Briggs' taboo against alcohol didn't make much sense. The way they carried on, you'd think there was an eleventh commandment stating: "Thou shalt not allow a drop of liquor to pass thy lips."
Even the communion "wine" back in Orchardburg was really Welch's grape juice . . .
"I ... I guess you're probably right, Alan. Sometimes I feel like-like I haven't really started to live yet, and that's why I was so excited to get this summer job in France." Suddenly she broke off with a nervous giggle. "Wine must be a good thing-it's sure loosened my tongue. I never talk like this with strangers!"
He leaned down, slipping one arm around her shoulder, the other hand resting on her bare knee, their faces nearly rubbing noses in an Eskimo-style kiss. "Do you really think of me like that-as a stranger?"
Monica was immediately contrite. Not realizing that the unsuccessful ex-actor's hurt expression and mournful eyes were assumed purely to arouse her sympathy, she felt guilty for having hurt his feelings. And indeed, she did find it far easier to talk to him than she did with Gene back home whom she'd known practically all her life ...
"N-no," she stammered in embarrassment. "I-I only m-meant..."
Dubois interrupted in a low, emotion-laden tone that matched the intense glow in his eyes. "The way I feel about it is that there's some people who click the minute they meet. .. people who were destined to be close friends. Do you know what I mean, Monica?"
"Oohhh ..." No one had ever said anything like that to her before! Quite unconsciously, the young blonde translated his words to mean, "falling in love" and a series of peculiar sensations began surging through her love-starved loins. "Oh, yes..."
She felt simultaneously warm and secure in having won the admiration of such a sophisticated and handsome older man, and flushed and trembled with an inexplicably feverish excitement. Outside in the neon-splashed darkness, the bells of the Sacre Coeur cathedral chimed midnight. This sure has been the craziest day of my life, her mind whirled dizzily.
If the innocent college girl had had even the slightest inkling of what the new day had in store for her, she'd never have dared accept the second drink Dubois offered her ... nor would she have allowed his arm to snake around and ever so lightly graze her left breast.
CHAPTER FIVE
Back in the taxicab, Monica had been offended and frightened by Alan's fingers gliding over the sensitive mounds of her breasts; but now, after his tender comments and two more strong drinks, she found herself in the grips of a series of weird but not at all unpleasant sensations. His hand on her never-before-fondled breast touched off a trigger which sent red-hot needles of electric excitement shooting from her involuntary erecting nipples to the tips of her toes, and as the warm vibrations concentrated in the intimate flesh beneath her cotton panties she couldn't help squirming a little on the edge of the hotel bed.
The strange reactions of her still-unawake body should have served as a warning that she was letting herself in for a situation she wasn't ready to handle, but she was too naive to recognize what was going on. Besides, as she glanced out of the corners of her doe-like brown eyes at the man seated beside her, she was too preoccupied to think about her body.
Alan Dubois wasn't actually handsome, at least not in the classic Hollywood star sense. At thirty-one a decade of wine, women and worries was starting to take its toll of wrinkles, broken veins, sagging jowls and softening belly, and even six years ago when he'd still made decent money modeling jockey shorts and shaving cream for magazine advertisements his clean-cut boyish good looks had been marred by a certain uneven slant to his features and a pair of unusually large and obtrusive ears. He was a vain man, though, and had successfully de-emphasized the ears by means of continental-type sideburns, his spreading stomach by a tailor-made London suit. His ambivalent gray eyes were made more interesting by a pair of brown tinted contact lenses, and although his hair was a drab shade of brown it was thick and stylishly cut.
Monica decided his craggy face had character, and the elephant ears reminded her of her favorite movie star, Donald Sutherland. A mental comparison with Gene Puddocky back in Southern Illinois placed Dubois far ahead as far as looks were concerned. The strange thing was that although always-helpful Gene had driven her to the airport only some forty-eight hours before, she couldn't seem to conjure up a clear image of his face. All that she could really remember about the serious-minded divinity student were thick bifocals, a prematurely receding hairline, and the bleached-white tone of skin which seldom left the library to catch the sun.
Her gaze rose timidly to Alan's face-he had an admirable tan, thanks to a sunlamp and lotions, which gave him a deceptively athletic air. Then their eyes locked and she turned back to her drink in confusion, shivering slightly.
What in heaven's name would Gene think if he could see me now, she wondered, and giggled under her breath. Half-drunk, sitting on a strange man's hotel bed in the early hours of the morning... it was scandalous, but she felt adventurous and free. I don't care what Gene or Daddy or anyone else thinks-I'm having fun! She told herself, and even when Dubois' finger-tips caressed along the forbidden mounds of smooth flesh beneath her bodice she didn't try to inch away.
"Penny for your thoughts ...?"
She shook her head, once again overcome with shyness. Really, she shouldn't let him squeeze her arm and breast like that, but she didn't quite know how to tell him to stop. And anyway, it felt sort of good ...
"You know, Monica, you could be a magnificent woman," his breath brushed against her ear. "Right now you're one hell of a pretty gal, but if you weren't so scared of everything. Just take the way you're sitting, all hunched over, so's no one can see what a fantastic figure you've got. And those school-teacher type clothes. How come a beautiful young chick like you wants to dress like her Grandma, honey?"
"My cl-clothes?" she gaped at him uneasily. "What's wrong with them? And . . . and I am a schoolteacher, or at least I will be come September."
"Hey, don't get uptight," he smiled, then ran his hand over the ripe swells of her breasts in a way that couldn't possibly be construed as casual. "All I mean is you shouldn't be ashamed to show you're a woman. This dress here isn't so bad, but that navy blue number you wore on the plane was the kind of thing that no guy would look at twice. Aren't you proud of your body-you sure ought to be!"
Monica stared down at her simple pink shirtwaist with its high-buttoned neckline and knee-length skirt. Well, maybe it was a little too big; she'd bought a size 38 instead of 36 because the latter had been so tight across the top that the middle button came open when she moved her arms. Anyway, she thought, I'm not interested in having men leer at me on the street. It was ugly enough the way those Arabs treated me tonight-think what might have happened if I'd been wearing a mini-skirt or something.
"Yes, a beautiful body . . . beautiful. . ."
This was really going too far! His hands were squeezing her breasts as if they were cantaloupes on display in a market stall, and he'd moved so close that he was practically sitting on top of her.
"Al-Alan, I . . . wish you wouldn't . . . please .. ."
"Wouldn't what?" His face was open, innocent. "Don't you like to be told you're beautiful?"
"Wouldn't t-t-touch me like th-that..."
"Why not? Remember when we were talking about Reverend Theasander? Remember what he said about people's bodies being a reflection of their souls? And don't tell me you don't like the way it feels!"
"Please!" Monica broke away to huddle at the head of the bed, and suddenly all the emotional excitement of the evening was too much for her and she broke into tears.
In a second the older man was beside her, enveloping her sob-shuddering figure in the comforting circle of his muscular arms and murmuring soothingly into her tousled blonde curls. By shifting his leg a fraction of an inch he found he could press the aching thickness of his turgid penis against the firm flesh of her upper leg and give his impatiently hardening cock some much-needed relief. As he'd surmised, the girl was too upset to notice his indiscretion.
Christ! he swore silently. Can't we cut the dramatics now and get on with the action? If I have to wait much longer I'm gonna go out of my ever-loving mind and rape the sexy broad! It's not fair that any chick with a body like a keg of dynamite is too uptight to know what to do with it!
Gradually the girl's sobs began to subside and her body relaxed against the hard loins of her comforter. Dubois's heart and penis leapt with eager anticipation when he felt her relax, but he reminded himself to take things slow and easy. If he played his cards right, he'd have a willing bedmate for the rest of this trip!
"Monica," he whispered gently "Listen, sweetheart, I want to help you learn how wonderful your lovely body is. . . learn that touching's the best thing in the world. Now you just lie down and relax."
He slid her down against the flat pillow, delighted that she made no protest. "We're real friends, Monica. Friends in our minds . .. and in our bodies. Friends are for helping each other, and now I'm going to help you become a woman. Okay, Monica? Monica? Monica .. .? Oh, goddamn it to hell!"
The alcohol had done its work all too well; the girl was passed out cold.
For a moment the lust-maddened man hesitated, hazy vestiges of ethics tempering the urgency of his desire. It was one thing to seduce an innocent college girl, after all, and quite another to take advantage of her while she was unconscious. What if she came to and started screaming or something?
That'd be the end of road on easy street with World Worshippers, and he wouldn't put it past the French flics to throw him in jail.
"Goddamn!" he swore again. "How the hell could anyone pass out on what she had to drink, anyhow? Went at her wine like a sparrow pecking at a bird-bath and only had one of those sissy fruit deals afterward instead of good cognac like I suggested. And she didn't even finish her second drink here."
He finished it for her, then stood up to fetch the bourbon bottle. On the way back to the bed, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign outside and very carefully double-locked the door from the inside. All this was accomplished with one hand, the other being occupied with massaging the painful protuberance in his tailored trousers.
Monica was still lying just as he'd left her, hair fanned out over the scruffy brown bedspread like a spun-gold halo, long legs sprawled apart just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her white cotton panty crotch band. As she breathed, the perfectly rounded globes of her breasts strained against the front of her dress, and his hand pumped along in tempo with their rise and fall. Suddenly he thought of his French girl friend, Francine; her breasts weren't nearly as spectacular as Monica Blakesley's, but she liked him to rub his cock between then until it grew rock-hard and finally spewed its thick cream-white load over her breasts and throat and face . . .
The erotic remembrance flared his passion to a frustration-heightened fever pitch. Panting like a dog who'd scented a bitch in heat, he eased down to his knees beside the narrow bed and began undoing the buttons running from hem to collar along the front of her short-sleeved cotton dress. Inch by inch, the body he'd been undressing in imagination all evening was presented to his glassy, greedy eyes, and Dubois dimly realized that his arousal was all the more intense because he was feasting on forbidden flesh without her knowledge or consent.
"Jesus Christ!" he rasped as the last button left its hole and he flicked the fabric to either side of her body. "What a body!"
Monica was built even more sensuously than he'd expected, with hips and thighs that were extravagantly feminine despite her slender bone structure and satin-smooth skin without a trace of blemish or stretch marks. If only she weren't wearing those God-awful white cotton panties and bra, she'd have looked like a flesh-and-blood PLAYBOY centerfold. How the hell was he going to get the things off without waking her? he asked himself. He'd come to the conclusion that it was best if she didn't wake till he'd gotten her good and turned on.
"Yeah, you cock-teasing bitch!" he chuckled under his breath. "You're gonna find out what happens to little girls who go around passing out in other people's beds before giving them a chance to get to first base. Wait'll you find out what sexy dreams you're in for . . "
As he chuckled to himself Alan was reaching in his pocket for his Swiss pocket knife, an elaborate instrument with numerous tiny tools unfolding from its handle. He clicked down a miniature pair of shears and with another demonic chuckle neatly snipped his voluptuous victim's brassiere just between the cups to free the splendid spheres of her ivory-white breasts. Even without the supporting garment they stood straight up from her gracefully tapered torso, their raspberry-pink tips pointing straight toward the paint-peeling ceiling of the shabby Paris hotel room.
Next for the panties. Two swift cuts at their sides and there was the softly curled triangle of her pussy hair nestled between her firm-fleshed thighs and flat young belly.
"Real yellow cunt hair!" whistled Dubois. "How about that! Never saw that before!"
By now the married man was too excited to remember to keep his voice down, and just as he'd tugged her legs apart to reveal a tempting trace of coral pink vagina and was getting ready to grab hold of her delectable breasts Monica began to come to. A sound midway between a moan and a purr bubbled from her throat as her head lolled sideways and her legs quivered in response to their repositioning, but to Alan's relief her eyes remained shut. He paused, acutely conscious of the blood throbbing through his aching thickness, his hungry hands hovering in hesitation above the opulent orbs of her nakedly exposed breasts with the pocket knife still clenched between his fingers.
He must, he decided, be one hell of a lot drunker than he'd thought he was. For a start, the very idea of molesting prim Miss Blakesley while she slept was insane; the risks far outweighed the rewards, and he firmly believed in avoiding all games where the odds were stacked against him. And then there were these crazy fantasies that kept careening through his brain . . . Oh, he often imagined erotic incidents-they helped him keep his hard-on at swap club parties or with his wife whom he no longer found very exciting, and after all he was an ex-actor-but this was something different. Tonight he wasn't in control of the dreams. They rose spontaneously from some deep-seated part of his soul, and even though he considered himself a fully liberated man the imaginings struck him as bizarre, almost perverted.
The girl was a vestal virgin chained to a marble altar, and he was the all-powerful pagan god with a mighty foot-long phallus ... or he was a barbarous Viking raider butchering men with his saber before ravishing their wailing women with his merciless flesh weapon ... or he was a six-foot Black stud armed with switchblade and shotgun sneaking into the dormitory of some ritzy girls' boarding school to help himself to some high-class virgin ass ...
"Uuhhh .. . mmgghhh . .."
Faint mumbles from the nubile naked blonde brought Dubois back down to reality with a jolt, and as he watched her for signs of wakefulness he realized he'd made up his mind to fuck her and damn the consequences. Damn everyone and everything-hotel personnel, snooping teens, those stuffed shirt pilgrims back at the World Worshipers' office who paid his salary. Damn the cops even, for no punishment they could possibly inflict on him could be more painful than the torture of foregoing the flesh feast so enticingly laid out before him.
The knife clattered unheeded from his fingers to the floor as he spread his palms to grasp two overflowing handfuls of warm, milk-white breasts. Sweat droplets broke out on his brow and dribbled in slow rivulets over his forehead and into his eyes, but he couldn't tear his hands away from the smooth-skinned twin mounds to wipe his face. Firm yet pliant flesh yielded to his kneading fingers, and though he wasn't by nature a sadistic lover, the sensation was so arousing that soon he was squeezing them far more fiercely than he realized.
"Aaahhh . . .," Monica's body twitched, and her attacker's titillating fingers vanished instantly from her breasts. Then her head lolled toward the wall so that her cries were muffled into the pillow and he had to lean over to ascertain if she were still unconscious.
For a long minute he knelt unmoving beside her on the bed, hands frozen in midair where he'd hastily withdrawn them, but as soon as he was sure he hadn't awakened her he grew furious with himself. What was he-a man or a mouse? What the hell if she did wake up and freak out? He'd have her dancing like a puppet soon as he got her motor warmed up with his talented tongue, anyhow. If he wasn't capable of keeping a hundred-twenty pound college chick in hand, he might as well give up right now.
Nevertheless, it was only sensible to recognize that he'd be much safer to get her turned on while she was still unaware of what was happening. Alan always considered it bad policy to push his luck too far, and if he were careful he could have his cake and eat it too-real living and breathing cheesecake of the finest quality around! Nothing cowardly about being realistic, he assured himself as he cautiously approached his curvaceous captive.
The twin mounds of her magnificent breasts focused dizzily before his lust-glazed eyes. Two giant-size vanilla ice cream cones with bright crimson cherries on top, he mused, and licked his lips greedily before dipping down for a taste of the cream-white flesh. Just as his watering mouth closed around the succulently soft skin, he noticed the faint prints of his fingers on her resilient flesh and his cock arched into an achingly immense full erection in response to some hitherto largely latent streak of sadism.
At first he only dared to lap and kiss her gently pulsating breasts with feather-soft flickers of his lips and tongue, but it wasn't more than a few seconds before passion overcame prudence and he was nibbling furiously on the tiny pink buds of her nipples. They puckered and tautened at once, telltale evidence of her unconscious arousal, and she sighed in her sleep and smiled faintly, as though in the midst of a most pleasurable dream.
Fascinated by the way he could control her physical reactions like an obscene puppeteer, he trailed his lips up over her gracefully sculpted neck in a slithering wet ribbon of kisses. Christ, her skin was soft as a baby's . . . and she smelled like a baby, too, a fresh and innocent odor reminiscent of soap and water and wild meadow flowers and half-forgotten memories. Odd how much more arousing her girlish simplicity was than the array of provocative perfumes and paints which his wife squandered a small fortune on .. .
Alan nuzzled his face into her soft corn silk curls in order to tease at the delicate pink shell of her ear with his nose, then started lapping a lascivious route back down toward the tempting triangle of her pussy. Before he'd traveled further than the tiny hollow at the base of her swanlike throat, however, the nagging pain inside his straining groin grew unendurable so that he was forced to rise and kick off his trousers and jockey shorts. Out surged a throbbing thickness of such gargantuan girth that the blas� suburban swinger's eyes bulged in their sockets.
"Shit!" he muttered aloud, forgetting that he didn't want the girl to awaken yet. "Haven't had a hard-on like this since back in high school!"
He hadn't disturbed the girl with his words, but when he took her breasts in both hands and simultaneously snaked his tongue down over her softly swelling belly, she moaned and tossed her head to and fro on the flat little pillow. It wouldn't be long now before she drifted out of her drugged dreams; he'd have to move faster, for he wanted her to be hovering on the edge of orgasm when she regained consciousness. Besides, this phenomenal phallus of his wasn't going to wait forever for satisfaction, much as he regretted cutting short the foreplay.
Gayle, his wife, had rather small breasts and a rather large complex about them. At first he'd strived in vain to excite her by kissing and caressing them, but since his efforts only seemed to antagonize her he'd given up.
"See--I'm perfectly normal!" she'd declared one day not too long ago, thrusting one of her damn women's lib books into his face. "Thirty-eight-point-six females don't have significant nerve responses in their breasts. It's just another male chauvinist myth that they like their tits mauled! And men who're all hung-up on boobs are immature, or insecure, or else they've got a mother fixation. So there!"
Actually, she didn't particularly care for any sort of foreplay, not even having him go down on her. Oh, she didn't say so-that wouldn't have been in keeping with her liberated image-but he suspected she faked her climaxes. He was also half-convinced her dramatic orgasms at the swap club meetings were just an act to maintain her reputation as star swinger. Once he'd been turned on by her almost masculine aggressiveness, her total lack of inhibitions about trying each and every kinky position, her fashionable scorn of traditional morality; but these days he found himself wondering whether there were any genuine emotions behind her polished performances of passion.
"Hurry up! Don't bother about that kissing business!" she'd often say. "I can't wait another second for your big hard cock.". . . like he was a trained dog who could get it up on command or something . . .
Alan shook his head to clear away the disturbing thoughts. Hell, why was he worrying about his marriage at a moment like this? Tonight, with this lush-loined honey-blonde lady, there were certainly no difficulties as far as erections went. . . far from it! Carefully, very carefully he eased himself onto the narrow bed so that he was between her spread-eagled legs staring straight at the glistening rose-pink petals of her curl-fringed pussy.
Christ, he swore to himself, this bed was built for a midget! Back in the States he had a king-sized waterbed with a sexy black fur spread and a giant mirror hanging at a judicious angle overhead. That's where he and little Miss Blakesley ought to be, not this seedy Paris hotel. Through the brain-boggling clouds of alcohol and lust, the man was dimly realizing that this curvaceous coed was someone really special-maybe even a virgin!
After a bit of awkward maneuvering he managed to arrange his six-foot frame so that his loafer-shod feet and long bare legs dangled over the end of the bed and his hands could stroke her sensitive breasts and belly while he commenced his oral attack. A heady whiff of fragrant cuntal juices suffused his nostrils as he sank his head down into the warm cave between her snow-white inner thighs, dizzying him with debauched desire, and then at last silken strands of pussy hair were tickling his sideburns, his chin, his nose. Without an instant's hesitation Alan's tongue flicked toward the pinkly moist crack of her vagina for a sample, an aphrodisiacal aperitif; the droplet of lubricating liquid exploded on his taste buds like heated honey, only sweeter, much sweeter.
"Ooohhh . . . uuuhhhmmmm ..."
Her sleepy sighs sent the nervous married man's tongue darting back between his bared teeth and froze his hands on her breasts for an instant. Then, once again, he cursed himself for his over-cautious hesitance. What the hell if she did wake up? No matter what happened now he wasn't about to blow this fantastic opportunity for a feast of gourmet eating pussy! In any case he need not have panicked, for her lids remained shut with long brown lashes trailing over flushed cheeks with one transparent blue vein which quivered slightly when his extended middle finger parted her pubic fleece.
"Mmmhhhhmmmmhhhhh ..."
It sounded as though Monica would awaken any minute now, but the man crouched between her splayed legs was too excited by the warm wetness of her outer cuntal lips to heed her half-conscious moans. As his fingertip parted the close-folded petals of her pussy, his hungry hardness spasmed so emphatically that he, too, groaned aloud. In a moment he'd eased his impatient instrument to the left so he could massage it against the resilient smoothness of her dimpled knee.
Holy Christ, she was tight . .. tight, but also damp with telltale juices of desire. Dubois considered himself a connoisseur of cunts: well-used, ragged-lipped ones opening in invitation like exotic Venus flytraps . . . oddly exciting ones with clitoris almost as large as a tiny penis.. . pussies ranging in color from palest pink to a rich reddish-purple. The school-teacher's, a bright pink, dew-drenched wild rose just opening to the June sun, was the sort he especially relished. Best of all, he was willing to bet nothing had ever entered its timidly unfurling depths except a sterile Tampax.
By now Alan was so aroused that he wasn't quite as gentle as he'd intended to be as he ran his outstretched digit the length of her quivering slit, all the way from the crumpled indentation of her tiny anus to the already half-erect button of her hidden clitoris. It rose in a miniature erection as he skillfully circled it, and he wondered how in God's name she could possibly remain unconscious through this kind of stimulation. Her muffled noises had ceased, though her eyes were still glued shut. . . could she conceivably be half-awake and pretending not to be?
This salacious speculation excited him so much that he wrenched his secretion-sticky finger out of her pussy. Eyes glinting, heart thudding like a hammer against his constricted lungs, he licked the lush nectar from his middle finger and then buried his face between Miss Blakesley's full-fleshed thighs to begin his obscene feast.
CHAPTER SIX
In the middle of the sunny meadow was a high hill which she was climbing as fast as she could, holding up her long sheer white silk dress so that her bare feet and legs could move swiftly and surely through the flower-flecked green grass. All around her there were flowers-slender stems of delicate bluebells, bright golden buttercups, tangled vines of pink sweet peas and white morning glories, just like the wreath she wore around her long flowing hair. It was a wedding wreath; she knew it instinctively, the way one knows things in dreams, just as she knew why she was racing uphill nimbly as a wild goat, running so quickly that she was flushed with heat and panting for breath. Up on the summit waited her bridegroom also clad in pure white silk. It was Gene Puddocky, of course. . . only he had, for some peculiar reason, the dark hair and sun-bronzed muscles of tour director Dubois . . .
Monica clung to the fleeting fragments of the dream even as they evaporated from her mind and a reality-odor of musky hotel room and alcohol and perspiration and shaving lotion and some odd pungent indefinable element chased the fragrance of wild flowers from her nostrils. It was easy enough to cling to the essence of her dream's happy emotion so long as she kept her eyes tight shut, for indeed her body was beaded in droplets of sweat and her breath was ragged in her breast. If being intoxicated made you feel this way, she wasn't altogether sorry she'd downed all that delicious Beaujolais after all.
After a few long minutes, however, unwelcome winds of guilty suspicions started chasing away the euphorically peaceful sensation. She knew that she was awake, and she also knew that something very bizarre was going on in her body, but she didn't dare open her eyes to discover the fearsome truth.
I'll just lie here one more moment, her mind murmured. Just one second longer ... it feels so good ... so good ... too good ...
Her eyes flew open as electricity singed along her nerve endings in a red-hot path of pleasure-pain. It felt something like the time she'd touched the electric barbed wire around the cow pasture when she was a little girl of five, but that time the ferocious feeling had emanated from her singed fingertips and this time it was coming from-oh, God!-coming from the most unmentionably personal part of her body. Her naked body!
The church-indoctrinated small town girl's eyes nearly popped from their sockets as she gaped through the hollow between her two shamelessly uncovered breasts and along the slight swell of her equally unprotected stomach. It was several seconds before she could comprehend that there was actually a man's head between her thighs-she couldn't even look at it. But when her eyes traveled further, something even more alarming met her horror-widened gaze; a huge stalk of glistening flesh, purple-veined and blunt-nosed, was nuzzling against her bare leg!
"OOohhhhh! Ohhh, noooo!" she yelped, and jerked her leg away as if it had touched a red-hot poker. Her kneecap smashed against the wall beside the bed, sprinkling loose bits of aged plaster over the coverlet and resulting in a sharp rush of pain which combined most confusingly with another violent spasm of pleasure rising from her vagina. "Nnnoooooo!"
"Shut up, can't you!" hissed Alan in a voice grotesquely muffled thanks to the luscious mouthful of cunt between his sucking lips. "You wan' the whole goddamn hotel to know you got smashed outta your mind an' started beggin' me to go down on ya? For Chrissake!"
At any other time Monica would have been highly offended by this king of gutter language, but now his vocabulary made no impression at all on her boggled brain. Two alarming facts obscured everything else: that blood-swollen thing pulsating against her leg, and that saliva-smeared mouth which was filling her with such wickedly wonderful excitement. She didn't know which obscene vulgarity was the worst, and in any case she didn't have any idea what to do about this appalling situation for her traitorous body seemed paralyzed into disastrous immobility on the bed.
And what on earth did her boss mean by saying she'd asked him to do these dreadful things to her...?
"What?" she shrieked, then dropped to a stage whisper after a frightened glance toward the closed door. "I didn't! I couldn't have s-said that! You'reyou're lying ?"
Her shrill voice trailed off in a guilt-stricken question mark, eloquent evidence to Dubois that she secretly longed for lovemaking even though she'd never acknowledged her need. Two devil's lanterns glowed in his bloodshot eyes, and the turgid thickness of his throbbing cock tapped a thudding tattoo against the cringing flesh of her naked leg. He tongued deeper, savoring her oozing female nectar, sure now that he'd soon have this sexy Sunday school teacher singing irreverent hymns around his throat-thrusting cock.
"Hell, baby, you asked for it!" he rasped, congratulating himself for having come up with this lie while in the midst of all-pervasive passion. " 'Kiss my pussy' . .. that's whatcha said. You said you wanted to know how it felt to be a real grown-up woman . . . now I'm just obliging you."
Was it true? She certainly couldn't be one hundred percent sure she hadn't said something about lovemaking; her memory was a virtual blank since getting into the cab outside the restaurant, and then there had been that dream about getting married. And . . . well, of course she hadn't wanted to wake up naked in his bed, but she had secretly hoped that he might ask her out to dinner again, or maybe even kiss her. There was no use pretending to herself that, compared to good old Gene back home, Dubois would be a thrilling boyfriend.
"I n-never said that. I don't use words like p-like that! And I never dreamed anyone could do something so immoral." Her voice echoed in her ears, the words properly prim but their tone too thin and timid to carry conviction. "Even married people ...," she tried again, but her speech sputtered off into a gasp as Alan Dubois' talented tongue sent another flaming jolt of erotic sensation surging through her bloodstream.
The man let out a snorting chuckle without removing his tingling tongue from the ripe sun-warmed berry of Monica's swollen clitoris. The kid was incredible! If he didn't know she was connected with those weirdoes at World Worshipers, he'd have thought for sure she was putting him on. After one last especially lavish lapping from the taut pink button down to her crinkling anal orifice and back, he raised his head to grin at her.
"Where've you been all these years, sweetheart? Locked in a convent or something? Haven't you heard about the sexual revolution? Okay, have it your way; pretend you didn't get hot watching those kids go at it and wanted to try it yourself. Kid yourself all you want, but don't bother trying to kid me, 'cause I'm not buying it. Baby, your sweet cunt's just soaked with love juice... and just take a look at what's happening to your beautiful big tits! You want this as bad as I do!"
He was right! When she gaped down at her breasts, the nipples which winked at her from between his maddeningly massaging fingers were a ruddy crimson color and undeniably erect; the dampness clinging to her pubic curls and soaking into the coarse coverlet wasn't only due to Dubois' saliva. Monica made a frantic effort to stop the humiliating flow, but it. was no use.
"No!" she protested desperately. "I don't want you to do this to me! I don't!"
It had been humiliating enough when her betraying body's arousal was her shameful inner secret; the knowledge that her employer was fully aware of her wantonness made this hellish nightmare even more unbearable. If only it were just a dream, like those nasty ones which had plagued her through her teens . . . dreams from which she'd awakened to snatch her sinful hand from under her nightie just in the nick of time and feel pure and clean again afterward because she'd prevented herself from touching the throbbing "vee" between her legs.
After tonight, would she ever be able to feel pure and clean again?
"Still going to try to tell me you're not turned on?" Alan's handsome face was transformed by a satanic smirk into the same mask of bestial lust she'd seen on the faces of those Arabs. "Stop lying to yourself, Monica honey, like I said before. Just lie back and relax and I'll show you all about lovemaking. Forget those dumb hang-ups of yours and start living! There! Doesn't my cock feel good?
"Nnooooo! Oh, please, no!"
Dubois ignored her feeble gasp. His outstretched tongue snaked back into her involuntarily pulsing pussy, then withdrew to be replaced by his extended middle finger as his hand caught her wrist and forced it around his enormous erection. "All nice and hot and hard-just for you!"
"Oh! Oohhhh!"
Monica didn't have time to ponder whether or not she was indeed lying to herself, for her shock at touching a steel-hard shaft of male flesh for the first time in her life blocked out all other thought. The sight of her familiar slim white fingers gingerly grazing the angry-red rod of pulsing flesh was disturbingly fascinating; she had to force herself to try to wrench her hand away-a useless gesture in any case, for he had her fragile wrist shackled in a viselike grip.
"C'mon, sweetheart, don't be like that. It feels super when you hold my cock-just like my finger's making your pussy feel. Stroke him ... play with him ... make friends with him . . ."
The Sunday school teacher continued to moan, "Nooo, noooo . ..," but her protests had acquired a peculiarly encouraging note as his long finger gravitated straight toward her sensitive clitoral button. By now, she was sure that either she or he, or probably both of them, had taken leave of their senses. 'Make friends with him'-why, he sounded as though the obscene object was some sort of cherished house-pet with a mind of its own! Actually, as it continued pulsing and swelling under her tentative touch, it did feel like a warm little animal.. . not cold and sticky and repulsive the way she'd imagined when she'd seen Spike's slim young penis earlier this evening, but smooth and dry and not at all unpleasant. Before she knew what she was doing, she'd given it a cautious squeeze and then jumped as it throbbed In answer.
'That's my good girl!"
Crazy as she knew it was, Monica couldn't help feeling better at Alan's praise. Or, perhaps, her sudden flash of pleasure had more to do with the liquid lightning seething ever-hotter from her obscenely impaled vagina to every nerve ending in her quivering loins. Whatever the explanation might be, she knew that her entire body seemed to be in a devious plot against the desperate commands of her conscience.
I have to fight him away, make him stop this! her brain whirled wildly. Kick him, scratch him if I have to-anything! This is insane! How can I ever forgive myself? And how can I face Gene again?
Monica remained immobile. From a deeper, half-conscious layer of her boggled brain came a rush of new questions, questions which caused her vulnerably naked figure to shudder more violently than ever.
Do I really want him to stop? Is he right about becoming a real woman? If he loves me, why shouldn't we make love? Am I experiencing Life? Anything that feels so magical can't be wrong, can it?
Oh God! Now her mind, as well as her helplessly, squirming body, was turning against her! The shameful but insistent questions kept flashing across her aching forehead in neon-gaudy Technicolor, echoed against her eardrums in turgid tempo to the corrupt current of excitation churning out from her ravished vagina. What was the use of further protests, either physical or verbal? Alan knew perfectly well that she had been reduced to a mindless mass of sensation by his skillful manipulations. A numb sort of resignation, coupled with an unacknowledged flickering of wanton curiosity, left her so weak that all she could do was murmur weakly.
"Nooo . . . noooo . . . nnnoooo . . ."
Eyes glinting with famished lust, ears deaf to the younger woman's plaintive whimpers, Dubois forced her hand tighter around his pounding phallus while his fingers flicked feverishly over her erect little clitoris. Christ, she hadn't even put up a fight! She'd succumbed before his advances like putty!
A church bell chimed once, twice, but neither the man nor the reluctant virgin heard the sounds echoing up from the now nearly-silent street as they thrashed in their obscene entanglement upon the creaking hotel bed. Monica's breath burst from her lungs in a strangled gasp as his teasing finger popped from her vagina, and her fingers involuntarily gripped his pulsing pole harder as an unexpectedly-devastating emptiness surged from her frustration-famished furrow to every fire-filled cell in her body. His incoherent groan merged with hers to form a subdued symphony of sordid sensuality, the nefarious notes of which spurred her indecently accelerating desire.
I don't want this to happen! It was supposed to be pure and beautiful the first time, her tortured mind trebled in tempo with their quickening sighs. Tomorrow he's going to think I'm just a cheap tramp if I keep on like this... that's what happened to the girls back at school who went too far, isn't it? Oh God, I have to get a grip on myself-I have to! No matter how crazy-good he's making me feel...
Somehow, she dredged up the willpower to slither her perspiring palm away from his prancing penis-his forceful grip on her slender wrist having been greatly reduced by his growing passion-and she even attempted a weak, effort of forcing her putty-soft thighs against his burrowing head. Wasted energy: the instant her leg muscles clamped closer to the tickling fuzz of his burrowing scalp, a rush of rampant lust exploded inside her moral-less muscles.
"No! Noooo. . . nooooooo...," she moaned, more to herself than to the man. "Please, stop! Please!"
It's too late, warned an ominous omen from the base of her bewitched brain. Too late! Too late! And indeed, Alan Dubois seemed totally oblivious of her plaintive protests, her tremulous thigh pressure.
"Christ, what a superb pussy!" His voracious lips tightened around the nerve-filled nub hidden inside her instinctively up-thrusting pussy mound as he sensed that she was approaching orgasm. "Too good ... toooo goooooddddd .. . Jesus fucking Christ!"
Somehow, Alan's unethical utterances sent flames of unbidden arousal sizzling through Monica's blood. Try as she could-and it was no longer possible to try very vigorously-she could not smother the blazing tongues of traitorous fire.
Even the desperately recalled vision of Gene Puddocky's bifocaled face only seemed to speed her deeper into this hellish bog of overwhelming erotic fury.
"Aaahhhh, pleeezzzeee, NO! Nononononoooooo!"
A growl of guttural greed from the married man drowned out the vanquished virgin's vain cries. Before she realized what was happening to her, he'd rotated his sweat-slickened figure so that his face was still mashed against her vibrating vagina, but now his passion-pounding phallus was pressing right up against the slit of her tight-shuttered lips.
Oh, God, no! Here she was in exactly the same degrading position she'd caught young Spike and Arlene in only hours before. It was impossible! And the most incredible thing of all was that she was actually liking the obscene things he was doing to her! What in heaven's name was happening to her? But one thing was sure: she'd keep her lips buckled shut and not allow herself to fall to the ultimate low of taking his nasty thing inside her mouth. In fact, she'd close her eyes too, so she couldn't even see it. She'd never forgive herself if she sank to such depths of degeneracy! Never!
"Jesus, baby, your sweet, sweet cunt juice tastes sooo damn good!" groaned Dubois. "Now open your pretty mouth, huh? Make my pecker feel good too! C'MON, SUCK ME OFF!"
The lewd words, combined with his lascivious licking up into he fire-filled passage, shattered most of Monica's remaining power of resistance into a thousand sex-charged smithereens. To her intense shame, she felt her pussy flowering toward him like a ripe rosebud, sensed her tense-muscled ass-cheeks rising from the bed to meet his hungrily engulfing mouth. And there wasn't one single thing she could do to stop herself!
"Open that mouth, Monica baby!" Alan's command was given emphasis by the rough thrusting of his mushroom-shaped cock-head against the unwilling virgin's lips. "Look, I'm goin' crazy! Open up and kiss my prick-you'll like it, all chicks do! Promise!"
The words reverberated through her boggled brain without really sinking in, for her bodily sensations were so overwhelming that they drowned out everything else. His talented tonguing had triggered an unsuspected streak of strong sensuality in her soul, and now strange flashes of maddening masochistic delight were sizzling unchecked through her blood as her boss' head bobbed between her legs. Then, as he abandoned her vibrating vagina to tease her clitoral bud, then sank deep down into the warm wet channel once more, her mouth fell open in an involuntary gurgle of sheer ecstasy.
"Oohhhhooohhhh-Aarrggghhh!"
His bulbous, blood-bloated rock-head barged between her half-parted lips, almost gagging her as it raced straight to the back of her throat. In order to catch her breath, it was necessary to suck the huge pulsing thing with her cheeks, slide her tongue along its heavy-veined length. To her shock, it actually didn't feel nearly as nauseating as she'd thought it would; once she got used to its bulk between her cheeks, she noticed that it was pleasantly smooth with veins pulsating like some small animal along its underside, and that a curiously compelling sweet-sour taste was titillating her taste buds.
Tentatively, she began teasing at the thick stalk with her timid tongue, exploring the ridges on its swollen tip, sampling the pungent droplet of pre-cum fluid lingering on the glans opening. These amateur explorations excited the married man far more than his wife's practiced fellatio finesse, and he skewered his long tongue up into her amazingly tight-walled velvety vagina so far that it rammed up against the thin membrane of her maidenhead.
Too fucking much! he gloated. She's really got her cherry! But not for long! Christ, look how turned on the kid is! I don't believe she's the same prissy Miss Morality who freaked when I tried to feel her up in the cab. She's one hell of a hot little number now that I've given her a working over, that's for sure!
He wondered for a short second what his wife Gayle would think if she could by some strange mental telepathic power see him right now. Sure, she was doubtless with some guy, too ... but just one of those dull swinging creeps she picked up in "singles" bars, or one of the even less fascinating neighbors from the swap club. Certainly not a pure, unsullied young virgin princess like the one he had here in his bed!
Then, as the blood began to boil in his throbbing thickness thanks to Miss Blakesley's increasingly erotic attentions, all fleeting fancies about his not-so-happy home back in New Jersey faded abruptly. Here he was in a Paris hotel on a sultry summer night, performing soixante-neuf with the first virgin he'd seen in about fifteen years, and he was going to climax any minute now.
Alan made a vain, deluded attempt at holding back the urgent flood of frustrated sperm he could feel churning down in his dangling balls. It was useless, of course; he'd just have to wait to break that cherry till later tonight, or another day. Right now, as his turbulent testicles danced against the girl's silken-skinned chin and throat and his swollen weapon speared in and out of her gently clasping lips, he knew he had to cum or explode!
Anyhow, he thought dizzily as he hovered on the brink of an outrageously intense orgasm, the gal's never gonna be able to say no to me now. She'll be begging me to give her a taste of my cock in her cunt after the way I've turned her on tonight!
Monica, for her part, had fallen into a sort of mindless frenzy as her own moment of climax edged nearer and nearer. Nothing mattered now save the rapturous waves rippling from her tongue-ravished vagina and hand-tormented breasts--nothing! The past, with its morals and miseries of lonely self-denial, faded to a happily hazy memory; the future .. . ? Well, she was madly in love with a handsome man who'd shown her the most exquisite physical joy she'd ever imagined. That was the only important thing, wasn't it?
"Yeeessss, oh, YES! It's goooddddddddd!" she dimly heard herself howl. Was that weird sound really coming from her own throat? It must be! Or perhaps some satanic magic had transformed her from the demure college coed she'd been earlier this evening into a new wanton woman! "Suck my p-pussy!" She'd never uttered such a lewd word before! "SUCK MY PUSSY! Kiss it! Lick it! Sssooooo gggoooddddddd! Make me cum! CUM!"
Dubois knew he had only seconds to spare before the floodgates of his own passion erupted in a seething gush of semen. He wanted to make sure she came, too-he had to make sure of that, if she were going to be under his power for the rest of this three-week jaunt through France. With a demonic groan, he sank his outstretched middle finger into the cleft between the pliant half-moons of her firm buttocks to tease at the puckered ring of her sensitive anus.
"Aaaggghhhhh!"
As his tongue delved down again all the way to the protective barrier of her hymen, his finger snaked up to pinch and provoke the bright button of her clitoris. It rose like a miniature penis between his thumb and index finger, and she screamed aloud again in maniacal delight. Almost there . . . almost there . . .
A split second later, they were there. A frenzied chord of maddening erotic music strummed from Monica's bullet-hard nipples down to the spasming pit of her belly, and the devilish harmony sent her speeding to the precipice of an erotic ecstasy more volcanic than anything her virginal body had experienced until now. For a few suspenseful moments she hovered on the brink of passion, straining with insane energy to dive from the cliff down into the bottomless chasm of total sensual surrender, but held back by tenacious tendrils of fear. Then she began to fly, pummeling through a black and crimson universe on a buoyant cloud of climactic, cosmic rapture.
Dubois and his innocent employee were too far into the throes of passion to think of curious ears on the other side of the wall, ominous eavesdroppers in the Hotel Modern's corridor. Luckily, though, the girl's top-volume screams of ecstasy were speedily stopped by a violent gush of thick white sperm which nearly choked her. Unaware of any discomfort in the midst of her wanton bliss, she gulped down as much as she could of the seething seed to save herself from gagging and let the rest dribble in cream-white rivers over her chin and neck and shuddering breasts. What did it matter? The only reality was that the strangling bonds of pious propriety which had shackled her through the first twenty-two years of her life were severed by this beautiful first lover. The unbearable pressure in her straining loins was exploding in a shower of blissful fireworks, melting into a white-hot aura of ecstasy so profound that she actually fainted for a minute or so from the intensity of it.
Again and again, despite the volcanic violence of his own orgasm, the experienced married man lashed his tingling tongue into the drenched depths of young Monica's vagina. He continued his agile oral fucking till his own sperm was finally spent, till she'd collapsed in a limp puddle of pleasure beneath him, totally satiated.
Outside in the darkened streets of Montmartre, the Sacre Coeur's chimes rang three a.m. A wine-sodden Algerian meandered across the empty street, swaying into lamp poles, colliding against the fenced-in fronts of greengrocers and pornography peddler's establishments, swearing and spitting up blood and vomit. A weary prostitute banged down her shutters at last, barred her door, aimed an aerosol of "Catch" at a stray cockroach scuttling over her discarded bikini panties. A bored desk clerk in the Hotel Modern picked up another Danish Color Climax and sank his hand back down inside his unbuckled pants.
And in the hall outside the room where Alan
Dubois and the half-sobbing, bliss-sated virgin lay lewdly entwined, a thin shadow of a figure let out a low chuckle of lust and faded back down the hallway.
Pigeons and sparrows were cooing peacefully in the eaves, as well, but nobody heard them ...
CHAPTER SEVEN
The worst thing of all, perhaps, was the weird effect the jolting, broken-spring tour bus had on her vagina as it rattled along the back roads of the Chateau country down on to the Lot district and the Mediterranean coast.
There were, to be sure, plenty of additional horrors: Spike Soderberg and that flagrantly promiscuous slut, Arlene Hixson, whose erotic escapades seemed to have affected most of the other World Worshiper adolescents with a mass sexual insanity; the unrelenting heat and succession of survival-budget hotels or youth hostels whose plumbing was quite inadequate for refreshing perspiration-drenched bodies; the erratic road techniques of young Bernard Cretin, the driver . . . not to mention the disturbing way the stunted, acne-scarred Frenchman kept undressing her with those squint-lidded dark eyes of his. Over and above all, there were those crippling spasms of stomach-curdling jealousy which struck whenever she glimpsed Alan Dubois chatting in his charming way with one of the more attractive female teenagers ... or even merely looking at, say, Arlene's abundant un-brassiered bosom, or blonde Cordelia's more cultured feline form in her bikini.
Monica was hopelessly infatuated with tour director Dubois, hated herself for her weakness, and was incapable of doing one single thing to ebb the fury of her feverish obsession. Her mood-after the first day on the road, which she'd survived in a hellish hung--over haze of purely physical misery--alternated between grueling guilt over the debauched delights she'd indulged in back at the Hotel Modern and a frantic fear that the handsome older man wasn't Truly In Love, the way she knew herself to be.
It was no use telling herself that she was behaving like a sixteen year-old schoolgirl with a crush instead of a twenty-two year-old Sunday school chaperone; logic had absolutely no effect on her emotions. Every evening, sinful though she knew it was, her entire body ached with the hope that they'd stop in some place with private bedrooms instead of dormitory-type accommodations.
For the first time in her life, she forgot to say her prayers before falling asleep. Instead, very furtively so her young charges wouldn't notice, she stroked her throbbing pussy and dreamed about Alan's magical lips and fingers.
Gene Puddocky, faithful hometown sweetheart and dedicated divinity student, she'd managed to relegate to a dusty back corner of her mind until today. Now, as she stood frozen in fearful in-decisiveness just beyond the battlements of yet another look-alike chateau, she seriously considered crumpling the pale blue aerogramme with its familiar neat lettering and tossing it into the nearest trash basket. Unopened .. .
If she closed her eyes to block out the castle's crumbling towers and the birch grove and ancient village beyond, she could see Gene's kind, goofy grin and receding hairline clear as day. And Mon and Dad clasping hands to say grace before their Spartan supper . . . Pastor Briggs folding his pink hands over his potato-padded paunch to deliver pompous proclamations about Purgatory . . . church socials with fruit jello and folk dancing ... chalk dust-clouded classrooms back at college, calm and chaste and uncannily inconsistent with real life.
Real Life! She'd found that here in France, here in this dilapidated bus jouncing over highways and byways, in the promise of future delights she read in Alan's attractive face when he glanced back at her and winked imperceptibly, or when he paid her one of his gallant compliments.
"My sweet summer rose," he'd murmured this morning just before they boarded the bus, glancing significantly at her slender bare legs.
Thank goodness she'd taken up that hem, even though it had seemed a bit risque to expose a full two inches of naked thigh! What would the folks back home think of her New Look-the short skirts, light dash of eye-shadow and lipstick, high-heeled open-toed sandals and hip-hugging, crotch-clasping white trousers she'd purchased back in Chartres instead of going along on that particular chateau tour? Would they approve of her modified "string" bikini? The subtly sensual Joy perfume which Alan had slipped into her hand yesterday morning under the cover of a green Michelin Guide? No, of course they wouldn't.
The folks back home . . . Gene Puddocky ... It was all so long ago, so far away....
All that was real now was the wind rippling through her blonde hair, which she'd taken to wearing long and loose and luxurious of late, the breeze which teased the hem of her skirt nearly up to her elastic panty leg bands. And Alan Dubois, who was sauntering down from the moss-molded parapets with that characteristic self-confident swagger of his slim hips, that charismatic half-grin which melted her muscles into liquid honey.
She crumpled the airmail envelope into a small ball and crammed it into her shoulder bag.
"Monica, darling!" He didn't kiss her-no telling which inquisitive kid might be spying on them-but his eloquent eyes told her that he wanted to. "You look just like a Renoir painting standing here with your beautiful body silhouetted against the ruins of antiquity! I haven't had the chance to say so till now, but you're more beautiful every day, you know. More of a woman . . ."
She wished she could control this ridiculous blushing.
"Th-thank you."
"And," he bent closer, "you're wearing my perfume! Do you like it-I hope so?"
"Oh, y-yes. Yes, I do, Alan. It's-it's very nice." Why did she always get so flustered around him that she sounded like an imbecile? "It's fantastic!" she tried again, employing one of the kids' favorite words.
"Wonderful! It suits you. But listen, my love, I have something exciting to tell you, and we've only got a moment before those wretched brats come streaming out of the damn castle. It's hell never having a minute alone, isn't it?"
Until this week she'd always assumed that people who swore were vulgar and ill-bred, if not downright depraved. Yet Alan's scornful put-down by obscenities of this undeniably absurd "Christian Living Adventure" was oddly exciting . ..
"Oh, yes!"
"So guess what I've done? I've just rung down south to change our reservations for Friday. . . now the Auberge des Jeunesse in Cap d'Ail has only booked nine beds, and you'll have to stay in a hotel!"
"Oh!' Monica's blood was pulsing through her veins so fiercely she had to lean back against the stone embankment. "Oh ... oh, I d-don't know . . ."
"Nothing to worry about! A mistake, obviously. And I managed to reserve you a room in a nice little place I stayed at once before with a marvelous view of the sea and a big bed. Clean and quiet and private. It's called the Hotel Modern too, isn't that crazy!"
The pulsating sensations had concentrated down between her legs, and a telltale dampness on the crotch band of her brand new translucent nylon panties told her what she'd answer even as she made a vain attempt to debate with herself. Friday ... that was only two days away . . .
"Don't look so distressed, darling! When two people care about each other the way we do, it's a sin to deny the physical half of their love. You know that, deep inside. You know you do!"
"Yes, Alan," she whispered.
Then, before they knew what was happening, the teenagers had descended en masse. Their shrill, bickering cries drowned out the pastoral background symphony of lowing cows and buzzing bees, and the tour director and his assistant automatically edged away from each other.
"Hey, Al! Do we really gotta go see another crummy cloister after this? How come we can't take one of 'em champagne cave tours, huh? I got this guidebook here that says the Mumm's one gives out free samples! How 'bout it, Al?"
* * *
Mumms's did indeed offer free tasting, and by the time Monica Blakesley had downed two cups of the cool bubbling stuff and had weaved back to the hotel to dive into a shower which was blissfully hot for once, she felt brave enough to dig down in her handbag and unearth the wrinkled blue letter. For the first time, she noticed that it had been sent special delivery.
"My dearest Monica, I am delighted to inform you that I will have the unexpected opportunity to see you in the near future. How happy I am! Poor Ralph Holch caught the mumps, and though I am of course filled with sorrow for his unfortunate condition, I am also grateful to the Good Lord for providing this unanticipated chance to see you, my dear fianc�e. I am honored to have been chosen as the substitute representative to the religious publishers' convention in Monte Carlo, and hope your busy schedule permits us a few days together on the sunny Riviera.
"Forgive me if I must make this brief, but I want to take it down to the post office for today's mailing.
And forgive me, too, if I am sounding too intimate. I hope you are not too lonely over there in Europe without your family and me, your special friend. But of course the Lord Jesus and the Heavenly Father are always by your side.
"Your faithful Gene Gene Puddocky"
Does he have to write as though he's trying to sell Bibles? was her first reaction, and then her hands clasped together in bone-clenching despair as she realized the implications of the aerogramme. What in heaven's name was she going to do now? What?
Woodenly, she wandered to the window of her six-bed room, crumpling the letter back into a sweaty ball as she stared blindly out into the gathering dusk and let the wind cool her burning forehead. Thank God she was alone, at least-the teenagers having taken off for some cafeteria chow and a disco in nearby Cahors. Despite the blessedly rare interval of privacy, however, Monica soon found the stuffy chamber claustrophobic and opted for a long walk to think things over.
Tossing a cardigan over her skimpy pink sundress-the air had unexpectedly chilled, and a torrid bank of thunder-clouds hovered over the hills on the horizon-she hurried down the staircase and out into the fresh-smelling dusky blue darkness. This wasn't Montparnesse ... nothing unpleasant could possibly happen to her here in this tranquil outlying village in the heart of the peaceful Lot district of rural France. A nice healthy hike was just what was needed to calm her nerves, to temper the treacherous trembling deep inside her loins . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
The local "black" wine of Cahors was very easy to drink, decided Bernard the bus driver. Very agreeable-the first agreeable occurence in an otherwise disastrous day which had begun in scrubbing down the bus after some kid lost her breakfast of chocolate �clairs, and had ended with a most discomforting interchange with the nine brats he was forced to share a bedroom with. He decided he deserved a third glass.
He'd been wise in choosing to weather the oncoming thunderstorm in the village's one bar rather than driving into Cahors with the kids to dance. Not that anyone had actually invited him along, but of course he could have come if he'd wanted to. This dim, stone-walled bartabac wasn't all that fantastic either-the townspeople were rudely ignoring him, doubtless out of jealousy for the trendy city gear he'd worn as a change from his regulation blue chauffeur's uniform-and there wasn't even a jukebox or pinball machine to liven things up. Nevertheless, the rich dark-red wine could lull him into a welcome state of drunken oblivion.
Perhaps, too, the alcohol would provide inspirational ideas for his intended seduction of Miss Monica Blakesley ... ideas that would show those loud-mouthed American boys a thing or two! Just thinking of the way they'd talked to him this evening made him so irate that he called for yet another glass of wine to soothe his nerves.
"I got something here you guys might wanna take a look at," he had whispered behind his hand to the one called Spike, who seemed to be the ringleader. His English, thanks to a stint working in an American tourist-oriented blue cinema in Paris, was both fluent and colorful. "Some real hot shit!"
A cluster of adolescents had instantly buzzed around his treasured Scandinavian publications, bees scenting a honey-pot, and he beamed proudly. After this treat, maybe they'd stop acting toward him like he was an Algerian street sweep! He was every bit as good as they were; no one ever suspected his father had been half-Moroccan, for he'd been born and raised in the industrial suburbs of Paris and he'd inherited his mother's light complexion. Also her petite stature ... but merde, being five-foot-six didn't make a man sub-human, did it?
"Better than that sissy PLAYBOY shit, huh!" he gloated, pushing forward his favorite pamphlet, "Motorcycle Sex!". "This is the real stuff-straight from Copenhagen!"
Most of the youngsters loved the obscene photos, but that stuck-up Spike Soderberg had the nerve to pretend they left him cold.
"Sure," he shrugged, "everyone knows Color Climax mags are Danish. I've seen 'em all years ago-my Pop collects them. I used to dig them a lot when I was a kid, but now they're no big deal unless I'm in the sack with some chick."
The others stopped ogling Bernard's precious pictures to stare at Spike in round-eyed respect. No one noticed the Frenchman's self-satisfied smirk twisting into a sulky scowl.
"Smart-ass kid, huh!" he snarled. "Don't tell me this don't get your prick hard!" He pointed with a trembling finger to a between-the-legs shot of a blonde being orally abused while roped atop a huge motorbike. "Now if that ain't sexy, I sure don't know what is!"
"Yeah, it's pretty cool." That superior shrug again! Cretin's blood heated to a slow boil. "But what the hell use are dumb pictures if you aren't getting any pussy?" Spike continued. "Do you s'pose he ever made it with a chick like that one?!"
Bernard's face burned a ruddy red which accentuated his acne as the youngsters burst into jeering laughter. Suddenly he was acutely aware of his short, slight build, his calamitous complexion, and especially the inarticulate self-consciousness which afflicted him in the presence of a pretty female.
"That's what you think," he said sullenly, staring down at the pornographic pamphlet to avoid their mocking eyes.
"Well, you sure haven't made much of a hit with the chicks in our group, Cretin. You get laid once a year or something?"
If the younger boy hadn't been several inches taller and at least thirty pounds of muscle heavier, the bus driver would've bashed him right in his smirking mouth and knocked out a few of those unnaturally white and even American teeth. Instead, he managed a superior sneer of his own as he shoved the glossy Color Climaxes back into his plastic carry-all.
"I happen to prefer mature women, not silly little girls."
"Arlene's big enough where it counts!" someone snickered.
"Awh, he's full of bullshit!" Spike turned away in contempt. "If you like 'emDlder, Cretin-creep, how come you haven't gotten into Miss Blakesley's panties?"
The whole bunch of them started to follow Spike out of the dormitory, hooting with cruel laughter.
Livid with rage, the Frenchman clenched his fists and wondered what "full of bullshit" meant, exactly.
"Ain't nobody could get into Blakesley's frozen pussy," he heard one of the departing kids say. " 'Specially not him! Hell, she's so uptight I bet she wears a chastity belt!"
Bernard knew better, but he wasn't going to say so. The things he'd overheard outside Dubois' Paris hotel room were his own secret, which he intended to use to his own advantage when the opportunity arose.
"It is you who are full of bullshit!" he screamed after them, English deteriorating fast in the face of his anger. "Okay-perhaps I have not made the love to Mademoiselle-but I do soon, very soon. Voila! You will see who is full of bullshit!"
"Full of bullshit . ..," he mumbled moodily into his wine now. It was a fine addition to his vocabulary, even if he wasn't certain of the literal translation. "Full of bullshit. . ."
None of the bartabac's other customers took any notice of him, for he was sequestered in a solitary corner by the window. Besides, they were engaged in a spirited discussion about the merits of pigs versus dogs as truffle hunters. Bernard glared bale-fully at his fellow drinkers, a grizzled group of peasants in corny Alpine-type caps, who were pointedly ignoring his existence. If he'd gone with the group of teenaged tourists into the town discotheque, he would have been just as left out, though . . . and there'd have been the added humiliation of having to ask girls to dance and being turned down.
The liter of wine was nearly finished and he hardly even felt high-just sour of stomach and bitter of soul. Merde, alors! What a colossal drag this job driving the World Worshiper bus had turned out to be. This was only his third three-week jaunt, and already he was heartily sick of every aspect of his work and was developing a hearty dislike of Americans. At first, he'd hoped to meet girls-everyone he knew said that American women only came over to Europe to get laid, and that in the States girls went on the pill and started screwing around when they were fourteen. Well, the latter half of that statement might well be true, and so might the former as far as that went, but he, Bernard Cretin, wasn't the fascinating foreign seducer they had in mind.
Three more locals with a spaniel sort of mutt trotting at their mud-spattered heels entered the bar, and since there were no other free seats they plonked down at Bernard's table. The black animal sniffed suspiciously at Bernard's high-heeled, imitation snakeskin boots, and growled low in its throat. He tucked his feet back under the chair, edged away as far as possible; why was it that animals all disliked him? The three farmers passed around a package of Gitane yellow unfilters, not bothering to offer him a smoke-not that he'd have r accepted anyway, for nobody in Paris would dream of smoking those smelly, old-fashioned things-and ordered sandwiches and glasses of rouge.
A few stray raindrops plunked against the smudged windowpane, but the dark clouds which had hung over the town's ancient red-tiled rooftops had now parted to reveal a couple of faint stars and an almost-full moon. Apparently the storm had blown over, and he was almost sorry since violent thunder and lightning would have suited his dark mood exactly. He turned away from the window to stare morosely at his unfriendly companions.
Their sandwiches looked very appetizing, thick slices of cheese on round slices of homemade country-type bread, so he ordered one. Also another red wind, and a package of Marlboros just to impress these patois-prattling peasants. But what the hell did he care what they thought, really? Not a damn thing, and there wasn't one female in the place unless you wanted to count the patron's fat old wife who had just thrown his sandwich down before him.
The bread was stale, and the pungent Roquefort left a nasty taste in his teeth. Bernard contemplated donating it to the mongrel, but decided against it; the beast would probably snap his hand off if he gave it half a chance.
"Sage, Toutoune!" bellowed one of his table mates.
Cretin glared at him. If these weirdoes had to talk in this awful dialect, couldn't they at least keep their voices down? Then, as he realized that Toutoune was the dog and that it was starting to worry his foot, he yelped aloud and heaved his sandwich in the general direction of its gleaming white fangs.
"Lie down, Toutoune!" The dog's owner turned proudly to his pals. "Toutoune's pretty smart, eh? And only one year old."
"What kind of truffiere is he, though? Bet he's not so good as my pig!"
"Dunno, but I'll bet he is-he's not old enough yet, but his mother was the best hereabouts."
"No dog beats a pig at finding truffles," declared the other, pulling at the brim of his beret for emphasis. To Cretin's city eyes, the cap looked like a charred pancake. "My white pig got two kilos outta the same field where Michel's hound only got two hundred grams the week before!"
"Well, give me Toutoune any day! Least he doesn't try to eat the things like a pig will--and with truffles going for over three hundred Francs a kilo down at the Cahors' market, that's something to reckon with."
"Yeah, but you gotta give your mutt meat when he finds one, don't you? That ain't cheap, either?"
"My Toutoune is trained with croutons for rewards. You can't tell me dry bread's not cheap! So seems to me--"
The argument continued, but Bernard was no longer listening. Three hundred French francs for a kilo of stinking black mushrooms--merde, alors! People sure found crazy ways to waste their money, no question about that! How about those American kids who'd paid $1000-about four thousand francs, or thirteen kilos of truffles-to go on this trip which none of them seemed to be enjoying very much.
As for himself, he only earned a thousand Francs a month-about three kilos of truffles-driving that goddamn ramshackle bus from castle to cloister: better than he'd take home on most jobs, because the good Christians in charge of the operation saw fit to ignore the French tax laws. Another month or so and he'd have enough money to replace the big motorbike he'd totaled last spring! Once in his leather suit and black helmet again, seated on the powerfully purring machine, he'd feel a whole man again.
. . . Not half a man, the way he did on this dreary, damp evening here in one of France's poorest departments . . .
Driving through the barren landscape that afternoon had sent his spirits zooming downward even before the humiliating showdown with Spike Soderbirg. The roads were the worst they'd encountered yet, so bumpy he feared a second blowout, and the arid limestone plateaus with their scrub and stones alongside reminded him of the science fiction book covers which he'd seen of the meager fields of tobacco, unripe grapevines, and stunted oaks beneath which the precious truffles lay hidden ... and everywhere absurdly fat force-fed fowls who would soon morph into expensive tins of fine grass.
The bus driver, unlike most of his countrymen, was no gourmet; motorcycles and sex sated his appetites. Nevertheless, he was aware that both truffles and goose liver pate sold for spectacular sums in Paris luxury shops. So then why was this countryside looked so depressingly poverty-stricken? Must be because the locals were just plain stupid, ignorant... but who the hell cared, really? He just longed for the bright lights of the capital where ruby-rouged whores sauntered in the neon night past noisy bars and cinemas, nightclubs and sex shops ... where people had the sense to appreciate him because he was one hell of a good bike rider...
Cretin signaled for another brimming glass of red wine and suddenly realized that he was finally feeling intoxicated. Thank God! He stumbled into the squatter toilet, experienced exquisite relief as the urine splashed down into the stinking hole in the floor. Christ, his prick was hardening just from the thoughts of women . . . Monica Blakesley, in particular. . .
"You fellows are both fools," one of the farmers, the one with no teeth, was saying as the Parisian sat back down. "I don't mess around with dogs or pigs--anyone with the eyes God gave him can find the things himself. Just look at where the flies are buzzing around, and you're found yourself a truffleroila!"
Bernard sat bolt upright in his chair, glass frozen halfway to his parted lips, excitement racing through his bloodstream like liquid lightning. He had twenty-twenty vision . . . the dreary hamlet was surrounded by truffle fields-. . . there was an almost full moon to aid visibility . . . and he knew flies kept late hours, for there'd been a couple driving him crazy all last night . . . the switchblade he always carried would do nicely for uprooting fungi.
With three kilos of truffles in hand, he could buy his motorcycle tomorrow and quit this goddamned bus-driving slave job. Hell, since he was surely more clever than these clowns, he could probably get a better price and have money left to blow in the casinos down on the coast. Have himself a fucking fine holiday!
Without even bothering to drain his drink, he hurriedly settled his bill and then scurried silently along the darkened cobblestone streets toward the outskirts of town.
CHAPTER NINE
Monica stood in the middle of a desolate open space outside the small village, a sandy, stony square of soil interspersed with dwarfed oaks which she quite naturally failed to identify as a "truffle trees". Everything-chalky pebbles, shriveled foliage, distant silhouettes of derelict farm buildings-was bathed in an eerie silver light as the waxing moon broke through a thick bank of black clouds. She pulled her lightweight cardigan closer around her breasts and continued on .. . walking, even in this wasted wilderness, was preferable to vegetating in that silent hotel room . . .
Her stomach felt hollow, but she scarcely heeded the hunger pangs. Far more compelling were the insistent twists of sexual desire which knotted her belly with each slashing stab of jealousy. Was Alan dancing with young Arlene or Cordelia right now .. . ? was his hand circling tightly around a teenaged waist, drifting toward the succulent swirls of firm adolescent buttocks and breasts? Probably she ought to have gone to the discotheque with the rest of them, for no reality could be worse than these love-sick fantasies . . . but she'd been ashamed to admit that thanks to her strict upbringing she'd never learned to dance.
Besides, she reminded herself, I wanted to be alone to think about Gene. But here all I can think about is Alan!
Until now, Monica had not considered herself a jealous person; in fact, she'd considered it a somewhat unchristian emotion. The fact that she was so obsessed with the darkly handsome older man surely must prove the depth of her love, mustn't it? Think of Romeo and Juliet, Othello, Tristan and Isolde ... It was also evident that she'd never truly been in love with Gene Puddocky, for even when they'd been at separate schools and only saw each other once a month or so, she'd never so much as wondered what he was doing in her absence.
"Why should I have worried what he was up to?" she whispered into the shrouded silence. "I knew he was either down at the library or over at the chapel."
Furthermore, there hadn't exactly been dozens of nubile nymphs parading their budding bodies around the seminary. Would he have noticed, even if there had been? No, most likely not. Gene had a lot of praiseworthy qualities, but he wasn't very-very, oh, masculine . . . masculine in the sense that Alan Dubois was.
At the thought of what a man the tour director was, a spasm of torment shuddered through her belly and vagina. Forty-eight short hours from now they would be lying in each other's arms in a room overlooking the sea, kissing and caressing and rediscovering that wild wonder they'd known in Paris. She assured herself she had no intention of letting him actually go all the way, but it was thrilling to know he wanted her, and her sensually starved body was ravenously eager for another taste of his skillful hands and lips.
Of course he wasn't fooling around with silly schoolgirls down at the disco, not if he loved her enough to desire her in this ultimate way! Her jealousy began melting away, but she still yearned to be beside Dubois instead of wandering all alone in this peculiar oak grove.
Oh, God! The crotch band of her panties was damp again! Monica feared she was turning into a depraved sex maniac, for this was happening several times a day lately, but she just couldn't control it.
Somewhere in the distance a dog howled at the moon, another dog answered it, and a human snarled out a string of obscenities which the hounds interpreted as meaning, shut up. Beneath all this was a strange sort of snuffling sound which puzzled the girl until she suddenly recalled long, dull Sunday dinners in the Puddocky's white frame farmhouse. . . lazy flies circling above the groaning platters of fried and chicken and mashed potatoes and berry pie . . . Gene's mother force-feeding seconds . . . Gene's father's prize porkers rutting in the pigsty outside the open kitchen window.
If Monica had needed more stimulus than her lust for Dubois to dismiss Gene from her future, this memory flash provided it. Even if she and Alan hadn't fallen head over heels in love, she realized that deep in her heart she didn't want her life to begin and end in Southern Illinois. Thank goodness she'd found out the Truth in time! Now, of course, she would have to tell Gene the Truth-to do anything else would be dishonest, even sinful-and pray he'd understand and meet some nice girl who really wanted to help him run his parish.
It would be a simple matter of a carefully composed "Dear Gene" letter, except for that religious publishers' convention in Monte-Carlo. Maybe she could manage to avoid him; quick re-reading of the letter in the moonlight showed he'd mentioned no specific dates, not even the name of his hotel. But no-that would be cowardly, childish . . . and anyway, she'd given him a copy of her itinerary so he'd know where to write her. She'd simply have to fight that battle when the time came.
"No point worrying about it till then, either," she murmured to herself. Then her heart unexpectedly lightened by having come to a definite decision, she turned back toward the distant church spire marking the village. Worry? What was there to worry about? She was young and pretty and in love, and sometime when those tormenting teens weren't around she'd have Alan teach her how to dance, and-
Her thoughts trailed off abruptly as she heard soft footsteps somewhere behind and to the left, but she was a country girl at heart and didn't panic. No doubt it was just some farmer making a before-bed inspection of his fields, and it might even be interesting to chat with a real peasant. Find out what crop grew in this strange stone soil. . . improve her French ... practice being the more extraverted Monica she was trying to become . . .
The cold metal smashed against the back of her skull before she'd had a chance to feel fear, knocked her into immediate unconsciousness as she tumbled sideways with a thud onto the gritty ground. She rolled over onto her back, neck twisted, mouth gasping open like a dead fish washed ashore, lovely long legs twisted like a tangled marionette's, a jagged crimson gash on one naked thigh . . . unmoving.
"Man Dieu!" Bernard's fingers clutched spasmodically at his switchblade handle as a blinding flood of fear washed over him, and his huge erection vanished as rapidly as it had appeared when he'd spied Miss Blakesley wandering alone through the truffle field. "Mon Dieu, did I kill her? Oh, no, no . . ."
He'd never meant to hit her that hard, just a little tap to knock her unconscious long enough to scare her into not screaming for help, but the wine had impaired his sense of judgment and he was in a furious mood due to having found no truffles at all in over an hour's searching. Just before seeing the Sunday school teacher, it had begun to dawn on his drunken mind that even if he had found the mushrooms he had no way to transport them and, more importantly, no place to hide three kilos of truffles from ten nosey fifteen year old roommates. He'd been heading back to the village bar.
Now he'd really blown everything! Not only had he missed his chance at screwing the sexy blonde American lady, but he'd probably spend the rest of his life rotting in prison and never fuck any female again. Prison? He'd be lucky to get a life sentence. Prison was for dope smugglers and robbers, not murderers. Murderers were sentenced to death! Bernard's blood froze to ice in his veins as he wondered whether they still executed people with a guillotine these days . . . there'd been an illustration in one of his textbooks, and it was about the only thing he still remembered from his eight years of schooling.
"Ooouugg . . . uuuggghhhh . . ."
She was alive! In pain, by the sound of it, but Cretin was too thankful to have escaped the guillotine's deadly blade to be bothered by petty details such as that. One thought focused clearly in his muddled mind: FUCKING. Fucking quickly and quietly so they'd not be heard by one of those bovine peasants who might choose to consider it rape, which of course it wasn't. The shapely chaperone might act like an old maid aunt, but she sure as hell wasn't one; he'd heard her begging for it in Dubois' hotel room in Paris, and she'd soon be pleading for his powerful prick in just the same lust-maddened manner!
The glinting silver blade snapped from its sheath in exact synchronization with his re-hardening phallus.
"Don't you dare make a sound," he waved the blade in her terror-twisted face, "or you'll be good and sorry!"
Her scream strangled in her fear-constricted throat, so that the cries which escaped were mere choking grunts, similar to the sounds of the swine in the nearby barnyard. This must be a nightmare-it had to be. No one was raped in the peaceful French countryside! So far, her head was still so dizzy that she failed to recognize the World Worshiper bus driver and assumed he must be a half-witted farm-boy until he spoke again, in English this time.
"I said you to shut up the mouth!" he growled ungrammatically, crouching down to hold the deadly instrument almost against her cringing neck. "Now I'm gonna fuck you, you slut! So just lie back and enjoy it!"
This was one phrase he knew by heart, for it had figured in many of the blue movies. For several years he'd been hoping against hope that he'd have the chance to use it someday.
"Wh-what? No, no!" she whispered. "B-Bernard? You can't You wouldn't dare!"
"You bet I dare, baby doll! You are the one who will not dare to say no!"
"What!? Oohhh, you're cr-crazy!"
"You are the one who is crazy, too! Crazy for the fucking! I know about you and the boss, baby! You make any trouble, and everyone else will know! So like I have said, lie back and enjoy it!"
Monica's heart leaped to her throat, more terrified than before even though he set the knife aside at last. Her lovely face distorted into a mask of pure horror, and her bruised body shook like a tree during a tornado.
"What's the matter? Mademoiselle doesn't think the bus driver's good enough for her precious pussy?"
Initially, the Frenchman hadn't really wanted to use violence; it had merely seemed a necessary means to his erotic ends, and he had been secretly wishing she'd voluntarily screw him out here in the moonlit truffle field. Now, however, a streak of sadism boiled in his bloodstream and he suddenly wanted to humiliate her the way the world constantly humiliated him. This savage intent was evident in his viciously glinting gray eyes, his lewdly sneering lips, and Monica instinctively sensed that he was a dangerous wild animal whom she did not dare resist.
"Please, Bernard. Please!" she tried to pacify him, plead with whatever better instincts he might possess. "Please don't do this to me! I'm-I'm a virgin, and-"
"Your are full of bullshit!" he displayed his new vocabulary. Then his feverish fingers were tearing her pink dress and modest white cotton brassiere and panties away from her shuddering body. "Full of bullshit. Now we fuck, fuck, fuck! And you will love it!"
Oh, God! What could she do? The boy was truly mad, there was no question about that, and the stench of wine on his garlic and onion breath told her that he was probably very drunk as well. Although he was an inch or so shorter than she was, he was far more muscular and was wielding a knife in a way that said he meant business.
He's going to RAPE me! The words were branded across her aching temples in day-glo headlines flashing over and over again. He's going to RAPE me! RAPE ME! RAPE ME!
While he finished ripping off her clothes, the chauffeur's prominent Adam's apple was bobbing up and down in tempo to his rasping breathing. The ugly sound reminded Monica of Gene's family's collie-it had made noises just like that when the beagle next door was in heat and it had to be chained up. If only this crazy criminal could be chained up, right now! If only she'd never left Orchardburg! If only-
"Aaahhhhh! Don't! Ugh, don't, don't!
The horrible boy's drooling lips had fastened fang-like on her tender nipple tips, biting down so viciously she was sure he was drawing blood. Was he perhaps a vampire as well as a rapist? At this point, she was ready to believe anything!
"Ta' quille!" he slobbered against her ivory white mounds, nipping ferociously again.
The Sunday school teacher froze into paralyzed silence, not because she understood his command the most vulgar form of "shut up", not included in her dictionary-but because she saw that one of his grimy-nailed hands was yanking down the zipper of his bell-bottomed pants. Oh, God, she couldn't let this happen! But what could she do to stop him nothing!
Bernard's zipper was stuck. He reluctantly removed his mouth from the delicious mounds of flesh, noting with sadistic glee that red droplets of blood were poised on their snow-white skin, to apply himself to the important task of getting out of his trousers
"Bet that made your tits feel good," he sniggered as he frantically fumbled at his painfully swollen fly, "and this here is going to make you feel even better, you slut!"
Stinging tears brimmed up in the corners of the young woman's big brown eyes, and a convulsive shudder wracked her naked figure. The tears weren't from pain, though her back and buttocks were cruelly cut by the gravel she was lying on and her head throbbed from his first blow. What was far, far more distressing than these hardships, so humiliating that she wished she could die on the spot, was that in fact her tortured breasts were tingling with the same pleasure as when Alan had tenderly sucked them. Her degraded body fell limp as she concentrated every ounce of her remaining energy on obliterating the forbidden tremors shooting out from her stimulated nipples
"Here we go, baby!" Bernard groaned in relief as the zipper finally gave and his pulsating cock burst forth into the cool night air of the truffle field. "How do you like that? Big enough for ya, huh?
More lines from the movies. And, in fact, he felt like one of those heroes with a huge, endlessly hammering hard-on as he brandished his impressive thick-veined cudgel above the cowering blonde's terrified face.
"Bigger than the boss', I bet!" he bragged, easing back his foreskin to reveal the blood-bloated head and eagerly oozing glans slit.
Monica prayed that he was going to put the vicious-looking flesh weapon between her lips. That would be disgusting enough, but at least she'd still retain the precious gift of her maidenhead to give to the man she loved. But no-he was yanking her shaking thighs apart, his ragged nails cutting into their sensitive skin like nails, his stink of garlic and wine and sweat suffusing her nostrils as he straddled her helpless virgin loins.
"No, no, no!" she whimpered. "Forgive me, Alan ... I can't help it!"
"Damn you! Forget about that shit-head Dubois! You're with me, bitch, and you're going to love it, too!"
"No!" She knew it was very unwise to argue with the perverted sex maniac, but how could she save at least a scrap of her self-respect if she didn't defend herself? "You can use my body, you animal, because I can't stop you! But you'll never, never make me like it! Never!"
He slapped her face with all the pent-up strength of frustration in his wiry body, receiving such a jolt of brute sexual excitement from her grovel of groaning pain that he slapped it again and again. Now she'd have two black eyes and a lot of bruises to explain away tomorrow, and it served the stuck-up bitch right! Thought she was too good for him, did she? He'd show her a thing or two!
For a moment or two the agony-wracked woman actually lost consciousness again, and when she came to she wished she hadn't. Better that he kill her out here in the arid moonlit acre than that she suffer any more of this ego-destroying degradation.
The worst thing of all was that deep in her heart she realized her brave rebutal was a lie. His sadistic slaps, the way he treated her like a chep slut, his absolute power over her body were exciting her in a strange masochistic way. Down in her traitorous pussy, damning droplets of quivering desire were forming . . . when he saw that, he'd know for sure that she was indeed the secret whore he'd claimed she was. This particular mortification didn't come to pass after all, for Cretin's angry red cock was pulsating with out-of-control arousal. Unless he wanted to spill his seething seed over the truffle beds, he hadn't a moment to waste.
"Turn over!" he barked. "Get on your belly. I wanna take you from behind like the she-bitch you are!"
Hating him, but loathing herself even more for the sinful slithering pleasure she derived from following his vile orders, she eased onto all fours just like a dog and arranged her bruised body facedown on the rough soil. Bits of sand and gritty gravel crushed painfully against the bloody cuts on her upper leg and bitten breasts, but in a way she was grateful to be able to bury her face in the cold damp ground instead of looking at the acne-scarred assailant's evil grin of lecherous triumph.
The moment of vague relief lasted about half a second before his sweat-sticky hands were back on her naked thighs. "Spread your goddamn legs, whore! Let me at that hot little cunt of yours!"
Even if she'd dared to try, she would have been unable to resist his hoarse commands. Her muscles had developed the flabby consistency of putty and had totally stopped obeying the orders her dazed brain dully attempted to send them. It was no use ... her dream of a delicate deflowering by a romantic lover was already destroyed by this merciless monster. His blunt cock-head abruptly pressed up against the cringing mouth of her vagina, white-hot and wet and hard as granite; perhaps the gigantic cudgel would kill her .. . that might be all for the best. ..
The moon emerged from a passing cloud, a lopsided silver circle starkly silhouetted against the starless sky, and Bernard moaned in rapid hunger as his helpless victim's voluptuous figure was clearly outlined. Jesus Christ! Never in his life had he so much as dreamed of actually ravishing a woman who looked better than his favorite Color Climax models! Milk-white buttocks billowing out from a gracefully indented waist and a pair of legs which would tempt a saint. . . and that pussy! sparse ringlets of gold half-hiding a glistening slit of coral-pink cunt! When he dug his nails into the resilient flesh of her ass-cheeks to spread them, he could see the dime-sized ring of her tiny anus winking at him in unwitting invitation.
"When I get done with your pussy, I'll give you a taste of my prick! he chuckled crudely, sluicing his middle finger down into the spasmodically clutching orifice. "Betcha like it in the ass too, don't you, cunt?"
Monica was so innocent she didn't really know what he was talking about, but she was too horrified by her body's lewd lurch of response to his probing finger to wonder about it. Oh, God, she had to quench these lascivious tongues of flame which were starting to spread like wildfire through her treacherous loins. She had to!
After a couple stinging smacks on the pliant half-moons of each trembling nether cheek, Cretin couldn't wait another second. He hadn't believed for a minute that she was telling the truth when she wailed out that she was a virgin, and even if he had ne was too aroused to give a damn about treating her gently. All that mattered to the wine-and-lust maddened Frenchman was immediate satisfaction for his torturously throbbing thickness. He plunged it like a battering ram into the tiny pink hole between her splayed-apart thighs, moaning like a madman, digging his hands into her jouncing buttocks for support so fiercely he again drew blood.
"AAAHHHHHH!"
Pain, the most excruciating physical agony she'd ever endured, sliced through her like a flame-fanged sword. Monica writhed and shrieked beneath the impaling torture instrument, her sinful arousal blotted from her brain as wave after wave of murderous misery crashed out to every cell in her battered body. Suddenly she realized that he really was going to kill her, and that she did not want to die.
"Oh, dear God, help me! Save me!" she tried to pray, but the imploring words echoed hollowly in her own head, and neither her Guardian Angel nor the Heavenly Father sent any aid.
"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy word be done, onon-on-"
Her babbles died off in a sob as she realized she'd forgotten the words to the Lord's Prayer-her Faith had deserted her! Perhaps this obscene assassin had been sent to punish her for her sins of the flesh with Alan Dubois back at the Hotel Modern, for drinking alcohol and painting her face and fading off into lurid, pussy-dampening dreams during tours of sacred chapels.
Her assailant's pile-driving piston plunged harder, trying to tear its way through the tissue-thin barrier of her resisting hymen, and all attempts at prayer gave way to another outburst of anguish. It was impossible to endure this agony much longer!
Hounds in surrounding farms chained began howling in answer to what they thought was a bitch in heat, a canine chorus of carnality, which echoed eerirly in the mottled moonlight and hid the subjugated schoolteacher's screams from their slumbering masters' ears. Had it been winter, the peasants would have left their warm beds to investigate, but there was no reason to fear truffle thieves till the season began in late October. This was July; they shrugged and yawned, perhaps rolled over to pump into their plump, impassive bed partners, then started snoring soundly once more.
The frenzied French rapist was as oblivious to the barking dogs as the animals' owners. Paranoid fantasies about gendarmes and guillotines had been blotted from his brain, and he was now groaning almost as loudly as the sybjugated school-teacher beneath his grinding groin. Her cunt was so incredibly tight that even his fierce impaling thrusts had a hard time parting the clinging pink petals of her pussy-lips and inching down into her narrow, butter-smooth channel. Every vein and pucker of the closely clasping walls was branded against his strenuously stroking flesh pole, and the exquisite erotic sensations were so intense they were almost agonizing.
Bernard paid no more heed to her panting pleas than he did to the guard dogs. Until tonight he'd never been laid without; investing at least fifty francs for the privilege of pouring his pent-up sperm into some streetwalker's shopworn cunt--this shameful secret had been the scourge of his sex-obsessed existence. Triumph throbbed through his veins as he realized that from now on in he could hold his head high against any six-foot super-stud around, for no cock on the continent could possibly have conquered a more exciting pussy than beautiful Miss Blakesley's!
"AAArrgghhhhhh ... oh, God! Oouugghhhhh!"
American guys must have real skinny little pricks or something, the Parisian bus driver decided, for she'd obviously never had a cock even half as powerful as his inside this gloriously pressuring passage of hers. Christ, she was as tight as a-as tight as a-
"Goddamn!" he bellowed suddenly as the truth hit him. "I don't fucking believe it! You've got your cherry!"
His first virgin! And, what was even more monumental, he'd gotten into her tight blonde box before his boss, that stuck-up asshole Dubois!
Flicking his passion-propelled hips forward in a violent thrust, he battered his blunt-nosed knob against the fragile membrane of the groaning girl's straining maidenhead. His bellowing battle cry resounded through miles of moonlit truffle orchards.
"Get ready, bitch! Here it comes! AAAG GGH HHHH!"
Monica had sincerely thought she'd reached the utmost limits of human endurance, but the urgency of his animal outcry warned her that worse was yet to come. A fresh flood of fear tensed the stretched muscles of her fire-filled vagina into rigid ropes, heightening her agony as his relentless ramrod finally shattered her hymen and charged straight up to the hilt to crash against her sensitive cervix.
The fatal thrust stunned her into silence. Her tortured loins twitched like a gasping fish washed up to wither on the shore, and then she collapsed in a limp heap of pain as devil's pitchforks raked searing blue flames from her vanquished vagina to every nerve and fiber of her being. For a seeming eternity she wallowed in a black sea of swirling, sickening agony, too dazed to realize the awesome significance of the sticky pool of warm moisture forming between her spasming inner thighs.
"Uuhhh ... ooohhh ... uuuhhhh ...."
The breath broke in harsh rasps from Bernard Cretin's lungs as he recuperated from his energetic assault. For short minutes he let his conquering cock lie still inside the warm sheath of his victim's vagina, but as he spied small drops of blood oozing out around his impaling weapon, he grew so excited that he immediately withdrew his throbbing cock part of the way out and began fucking in earnest. His seed was already boiling down in his bloated testicles, demanding release.
A shriek burst from the Sunday school teacher's constricted throat as his turgid cock pulled nearly out of her no-longer-pure pussy, but in the same instant her well-stretched vaginal muscles automatically relaxed. In her almost total ignorance of the sex act, she believed that everything was over. Thank God! She'd probably been damaged in some dreadful way internally-perhaps she'd never walk again-and she would never in her entire life feel clean or decent again, but at least the torture was over and she was miraculously still alive. At least"Aagghhhh! NO! Pleeezzzeee-not again! Aaa-hhh!"
His thick member slid smoothly into her relaxed vagina this time and immediately began pumping in and out in the age-old rhythm of man fucking woman. Despite Monica's continuous stream of wails and whimpers, it wasn't more than a minute before she realized with a dull thud of despair that her anguish was morphing by some black magic into the first twinges of obscene arousal.
"No ... no ... no ... " Her voice dropped to a plaintive prayer as she vainly attempted to quell the rising tide of sensuality.
This was unthinkable! She must be going insane! How could her belly be flooded with wicked excitation by an immoral madman who'd just robbed her of her innocence, integrity, and every cherished childhood ideal?
Exerting every ounce of energy she could summon, the self-repulsed blonde squeezed her bruised white thighs shut around his impaling hardness ramming into her from behind and simultaneously clenched her full ass-cheeks together. This well intentioned but ignorant maneuver only sparked new tingles of strange masochistic excitement; and the ensuing spasm of guilt, oddly enough, also ignited her traitorous loins with unwanted warmth.
"You like my cock, baby?" wheezed the wildly fucking Frenchman. "Better than the big boss, huh? He wasn't enough of a man to screw you, was he? What did he do-have you jerk him off while he twiddled your twat? Haaaaaa!"
The lewd chortle of mirth chilled Monica-God, how she loathed this inhuman creature-but it had no effect on the onrushing tide of passionate pleasure-pain. What in the world was the matter with her? She could detest Cretin! She did hate him, in fact; but she nevertheless craved his pounding penis, longed for more and more of his brutal strokes even though her punished pussy passage was burning and sore.
"You like my prick?" he demanded again. In all the blue movies the hero had made the heroine beg for it, and his own pleasure wouldn't be complete without hearing Miss Blakesley humble herself. "C'mon, bitch, say it! Say you love my big hard cock!"
Where did this filthy-minded bus driver ever learn to speak that kind of English? Monica's mind whirled wildly. But she didn't care, not really. All that mattered was that she suddenly felt her backside arching up in lewd invitation, just as it had done to meet darling Alan's loving tongue thrusts. She forced her loins to lie still against the damp gravel, but the swollen nub of her clitoris nudged against an inconveniently located smooth stone and the friction was so titillating that before she knew it her buttocks were once again wriggling up to the rapist's rampaging rod.
"Say it, slut! Say you want more of my cock in your cheap cheating cunt! Say it!" He lashed out his open palm to smack first one, then the other of her firmly jouncing ass-cheeks. Hell, he couldn't wait much longer before shooting his load into this fantastically tight cunthole-the pressure of his balls dancing on her smooth buttocks was growing unendurable! "BEG FOR IT!"
She'd not really paid any attention to Bernard's commands till he struck her, had only been aware that he was spewing out vile obscenities and that these were having a wickedly arousing effect on her sinful body. Now, realizing what he wanted her to do, she felt a wave of fresh horror ripple over her.
"No .. . nooo . .. NNOOOOO! I d-don't want it! NOOO!"
The girl's wails were loud, but unconvincing. Even the intoxicated, lust-maddened bus driver could hear the hysterical note in her voice, the ready-to-break tone of anguish.
"Then why are you bucking back on my prick, you crazy nympho?" he jeered, allowing himself the sadistic pleasure of a few more vicious blows on the pliant moons of her backside. "You think you're something special 'cause you teach Sunday school, but you're just another hungry cunt like every other woman around. BEG FOR MY COCK!"
Something was starting to crack inside the girl's soul at the barrage of blows and venomous vulgarities, plus the throbbing chords of oncoming orgasm which were strumming a wanton symphony in her cock-stuffed pussy and churning belly. I have to do what he says, she rationalized in a last moment of semi-clarity, not admitting even to herself that she not only wanted his brutally battering cudgel, but actually wanted to spit out all the filthy obscenities she'd ever heard. If I don't say it, he'll beat me up . . . kill me with his knife, maybe...
"All right, you bastard!" She rose her head from the ground, spitting grit and sand from her lips as she gave way at last to lascivious lust. "I want it-I want your cock in my cunt! I love your fucking cock, and I want more, more, MORE!"
Good Lord, was that her own viice shrieking out in the darkness? She'd turned into a depraved, degenerate subhuman like himself-and she didn't give a damn any longer!
"FUCK ME!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, body writhing in unrestricted lust now as she strained for the same marvelous climax she'd experienced only once before in her twenty-two years. "FUCK ME-fuck me hard! Hit me, kick me, do whatever you want to me-but make me cum! MAKE ME CUM!"
It was too much for Cretin. Even as her carnal cries split the night air, his sperm-bloated balls gave a vigorous lurch and the first seething drops of seed started their pell-mell rush down the long tube of his penis. This was going to be the most mind-blowing orgasm he'd ever had!
Monica felt the vein on the backside of the man's tightly embedded flesh rod pulsing crazily, and some instinct told her he was about to ejaculate inside her. She strained like a madwoman to reach her own release in time, pressing her quivering clitoris against the rough ground, mashing her raw nipples into the mud, flailing her buttocks upward so his velvet-soft sperm sacs danced against the backs of her upper thighs. Just two minutes more-one minute more . . . she was on the brink and any moment now she would explode with mindless ecstasy ...
"Ahhhh!" groaned the bus driver. "Now-yes! Aaagghhh, I'm cumming! CCUUMMIINNGGGG!"
Gushing jets of white-hot semen splashed against the walls of the crazily gyrating girl's vagina, and suddenly her whole body fell limp as the dizzy peak of desire on which she'd been hovering evaporated and left her wallowing in a cold vacuum of frustrated lust. Her lacerated loins lay in a sensation-less heap as the blissfully moaning male shot flood after flood of warm life-giving seed into her numbed channel. Why hadn't the bastard waited for her? Oh God, why, why?
Then, as Bernard's shrinking phallus shot its last sticky white spurt and slipped from her cuntal lips with a lewd sucking slurp, guilt and self-loathing once again overwhelmed the no-longer-innocent Sunday school teacher. With a shudder she craned her neck around to stare in repulsion at the half-naked youth, at the sticky rivulets of his copious cum dribbling over her dirty, bruised legs... at the dark-red stains of dried blood on the stones of the truffle field. She tried to roll out from under Bernard, to locate her clothes, to escape.
Escape? What escape would she ever find from the ugly knowledge of her own depravity?
There were mud stains on her pink dress, the same garment Alan Dubois had complimented her on this morning. He'd said she was like a spring blossom. No longer.
On the hem was a reddish-brown smudge of blood from her ravished vagina. And her white brassiere and panties had both been torn by the despicable driver who now lay sated and half-snoring on the ground, his wasted erection dangling like a limp pink balloon between his thin, wiry thighs. Monica shuddered violently, and her fingers trembled so badly she could barely fasten the few remaining buttons on her dress.
"Hey, what's wrong with you?" Cretin mumbled as he half-awoke from his post-orgasmic daze. "We got the whole night ahead of us! Just wait a couple minutes, cherie, and I'll show that sweet asshole of yours those tricks I promised."
She stumbled back a few steps, collided into the trunk of one of the dwarfed oak trees, and began to cry helplessly.
"What are you bawling about? We had a great fuck, huh?" A belligerent note crept into his voice as he recognized the familiar contemptuous dislike in her wide brown eyes. "Git out of that dress and back down here, stupid bitch!"
He lunged to his feet, but before his hands could touch her paralyzed body an expression of pure terror wiped the puffy-lipped leer from his pimply face and he too snatched up his imitation snakeskin boots and frantically began stuffing his limbs into his over-tight trousers. It was a second or two before the stunned blonde realized what had frightened him so badly: heavy footsteps, and a dog's yapping barking, suddenly resounded in her boggled brain; the noises were a long way behind them ... but not that far. And there was a pinpoint of light waving in search between the twisted tree trunks of the truffle plantation, the sort of glare cast by a high-power flashlight or large lantern.
"What the hell's going on out here?" a sleepy, faraway voice echoed toward them.
Bernard didn't even bother trying to pull up his bothersome zipper. Visions of guillotines danced through his head as he darted into the shadows beside the girl's frozen figure, gripped her arm, and hauled her off after him at a stumbling run.
"Move, you stupid bitch! You want them to catch us?"
Why run? Where's there to run to now? she sobbed into the bleak silence of her soul. There was nowhere to go now but the dead-end of hellish depravity, of that she was absolutely sure, for above all other emotions there was still that dull ache of desire hungrily throbbing down in her sinful cunt.
CHAPTER TEN
One franc... two francs... three francs... nine shiny French francs slipped smoothly into the pin-ball machine's slitted mouth and disappeared forever into its gaudy green and gilt stomach as the mesmerized Illinois farmer's son pumped up and down on the robot's handle. Suddenly, realizing that there was only one coin left in his perspiring palm, he stopped to scrutinize the silver circle through his thick bifocals. It was shaped like an American quarter and worth about the same at the present rate of exchange; but Benjamin Franklin's solemn head had been replaced by a flowing-haired female whose long robe emphasized the contours of her buttocks legs, and there was no mention of "In God We Trust".
Gene Puddocky frowned. If God wasn't backing the French franc, he wasn't at all sure he ought to, either. He turned toward the man beside him, a friendly older fellow who'd brought him here against his better judgment.
"Hey, uh, Elmer?" he asked uneasily.
Elmer Watkins, Faith Press Middle America Sales Representative, didn't hear the divinity student. He continued frantically feeding in fist-fulls of francs, oblivious not only to his companion but also to the jostling croWd and even to the distracting motif of bikini-clad blondes on his magenta machine. For the first time, Gene noticed that his own contrivance was covered with evil-eyed Green Berets hurling knives at blood-spattered North Vietnamese. His frown deepened, for he was, in principle, a non-violent pacifist.
"Hey listen, Elmer," he tried again, reaching out to pluck the shoulder of Watkins' sweat-stained white shirt.
"Hallelujah!" The salesman hopped up and down as his young companion stared incredulously, then grabbed a soiled handkerchief from his pocket to catch the thin stream of silver regurgitating from his box. "Hit the jackpot! Five hundred francs, Gene kid! Five fat ones! Whippee!"
The student's watery brown eyes blinked disbelievingly at the cascade of cash from behind his thick lenses. Then his hand, moving without directions from his brain, dropped his last sweat-sticky coin into the slot.
"Tough luck, kid!" Watkins clapped him on the back, amiable as he'd been ever since he'd attached himself to the innocent seminarian yesterday. "But that's gambling! Can't tell what's gonna happen with these here one-armed bandits. What the hell! I won enough for us both to take on the town tonight! Look out, Monte Carlo!"
"G-gambling?" Gene's lanky frame shuffled uneasily away from the "bandit" which had devoured his ten francs. "Yes-I suppose it is gambling," he gulped in guilty chagrin. "Isn't it?"
"Well, I figure it is, in my book at least." Elmer wiped his swarthy face with the back of his hand. "But you're the expert, professor. Sure ain't big-time gamblin', though-but now we can give that a go, whaddya say?"
As he spoke, Elmer was guiding the distracted younger man through the crowd, and he had to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard above the international babble and clanking coins. Soon he'd changed his tokens to five not-very-crisp hundred franc bills and was leading the bleak-faced Puddocky outside to the cafe.
The Monte Carlo Casino, a Baroque birthday cake of a building whose steps swarmed with tourists and uniformed guards, was just to the left of where they sat. Gene regarded it sadly. How could he have deluded himself into thinking that a sin exclusively confined to that extravagant edifice ... that there could be no true temptations of the Devil in a place with the innocuous name of "Cafe de Paris". Now he'd committed a sin, and deep inside he knew why: he'd been too proud to act like a country greenhorn around the more worldly-wise publisher's representative.
Ten francs ... that was approximately what his cup of cafe au hit and the International Herald Tribune had cost him this morning. Tomorrow he would do penance for his sin of wastefulness by foregoing these little pleasures-but how should he do penance for his more dire sin of greed?
"How about something to slick the throat 'fore we hit the Casino, kid?" Elmer's jovial, overloud voice interrupted the boy's reverie. "Order anything ya want-it's on me!"
"I-I really don't think I'd better go to the Casino," he was embarrassed to find his face reddening. "Thanks anyway. But you see, I don't think the authorities at my school would approve, and since I'm their official representative ..."
Watkins wanted to snort with laughter, but he contained himself. This kid was a weirdo if he'd ever seen one, but if he played his cards right he'd be able to convince him to buy a good selection of Faith Books for his damn seminary's library. Just now, he needed to make a big sale in the worst way; he'd only gotten his promotion by dint of his divorced sister remarrying the vice president, and there were ominous rumors circulating around concerning his demotion after only six months. If he had to move out of his new semi-private office and go back on the road peddling Bibles to revival meetings and hick towns in the Bible belt, he'd go out of his fucking mind!
"Up to you of course, kid," he smiled at Puddocky's worry-wrinkled high forehead and guileless brown eyes. "Now my motto's you oughtta try everything once, just for the experience, y'know. Why don't we have a drink while you think it over anyway, okay. Garcon! Garcon!"
Since Watson had pronounced garcon as though it rhymed with parson, it was some time before a waiter appeared at their white wrought-iron table. Neither of them minded much, Watson being contented to watch the well-dressed girls and luxury cars parading by, and Gene's thoughts having drifted from repentance to his beautiful blonde fiancee, Monica Blakesley. When would they meet again? tonight? tomorrow? And when they did meet, would she still love him after having been exposed to so many more sophisticated, suave men here in Europe? Until now he'd never felt a flicker of insecurity-he'd been head of his class since First Grade and he'd never considered that any other criteria might be important. Now, he felt decidedly uneasy.
"Two Pernods," Elmer puffed up his chest as a waiter finally dawdled in their direction. Then, not liking the way the man seemed to be sneering down his long Gallic nose at him, he added, "Two double Pernods."
"Pernod?" Gene craned his neck questioningly toward the older man. "What's that? I-I better just have a Coke, I think."
"Awh, c'mon kid, don't be a wet blanket!" Elmer joked. "Everyone in France drinks Pernod-you gotta try it. And it tastes great. You'll love it."
The salesman neither knew nor cared what the alcoholic stuff might taste like, for what he did know about it was far more interesting: it was an aphrodisiac! After he'd gotten this naive youngster smashed out of his mind, he'd find them some cute chicks and his sale would be clinched! Any guy who'd been stuck in a school without any girls around must be horny as hell, and therefore undyingly grateful to whomever was helpful enough to see that he got laid.
"Actually," Gene's prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his long throat. "I really don't feel I should be drinking alcohol..."
"Don't worry! Pernod's not alcohol, hot really. It's one of them liqueur things like-uh, like cooking sherry."
Cooking sherry? Surely he'd have been better off with a Coca-Cola. Not that it really mattered; the only important thing was getting in touch with Monica. Already he'd rung up the youth hostel at least a dozen times, but she was never there and when he'd asked them to leave a message the girl had been most uncooperative.
"Well, if I happen to see her I will, but after all, M'sieur, this is a youth hostel, not a courier service!"
Of course Monica must be out and about a lot with the kids, taking them on tours and picnics and things . . . but it was odd she'd not been in at ten-thirty when he'd phoned last night. Gene decided to try again as soon as they'd finished this Pernod drink. It was only about seven now, still time for them to have a romantic seaside dinner together and then a moonlit stroll along the beach. Lately it had occurred to him that he'd been a shade too platonic in their relationship, and this would be just the time and place to rectify that.
"Hey, willya get an eyeful of that one!" leered Elmer suddenly. "Y'know what I dig about French chicks? The way they wear their pants so tight! Dunno how they can walk but I sure am glad they do!"
Sometimes, Gene reflected, his constant companion was really a bit vulgar... but that was what one expected of salesmen, wasn't it? Watkins wasn't studying to be a minister the way he himself was and obviously would have different standards of behavior, especially considering that he was a bachelor on top of being a salesman.
"Yes, she's quite attractive," he said after a polite glance in the direction of a half-naked bottle-blonde poised with hand on well-fleshed hip while her pet
Afghan pissed on a bed of carnations.
"Attractive? Man, you need your glasses changed! That honey pie's one of the sexiest pieces of ass I've seen in a blue moon. They sure don't make, 'em that way back in Indiana, and not in Illinois either. Take another squint at her tits!"
Gene felt his face growing warm and ruddy once more, his friend's voice was so loud that people at neighboring tables were turning to stare witheringly at them. To hide his self-consciousness, he took a long gulp of the yellow liquid which had appeared on their round table along with a pitcher of water, little dishes of green olives and crackers, and an upside-down bill.
"Well, ain't this a classy spread!"
Watkins, too, ignored the ice-water; if whiskey was good straight, Pernod must be dynamite. The anise-flavored liquid tasted rather nasty, but he was drinking the stuff in the spirit of a medicine anyway so there seemed no reason to complain. Gene wasn't complaining either, not wanting to appear gauche, but after a couple swallows he found he almost liked the drink which reminded him vaguely of licorice candy.
'There's another one for ya, kid. Lookit' over there in the corner-the redhead in the white thing with her boobs hangin' out on the table. We sure picked the right spot to sit for the scenery, hahaha! Hey, garcon, a couple more of these here Pernods over here!"
"I don't think-"
Watkins ignored him, not on purpose but because he was already feeling half-intoxicated. All afternoon, while Gene Puddocky visited the Cathedral, Palace, and Tropical Gardens, he'd been wandering around stopping for a beer whenever he felt hot and bored. There hadn't been much else for him to do, since most of the other delegates were stuck-up snobs from the coasts or places like Chicago and didn't seem to want anything to do with him.
"And there's another blonde walking down the Casino steps-if you're one of those guys like myself who prefers blondes. Wonder what she does for a livin'? She look like a working girl to you, kid?"
He had a bit of difficulty focusing his eyes-must be the sub-tropical heat that was making him feel dizzy. Since the pious farmer's son was one of those rare personages who could honestly swear to never having over-indulged in all his twenty-five years, he took another unsuspecting swig while picking out the blonde in question. Sure, she was pretty-about the same build as Monica Blakesley, with the same sort of ripe-melon breasts and full, firm buttocks, movie-star legs-that strapless halter top and slit-to-the-thigh skirt were far too immodest. His girl was a lady who'd never dream of dressing like a brazen hussy, and he was a low-minded cad for even imagining her in such a shameless costume.
"How about us meeting a couple cute working gals like her this evening, Gene, old boy?"
"Huh. Er, excuse me. What were you saying, Elmer?"
"What's wrong, kid? You feeling okay? You ain't heard a word I've said!"
Puddocky was indeed feeling most peculiar, but he couldn't put his finger on just what was wrong. That queer pizza Provencal he'd had for lunch with its anchovies and olive oil, perhaps? . . . but no, his stomach was all right and in fact he was so hungry he'd just wolfed down the entire bowl of salty crackers and was grateful when another glass of thick liquid appeared before him.
"I feel fine!" he said, and it was true. He felt great, on top of the world, like a kid on the last day of school with three months of summer freedom stretching before him.
"Good! So what I asked ya was, how 'bout us hooking up with a couple classy Monte-Carlo working chicks and having a night on the town? Sounds good, huh?!"
Gene cleared his throat. "Well, as a matter of fact, I just happen to have a girl friend who's working here on the Cote d'Azur this month," he began, wondering why the older man's eyes suddenly bulged from their sockets. "She's with an organization called World Worshipers-perhaps you've heard of it?-who gave her this summer job as an assistant chaperone for teen tours in Europe. She had a lot of experience, you see-she's taught
Sunday school since she was fourteen. Of course it was the chance of a lifetime for her because she's never been out of the Midwest before . . . but I have missed her . . ."
"Oh, yeah? Sunday school teacher, huh? Is she blonde?" Elmer's eyes glinted with ill-disguised lechery as a lurid memory flashed through his aphrodisiac-incited mind. "Garconl'We need a refill an' some more of them Frito things!"
"Y-Yes, she's a blonde." Gene stood up, long legs wobbling at first but steadying after he held onto the back of the chair and took a few deep breaths. "I was just going to give her a call and invite her out to dinner."
"Ask her to bring a girl friend, won'tcha, pal?" They might have different definitions of a "working girl", they both appreciated fair-haired church-school teachers-albeit for quite dissimilar reasons.
"Well, I don't know. I mean, I think Monica is only working with fourteen and fifteen year olds, so-"
"Hell, I ain't got nothin' against Sunday school pupils, neither," Watkins speech was growing increasingly slurred and vulgar. "Not a goddamn thing, jist so they're old enough to have nice little titties."
The same unhelpful receptionist answered the phone at the Cap d'Ail youth hostel, but just as Gene was about to hang up in frustration someone new picked up the receiver-a male who, wonder of wonders, spoke English. "Hello?" he spoke hopefully, but carefully, for his voice was having the strangest tendency to slur. "I'm trying to get in-touch with a young lady by the name of Miss Blakesley-it's very urgent!"
"You search Miss Blakesley?"
If he hadn't seen on his Michelin map that Cap d'Ail was just a skip and a jump down the coast from Monaco, Puddocky would have thought he was talking to the Canary Islands or something. Or had something gone wrong with his ears, as well as his vision and coordination ... ?
"Yes, yes-can you help me, please? She's my fiancee, you see, and-"
"Your fiancee? Ah, yes! You must search her at the Hotel Modern, here on Cap d'Ail. But I am afraid it will be at least one hour before she returns home from the church excursion."
Puddocky thanked the man profusely and weaved precariously back to where Elmer Watkins sat before a fresh round of Pernod. The middle-aged salesman's pudgy hands were plucking up green olives and popping them into his mouth as though they'd been peanuts, and there was a debauched glimmer in his blood-shot eyes as he turned eagerly to ask, "Didja reach her? She gotta friend, huh?"
It felt good to be sitting securely on a chair again instead of balancing on his incredibly clumsy feet among the clutter of chairs on the Cafe de Paris' terrace. Gene started to reach for his glass, but something somersaulted in his stomach and he hastily pushed it toward the other man.
"Here, you have this-I just want some water," he mumbled as the wave of nausea rose and then thankfully died away. "Yes, Monica's there-or will be in an hour, anyway. Thank goodness! But I didn't speak with her, so I don't know about a friend."
Watkins accepted the Pernod, since it was obvious the ministry student would be totally incapacitated if he drank any more. "Have some olives, though," he offered. "Good to have sumpthin' in your stomach. Besides, I just remembered a buddy of mine telling me that green olives were good for the old pecker. So eat up, kid!"
Gene obediently bit into an olive, noting with detached curiosity that his taste buds seemed as dulled as his hearing and sight. The only sense which seemed fully-abnormally, actually-alive was a dull throbbing ache deep in his groin at the thought of seeing his beautiful Monica, but this emotion was even more disturbing than his general loss of physical facilities.
"Good for the old what?" he inquired.
"Your pecker, kid, your prick, whatever the hell you wanna call it. That cock of yours that's gonna be giving your girl a hell of a good time soon, you lucky son of a bitch."
Really! Gene turned bright crimson. This salesman was a good-natured, friendly fellow, but he had a foul mouth. And, what was more, he seemed to be acting the way great-uncle Horace had after getting into the dandelion wine. He wished he could think of an excuse to leave right now, but it wasn't in his nature to either tell white lies or act rude.
"Harumph!" His Adam's apple wobbled as he gulped long droughts of cleansing water. "Monica isn't-uh, she's not that sort of girl."
"Haha!" snorted Elmer. He was so amused that he choked on his drink and sputtered little bits of olive and drops of Pernod into his soiled handkerchief. 'There's only one sort of girl, kid! Lemme tell ya a story that'll prove it! 'Bout five years back, when I was still driving 'round goddamn Indiana peddling Bibles to churches and prayer meetings and all that crap, I met this evangelist lady. What was her name now... Sally?... Susie? ... Cindy ...? Yeah-that was it-Sister Cynthia! Anyhow, this gal was a blonde just like your Monica, an'..."
Puddocky drained the last drops from the water jug and tried to ignore his companion's indecent expose, but it was no use. A dull, nagging suspicion that he himself was also intoxicated was bothering his conscience, and he was certain his supervisors and advisors back at the Seminary wouldn't approve of him fraternizing with a foul-mouthed, corrupting character like Watkins no matter how interesting and lucratively priced Faith Press' offerings might happen to be. Somehow-, however, he found himself listening to Elmer's shockingly graphic account, told in a loud voice, about a voluptuous lady preacher who fell into a forbidden liaison with a teenager, but was later converted to "normal" sex in an anal attack by valiant, virile Watkins himself.
Two old ladies, obviously English-speaking, dragged their yipping poodles and shopping bags away from the next table down. A passing waiter's head jerked sharply in the direction of the salesman's sonorous voice, and his tray crashed to the cement as he collided with an unwary German dowager's dachshund fat. Two clean-cut businessmen types nearby hurried their blushing wives to a table some safe yards away.
Why couldn't he move away, too? Why was he sitting here listening to this filth? Gene made one attempt after another to propel himself into motion, but it was as though he were hypnotized by the balding man's bloodshot, beady eyes and vile obscenities. Gene had so many sins to repent for after only a day in Monte Carlo that he didn't know how he'd ever dare face his spiritual advisors back at the seminary in Illinois.
"You should've seen her! Twitching and bucking and begging for more of my cock in her hot little asshole there in that crummy tent in the middle of the woods! Christ, was she ever turned-on! Lemme give ya a hint, kid! Ya wanna show a broad who's boss, and turn her into a crazy nympho at the same time, try a good screw in the ass. If it worked with Sister Cynthia, man, it'd work with anyone!"
Puddocky's puffy tongue wetted his parched lips. He wished he spoke enough French to ask that sneering waiter for more water, or at least to buy a package of Wrigleys gum . . . anything to remove the sickening licorice taste from his mouth. More than anything else, he wished Watkins would finish his obnoxious epic, for he simply couldn't prevent himself from seeing perverted images of darling Monica in the self-same positions the salesman was describing.
"Wh-what happened to-to Sister Cynthia?" he heard his own voice inquiring as Elmer paused to drink. "What's she like now? What's she doing?
"Dunno?" Watkins shrugged, looked around for the waiter who'd avoided their table since his accident. "Heard the cops fucked the hell outta her-you know what they're like in them little towns down south-and then she took off for parts unknown. Keep hoping I'll run into her one of these days on a street corner in Kansas City or wherever .. . she was one hell of a good screw, Sister Cynthia was!"
A terrifying mental picture of Monica Blakesley poised in hand-on-hip provocation beneath a streetlight on a rundown city street sent Gene lurching to his feet. "Got to be going . . ."
"Hey, hold your horses, Gene old boy! Why don't I come along, huh? Just lemme settle this bill an' then-"
"Uh, Elmer, I really would like time alone with Monica. Why don't I call you in about an hour and we can all have dinner, Okay?"
The young man was gone before Watkins could protest. Hell, he thought, 'cause the kid wants to get into his girl's panties first, but what does that leave me? After I paid for all his goddamn drinks, too, and offer to find him a woman! Shit, if he doesn't call me, I'm just thinking I might go out to this here Hotel Modern and give him a piece of my mind."
As a matter of fact, it might not be such a bad idea to go out to Cap d'Ail a bit early. Just thinking about that night with Sister Cynthia had sent his penis swelling into a half-erection which was pressing uncomfortably against his trousers ...
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fake snakeskin boots looking just like real... a skin-tight tee-shirt embellished in silver with "Hell's Angels" . . . one lock of black shiny hair draped just so above the rims of Easy Rider style black sunglasses .. . crotch-clutching black leather pants which emphasized the manly swell of his seam-straining cock . ..
Bernard Cretin regarded his image in the mirror of the hostel's communal shower room with considerable satisfaction. Even though he'd given up the idea of shaving his acne-pitted face in cold water, he thought he looked impressively masculine. In any event, no matter what his appearance, he'd already proved himself so clever that nothing could dampen his elated spirits.
How many guys would have been quick enough to size up the situation in a glance when he spied his debonairly-dressed boss swaggering toward the reception desk with an armload of roses and champagne? How many would have unobtrusively-sidled over to leaf through the free offerings of brochures and maps, ears cocked and eyes alert? And how many would have had the sense to check the phone book for the number he'd given the bored, almost pretty blonde and discover it belonged to a Hotel Modern here in Cap d'Ail? Bernard was positive there weren't more than a handful of fellows in the whole of France who'd have shown such shrewd intellect, and he only wished those teachers who's said good riddance to bad rubbish when he'd quit school at fourteen could see how blind they'd been.
Luck had been on his side too, of course-but then, why shouldn't it have been, all things considered. He'd still been lounging around the desk, watching that fat-assed Alan Dubois swagger out with his florist-wrapped bouquet and fancy flask, when the phone rang again. Monica Blakesley's fianc�--who would have guessed that vengeance should come his way so easily? With his quick wit he'd set up a situation which would prove most awkward for that stuck-up bitch who'd had the nerve to treat him like a worm even after she'd been begging for his cock two days ago in the truffle field. Shit, the sexy blonde hadn't even condescended to so much as look at him. Well, she'd be sorry! In fact, the whole damn world would be sorry that Bernard Cretin had never been given his fair share of the cake!
"You know, you could be anything!" he told his reflection, with the supreme confidence of one who is twenty-two and newly convinced of his male prowess. "One hell of a good detective... or a movie actor-and they do lots better than those idiot truffle farmers . . . or-"
This self-satisfied soliloquy was rudely cut short by a youngster's taunting hoot of laughter.
"Hey there, Cretin-creep-you gone right off the deep end now, talking to yourself in the mirror! I always knew you were psycho!"
Bernard whirled around to face the smirking face of fifteen-year-old Spike Soderbergand was furious to find his face burning in embarrassment. Shit, he'd thought all the brats had gone to the hostel-sponsored beach party. What was this kid doing here?
"Maybe you're practicing your lines for your next movie?" tittered Soderberg. "Butcha better shave off that stubble before they turn the spotlights on ya, Cretin-creep!"
"All right, smart-ass," Bernard attempted to bolster his abruptly vanished self-assurance by snarling at the impudent in his best surly Parisian style and using his best American slang. "How come you ain't down at the kiddie party with the rest of your gang?"
"To tell you the truth, Cretin-creep, I was looking for you. Remember those Danish photos you showed us the other day? Could I borrow a couple of them, just for tonight?"
"What for?" Bernard's tone was still belligerent, but his thin chest puffed out in renewed self-importance. "You gonna jerk off down on the rocks or something? What happened to your girl friend?"
"I'm changing horses," Spike said airily. "Any guy with two balls can make it with dumb old Arlene. I want a chick with more class who's not screwing everyone who winks at her. Like Cordelia, for instance."
Cordelia Culloden had been one of the first teens the sex-crazed bus driver had noticed, first because of her copious quantities of luggage, but very soon because of her air of innocent seductiveness. In fact, the fifteen year-old schoolgirl looked a lot like Miss Blakesley; same fine-boned features, fair hair, and sculpted model's legs. Her breasts were still undeveloped lemons, but she emphasized them by going without a brassiere and wearing the kind of tee-shirts which looked positively slutty on buxom classmates such as the infamous Arlene. Bernard wasn't envious of Spike, but he would have been if he hadn't had exciting plans of his own for this soft southern night.
"Cordelia's cool," Spike leaned against one of the wash-basins, staring at his image in the water-spattered glass with casual pride while he spoke. "But she's uptight, y'know. Like Miss Blakesleysame type. Hey, Cretin-creep, didja ever get into her panties like you were big-mouthing about? Didja ever even try?"
Bernard felt as though he were six-foot-five instead of five-foot-six. It was the proudest moment of his life, except perhaps for that time he'd come in first in the bike rally last autumn.
"Of course I did," he shrugged with studied nonchalance. "She's a hell of a good lay. As a matter of fact, I got her cherry."
"You WHAT? Oh, come off it, Cretin-creep! No one in their right mind's gonna believe that crap, not in a thousand years! Shit, you really are a nut case!"
Nut case? What exactly was that? Cretin wondered. Not that it mattered, for no insult or snub could touch him now. He shrugged again, disdainfully.
"Don't believe it, then-it's all the same to me. And I suppose you don't want to hear about how she was screaming and begging for more of my cock, do you?"
"I'll bet she was! I'll just bet!" sneered the prep . school sophomore. "You're so full of bullshit I don't believe it!"
"You really wanna bet?" Bernard's colorless eyes slanted into greedily glinting slits as he recalled the kid's fat roll of traveler's checks-there were so many twenty and fifty dollar bills that they couldn't fit into his Levi pocket. "Do you?"
"You're crazy, Cretin, but sure, I'll bet. How much've you got to lose when you can't prove you're not full of bullshit? And I mean prove it, man, I wanna see her screaming and begging, just like you claim!"
"Of course! You'll see a show like nothing you ever dreamed of!"
The bus driver wasn't quite sure how the logistics of this obscene operation would be arranged, but he figured that luck was on his side and something would work itself out. Blackmail, if necessary, or maybe the knife again . . . whatever was most expedient. At the moment he was too excited to bother about such petty details.
"And after the show," he continued, breathing harshly, "you'll owe me a Harley-Davidson. A brand-new Harley-Davidson!"
The fact that the bus driver sounded dead-serious didn't worry young Soderberg; it merely confirmed his suspicion that the man was half-witted. "Sure," he laughed. "Sure, Cretin-creep, if you lemme see you screw the living daylights outta Miss Blakesley, and make her like it, I'll buy you a big shiny Harley-Davidson. What color do you want?"
Bernard ignored the sarcasm. "Black," he said shortly, glancing at his watch. By now, Dubois should already be at the Hotel Modern. The finance should be biting his nails in a traffic jam on the way from Monaco to Cap d'Ail. There was no time to be lost.
"You got a camera? Good-go get it. And hurry up!"
"Right now? You gonna lay Miss Blakesley tonight? 'Cause I got this date with Cordelia, and-"
"Hell, bring her along too. She'll get more turned-on watching Blakesley get fucked then by looking at Color Climax magazines. But hurry!"
...
"Slow down, you guys!" whined Cordelia. "I can't keep up! What's the big idea anyway, Spike? How come you're dragging me out here with this guy?"
"I told you. We're gonna see a show."
"Well, I don't want to walk any further! My feet hurt! And these damn weeds keep snagging my new dress! Let's go back to the hostel, okay, Spike? C'mon! That beach party wasn't so bad-they had some good records. C'mon, please!"
"Oh, shut up, Cordelia!" Spike's voice was sharp with irritation, for he was beginning to have strong misgivings about that bet. "If you weren't wearing those crazy high heels and that floppy dress you could walk fine."
Cordelia tossed her flaxen curls back over her slim shoulders and looked down her aristocratic little nose at her four-inch heeled sandals and full-skirted white dress. Well, it had been white, now, after this stupid hike along the narrow cliff-edged promenade beside the rocky shore, it was stained with grass and mud and spattered with sea spray besides.
"How was I supposed to know you wanted to play boy scouts tonight? I wish I'd gone out with Tony instead. Yes, I really do!"
"And I wish I'd asked Arlene along instead of you. At least she keeps her big mouth shut."
"And her big fat flabby thighs wide open!" Cordelia retorted with a haughty toss of her head. "You know what, Spike Soderberg? You make me sick!"
"Shut up, you two!"
They glared at each other, but obeyed him; the bus driver was acting weirder, more over-excited by the moment, and by tacit agreement they figured that the less they did to upset him, the better. Following their gaze in the direction of his pointed finger, they saw a steep stone staircase cut in the side of the cliff which led up to a narrow road running between the sea and the railroad tracks. Although the moon was full, this area of wide-spaced villas and thick foliage was dark and serene almost as the middle of a forest.
Cordelia glanced helplessly first at the stairs, then at her shoes. "Oh crap!" she began again. "Why the heck didn't we just walk down the road? This is crazy! My feet-"
"Shut up, girl!" Bernard snapped.
He was carefully scrutinizing the big windows of the old-fashioned pastel pink building just above where they stood and wondering what exactly to do now. Miss Blakesley was, he knew, in room number sixteen-another piece of luck. The idea of walking in the front door past a reception desk didn't appeal to him at all, nor did that of trying to sneak in the back way and getting caught by some vicious watchdog or surveiling servant; but perhaps they could manage to maneuver themselves up onto the balcony . . .
"Hey, isn't that the Renault Al Dubois rented this" morning?" exclaimed the girl when they'd climbed up high enough to see the road clearly. "What did he park it way down here for?" There was no answer save a low snicker from the bus driver. "Hey, what's going on here? What's so funny? Spike, I want to go back to the hostel! It's too dark and creepy here."
"Go on, then!"
Cordelia cast one shuddering glance down the long unlighted lane and followed the two males. Onto a grassy ledge leading off the staircase. . .up a stony embankment ... up the trunk of an aged oleander shrub covered with fragrant pink blossoms. Her trendy sandals having been prudently discarded at the bottom of the big bush, she was able to swing up onto the large balcony with a bit of assistance from Spike, and by now she was so caught up in the mood of something deliciously, thrillingly forbidden that no one had to caution her to keep quiet.
When they crept forward to the inch-wide crack in the white lace draperies and peered inside, however, she'd have cried out in astonishment had Spike not had the foresight to clamp a hand over her open mouth. As things were, she almost stopped breathing.
Miss Blakesley-prim, proper Miss Blakesley who was so uptight she dressed and undressed in the cramped WC rather than expose her naked body to the teenaged girls-was sprawled on her back on the bed with nothing covering her magnificent figure except a sheer lace white negligee which was all tangled up around her neck. Her eyes were closed, her legs spread impossibly far apart. . . and between the milk white fullness of her thighs knelt tour director Dubois with his huge thing slamming in and out of her tiny curl-fringed pussy hole.
"They're fucking!" she hissed in Spike's ear, as if he couldn't see for himself. "Mr. Dubois and Miss Blakesley are fucking!"
His arm snaked round her shoulders to fondle the mound of her budding breast, and for once she didn't haughtily tug herself out of his reach. "Yeah, they're fucking," he whispered back. "Pretty good show after all, huh, Cordelia honey?"
Bernard smiled to himself. The show was going to get much, much better before this evening was over!
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Oh God, believe me! Please! Listen to me, let me explain! Listen, Alan, I couldn't help-"
"Shut up, you cheating slut!" he'd interrupted. "I don't want to listen to your goddamn lies. Just lie down and shut up and let me fuck the hell out of you-that's the way you like it, isn't it? Just a big hard cock pumping into your hot pussy, you whoring nympho-that's the only thing that matters to you!"
"No ... no ... noooooo . . ," she'd wailed helplessly. "I'm not like that Alan, really I'm not. Please listen . . ."
That had been five minutes ago, and she was still whimpering "no ... no ... no ...," as his cruel accusations echoed over and over in her tortured brain. The hate-filled words he'd spit down at her naked body after his eager cock had entered her vagina and he'd discovered that indeed she was not a virgin after all had wounded her far more deeply than the viciously uncaring thrusts he was now inflicting on her helpless cuntal channel. For as long as she lived, she was certain, they would haunt her nightmares . . .
But I love him. . . even when he's treating me like this, I still love him, her shattered soul sobbed in silent grief. But everything's ruined now-he hates me, and I can't blame him. How was I stupid enough to let things come to this?
It was obvious now that she ought to have gone straight to Alan after the bus driver had raped her that night in the truffle field, but she'd just been too ashamed and upset to do it. Besides, she'd been afraid that the evil little Frenchman would, when accused, be spiteful enough to tell how she herself had wailed out wanton obscenities while they wallowed in the mud. She wouldn't have been able to deny it, for she was incapable of telling even an innocuous white lie-yet wasn't lying by omission a sin in its own way? Of course it was! If that loathsome sex maniac molested one of the innocent World Worshiper girls, she'd be one hundred percent to blame! She'd sacrificed their safety for her own selfish ends, and she ought to have known that this would backfire.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!
For two days she'd managed to avoid any face-to-face confrontation with her boss-a relatively simple task thanks to an outbreak of "traveler's tummy" among the Sunday schoolers. But when he'd showed up tonight looking so handsome and sounding so sad when he asked why she'd been avoiding him, she just had to let him into her hotel room. Of course she'd had no intention whatsoever of allowing him more than a chaste kiss or two, but somehow she'd been so overwhelmed by the fragrant long-stemmed apricot-colored roses and cold, bubbling champagne that he'd convinced her to model the filmy white lace nightie, just to make sure it was the proper size--and then--oh, God, she honestly didn't know how it had happened, but his magically massaging hands had turned her into a mass of will-less female flesh and ignited fierce fires of lust in every cell of her sinful loins.
Yes, her boss was right-she was a miserable slut who deserved nothing better than his cruel, impersonal fucking. In fact, she was such a perverted tramp that she was actually deriving a weird masochistic pleasure from his battering attack on her sore vagina and even from his humiliating insults. Oh, God, how could she save herself from being sucked down into the quicksand of corruption? Was it already too late? Would she drown in the dregs of her own degeneracy?
"Take that, you lying whore!" Alan puffed as he drove his battered cock up into her tight little pussy with all the vengeful force he could summon. "And that! And that! Hurts, doesn't it? But sluts like it that way!"
His steel-stiff was ramming in all the way to the hilt on the downstroke, making his sperm-bloated balls jounce against the sensitive flesh of her upturned ass-cheeks; then he wrenched his immense instrument all the way out so that he could re-enter again a second later with fierce ferocity. He knew he was causing her pain, for her ridiculous whimpers of protest rose to a shrill cadence as he slammed against her cervix and then withdrew, pulling along tendrils and tissues of her tender cuntal flesh. By now she must be raw as a slab of uncooked meat, and he hoped it burned her like the fires of hell!
Alan was too irrational at the moment to try to analyze the reasons for his extreme reaction to the blonde's lie about her purity. All he knew or cared as he sluiced liked a satanic madman in and out of her close-clasping vaginal passage was that she'd tricked him and proved herself to be a lewd bitch like his wife who didn't care about sentiment or tender love or anything but her own ego trip. .. like the rest of her sex, she was nothing but a sex machine which he would use as he wished, damn it, because he was physically more powerful. Fuck her! Fuck her to hell!
Suddenly, at the thought of his wife, Gayle, sperm began boiling with volcanic intensity deep down in his demonically dancing testicles and he knew he was rapidly approaching orgasm. Monica was getting hot-he could tell from the way her breathing had quickened, the spasmodic clutching of her butter-smooth cunt around his ravaging manhood-but she was still a long way from climax.
Good! he snarled to himself. For the ultimate punishment was to get his own kicks and then leave her lying there frustrated. Abruptly all cogent thought vanished from his brain as ripples of anger-intensified passion started building like breakers before a tidal wave. Clutching hold of her ripe-melon breasts below the silky fabric of the sensual white negligee he'd wasted three hundred francs on in Monaco that afternoon-white for purity--ha! He bucked his muscular hips forward in a frenzy of rage and love and physical need.
"CUMMING!" he groaned as his semen seethed to the boiling point and began it's headlong stampede down the potently pulsating shaft of his long phallus. "Cumming in your dirty, cheating box, you bitch! CUUMMMIIINNNGGG!"
Monica made a last desperate effort to control the flagrantly wanton writhings of her near-naked loins, the indecent up-bucking spasms of her yearning buttocks, but she could simply not get her traitorous body to obey the frantic commands of her brain. She let out an involuntary shriek of lustful longing as the first white-hot jets of life-giving seed flooded up into her twitching vaginal depths, and thrust up toward him in demented desire for a climax of her own. It was no use. He'd cum too soon, and her fire-filled loins froze to an icy snow sculpture as his hot sperm continued to spurt from his no longer thrusting cock.
Finally he'd finished with her. He rolled away, his spent penis, a limply deflated pink balloon now instead of a proud pole of iron-hard masculinity, slipped from her aching vagina with an obscene slurping noise, and after only a short moment's relishing of his obviously intense release, he began poking around for his discarded clothing. No kisses . . . no cuddling ... no gentle words of tender affection. Monica felt filthy, like a prostitute.
Alan rose rather unsteadily to his feet and stared down at the young woman's lush-loined body and the thin trickles of his own semen drying on her faintly quivering white thighs. As though he'd read her mind, he sneered, "That's the way a whore like you gets fucked," then stumbled unseeingly toward the hotel room door.
"Nooo! Alan, please . . . ," Monica raised her bruised body from the bed to make one last effort to keep the first real Love of Her Life from leaving in this ugly way. "Please don't go... please... listen, let me explain-"
"Save the dramatics for the next guy, bitch," he spat down at her cringing figure. "I don't need that shit-not anymore. And I hope your next sucker appreciates those flowers and the sexy nightie, too."
The door slammed so loudly that the pink-papered paste-board walls vibrated and one champagne glass toppled from the small bedside table. It landed on the floor, splintering into transparent slivers with a clinking tinkle which Monica didn't hear. She was still lying curled up in a. helpless fetal position on the bed, her eyes stinging with bitter unshed tears, her breath coming in harsh rasps.
A second later the door splurged open again and Alan's sneering face peeked back in.
"See you again sometime when I'm feeling horny and can't find something better! At least you're a better lay than my wife-you're such a nympho that you don't have to fake your cumming!"
His wife! Oh, no! Oh God, no!
The traumatized teacher remained immobile on the sperm-spattered bed, dully staring at her splattered thighs and matted pubic "vee" while she listened to her boss' car screeching away with an angry scream of tires. After a moment she grew aware of frogs croaking outside the barely ajar terrace doors, of crickets chirping and waves beating against the shore and a faint burst of laughter and music wafting over from one of the nearby villas. So people were having fun somewhere, enjoying themselves in a lighthearted way normal men and women could at a party ... it seemed so very far away from her ...
A dog barked down on the beach and another two or three answered from the villa-scattered hillside. "Just like in the truffle field," she whispered, and finally the blocked tears spilled over her burning cheeks and her slender shoulders started to shake beneath the bunched-up lace negligee. Her soft sobs deafened her to the sound of another car pulling up in front of the Hotel Modern, and to the muffled moans and rustlings a few yards away on the terrace.
When the doorbell rang, her first thought was that it must be the stern, gray-haired concierge come to complain about the noise. Stifling her sobs, she struggled to her feet, tore off the see-through white gown, and threw the first thing she snatched up over her shameful nakedness. The red kimomo-style terry-cloth bathrobe had an intricate sash which her numb and shaking fingers were incapable of fastening, so she merely clutched it around her full figure as she stumbled dizzily toward the door.
"Oui?" she gasped out in French. "Qui est la?"I'll tell her I was having a nightmare-that's not really a lie, she improvised as she eased the door open a crack. "Pardon, Madame," she began, "I am sorry if-oohhh!"
"Monica, darling! At last!"
Gene Puddocky, long arms awkwardly cradling a cheap florist's bouquet, raw-boned face beaming like a little boy's on Christmas morning, squeezed through the barely ajar door. Oh, God, she'd completely forgotten about his Monte Carlo convention! How had he ever found her here at the Hotel Modern, anyway? Her already boggled brain churned with consternation as she gaped up at his familiar figure in its Orchardburg Sunday suit and conservative haircut standing just where Alan Dubois had been mere minutes before.
"Oh!" she gasped again. "Oh-you sh-shouldn't have ..."
Gene assumed she was referring to the flowers; the silver-spangled giftwrap and huge purple ribbon were indeed impressive, and ought to be, since he'd belatedly realized that he'd paid almost ten dollars for a bunch of daisies.
"Oh, it's nothing much," he smiled even more delightedly. "My cab got caught in a traffic jam in Monaco just outside a florist and I happened to see some simple daisies that reminded me of how much fun we had picking wildflowers at my Dad's farm on Sunday afternoons."
He was looking around for someplace to set down the flowers so that he could take his bride-to-be in his arms, so he'd not yet noticed the haunted glow in his girl friend's brown eyes, nor her disheveled appearance, nor the shambles the small room was in. It wasn't only excitement which dulled his perception-the truth was that he was still rather drunk, although he'd fondly hoped that the interminable taxi ride had cleared away the clouds of that perfidious Pernod.
"Oh. . .oh. . ."Monica sank limply down onto the rumpled bed behind her, too distracted to notice that her loose terry-cloth robe had fallen open to reveal a tantalizing inch of cleavage.
He's not good-looking, not half as handsome as Alan. A country hick, really. But he's kind and honest-if we were married he'd never go chasing younger girls like Dubois does. What a fool I've been! How could I dream of giving up a good man like him? Olay, life with him won't be exciting or glamorous . . . but at least I'll have my self-respect and I can try to forget all the evil secrets I know about myself. Everything will be nice and quiet and normal, and once I have babies I won't be bored ...
"Surprised to see me, Monica?!" Gene set his bundle on the bureau next to the roses, which he was too distracted to notice. "After I wrote to you I realized I'd forgotten to put down the dates I'd be here-I'm always so darn absentminded, especially since I've started my thesis. "The Christian Missionary: Past and Future Perspectives." That's what I've decided to title it."
Puddocky knew he was babbling, but he couldn't help himself. As he enveloped Monica's soft, sensuous body in his arms, he was once again so aware of his inexplicably erotic impulses that he scarcely knew what he was doing or saying. One thought was clear: he simply must keep a strict rein on himself so as not to alarm innocent Monica, who'd of course be terribly upset if she guessed he'd been imbibing Pernod all evening.
How long before he notices the champagne, the stains on the bed, the sperm drying between my legs? she thought dully as she numbly endured Gene's hug. It was odd that even after making up her mind that this was the man she ought to share her life with after all, she felt absolutely nothing at his touch. But never mind that-the chief thing was to get him out of here before he realized what a sinful slut she was and walked out of her life forever.
"Yes . .. yes, I'm surprised to see you ..."
For the first time, Gene really looked at his fiancee. Either he was much more drunk than he thought, or she'd changed immensely in one short week and a half. Everything-her hair, the smeared lipstick on her normally natural mouth, the tautness of features and panic-glinting eyes-made him uneasy.
"Are you all right, Monica? Are you ill?"
She jumped at the excuse. "Well, sort of. Too much sun, I guess. I've-I've been sleeping."
Even her voice sounded funny! Gene was naive and gullible and slightly inebriated, but he wasn't stupid. A quick glance around the room fed his suspicions: an almost empty bottle of booze on the nightstand with one glass beside it ... a second glass smashed on the floor next to a sensual splash of lace lingerie ... a dozen elegant long-stemmed roses towering above his cheap daisies . .. and worst of all, an insidious odor which reminded him of-of what? He couldn't quite identify the smell, but instinct told him it was something indecent, something sinful.
Was it possible that-but no, he wouldn't even think it! Not about sweet, innocent Monica Balesley! Still, there had been that guy on the stairs. ..
"Funny way you've got of sleeping these days," he heard himself say in a voice which was surprisingly spiteful. "And you sure don't look well rested."
The girl's face blanched a pale parchment white and her eyes grew round and almost black with panic when they focused on her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. No, she certainly didn't look like the fresh, pretty coed he remembered from Orchardburg. In fact, she looked positively haggard and-and cheap, with her make-up smeared and hair like a rats' nest and dressing gown falling open on top. She shuddered and pulled the kimona tightly closed.
"I am t-tired, Gene. Maybe-maybe I better sleep some more. Maybe you better c-come back tomorrow . . ."
"Like hell I will!" Her head jerked up in amazement, for she'd never before heard the devout divinity student swear. "Looks to me like you've felt good enough for entertaining some other guy. Least you could do is offer me a drink."
"Gene, please! I-I really don't feel well.. ." Monica whispered, but he'd already planted himself on the bed and was staring in an ominous way at the sperm-stained, crumpled coverlet. Moving like a robot, she filled the unbroken glass with the champagne remaining in the bottle and handed it toward him. "I'll just get dr-dressed . . .," she stammered, easing toward the bathroom.
"Why?" He tossed down the champagne, which tasted lots better than Pernod, in two gulps. "You didn't bother getting decent for your new boyfriend, did you?"
Monica didn't answer-there was nothing to say, even if she'd been capable of uttering a syllable. She just stood there in front of him clutching her crimson robe over breasts which still burned and tingled from Dubois' rough handling.
"And you might as well just let that red thing fall open again-those tits of yours looked pretty nice. Funny that we've been dating for years and you never let me see 'em, but you peeled off right away for some guy you just met. Well, the game's over, you can stop pretending you're a lady! You have any more of this fizzy stuff?"
Wordlessly, she moved toward her suitcase and extracted the two half-bottles of Mumms Champagne which had been given her by a leering champagne tour guide, plus the pretty little opener she'd picked up in a gift shop with the thought that she and Alan might have a romantic picnic on some lovely lonely hillside. Her heart was thudding so violently against her chest that she could scarcely breathe as she silently watched Gene ineptly extract one cork, and she wished there were another glass. It was strange how quickly she'd learned to appreciate the conscience-quieting quality of alcohol when less than a week ago she'd never even known how much smoother it made things. Perhaps there was a toothbrush glass in the bathroom ...
'Turned into a real lush, have you?" Gene slurred as she returned and poured herself a brimming glass. He was well aware that he was no one to talk, for his entire metabolism was distorted by the unusual amount of drink he'd consumed today, but he was too far gone to care. Even when his long-neglected manhood began beating an immoral tattoo against his groin, he felt no guilt.
"A real lush!" he repeated with an ugly laugh. "And a real whore!"
Could this arrogant, aggressive male really be the same considerate suitor who'd never even attempted to do more than kiss her? He sounded just the way Alan had twenty minutes earlier, and for the first time she realized that Gene had a penis, and that it was ominously tenting out the crotch of his untailored trousers. Monica quickly averted her eyes and laid one hand on her throbbing, burning temples while she drained her Colgate-flavored champagne.
"Gene, please!" she implored. "Don't talk that way! Please let me explain! It's not the way it looks! I mean, I couldn't-"
"Shut up! I don't want to hear your lies! The only thing I wanna know is how come you never let on you're a hot-blooded bitch in heat? But I guess it's no big mystery-you wanted to trick me to the altar, didn't you? Well, thank the Lord I caught onto your tricks in time, bitch, before I found myself raising a house full of bastards who really belonged to the milkman or the tv repairman or anyone else who happened along with a big hard cock!"
He paused to catch his breath and glare vindictively at his ex-fiancee, who'd slumped down on the far end of the bed with her face buried in her hands. She looked pathetic, but he didn't feel even a twinge of pity. Hell, she deserved to suffer... just like that child-molesting lady preacher his new friend Elmer had punished by fucking her in the ass!
"Cock-teasing bitch!" he snarled through gritted teeth as intoxicatingly lurid images swirled before his mind's eye and blood blazed through his veins like liquid lightning. "I think it's about time I had a taste of what you've been giving everyone else while I was crazy enough to be celebrate on account of you! First, gimme a look at those big tits of yours!"
"Gene!" Monica squealed in horror. "Oh, don't! Don't touch me! Please! Have you gone crazy?"
It was like the rerun of a horror movie. He lunged toward her, panting like a wild beast, his fingernails piercing the pliant flesh of her breasts as he ripped off the unfastened bathrobe. When Monica tried to stagger to her feet, his hands were gripping her so fiercely that she lost her balance and staggered to her hands and knees on the cool tile floor with her round white ass-cheeks pointing up in unintentional invitation.
"No . . . nooo. . . nooooo .. .," she babbled, falling into a limp heap of defeat as his steel fingers gripped her tender-fleshed buttocks.
After one last feeble attempt to squirm out of his vise-like grasp however, she gave up any idea of physical resistance. What was the use? What was the use of anything, now that her hopes and dreams and self-respect were destroyed forever? Still, the strangled whimpers continued to bubble out from her constricted throat: "Nooo. . . please, noooo .. ."
The long-frustrated divinity student didn't even hear her hopeless pleas. Behind his thick spectacles his bland brownish eyes were blazing with delirious desire as he stared at the cringing blonde's helplessly up-thrusting ass. He could see the fair fleece of her pussy through the gap between her slightly spread thighs; thin strings of dried sperm clung to her pubic curls, and the barely visible slit of her vagina gleamed wetly, as though it were still saturated with that other guy's seed. The mere thought filled him with jealous fury, plus a certain revulsion since Gene was the fastidious sort.
Who knows what sort of weird disease I'd get putting my prick into that sperm-sopped hole of hers? he asked himself. Indeed, his obsession with hygiene was justified: the one and only time he'd had intercourse had been with a prostitute on his twenty-first birthday, and he'd contracted the clap. For as long as he lived he'd never forget the humiliating session he'd spent at the seminary health clinic ...
Over and above the haunting recollection of venereal disease, however, was the exciting echo of Bible salesman Elmer Watkins' lurid account of giving it to the lady evangelist in the ass. His eyes drifted down to the billowing white mounds of Monica's backside again, fastened on the dime-sized circle of her puckered, pinkish-brown anus. Wouldn't that be the ultimate punishment. . . the act which would give him back the masculinity she'd trampled on and treated like dirt? Of course it would-and to hell with the consequences!
A Satanic snort of laughter resounded behind the sobbing schoolteacher, and she felt her former fianc�'s fingers gouging even more fiercely into her own defenseless backside. Oh, no! she thought, I can't bear another huge penis battering into my pussy. I'm already rubbed raw! But a second later, as she heard the now-familiar metallic noise of a zipper being ripped open, she realized that her cuntal muscles weren't only contracting in fear, they were also moistening and blossoming in yet another burst of indecent desire. It wasn't possible! How could any girl possibly be aroused by this grotesquely groveling subjugation? , "All right, you cheating bitch!" growled Gene Puddocky. "I was dumb enough to hang around thinking I'd be the first to get into your cunt-but now I've wised up, and I bet I'll be the first to fuck the hell out of your ass!"
She'd sunk to the absolute depths of depravity--nothing in the world could possibly be more despicable than this unnatural act! Even farm animals didn't fornicate in this perverted way! And it was all her own fault, for hadn't she been plagued by a morbid curiosity about anal sex after being crudely propositioned by those Arabs back in Paris?
Hadn't she even gone so far as to gently prod her puckered little nether orifice with her finger one day in the shower? Now she was being punished for those sick thoughts by-of all people-Gene Puddocky, future pillar of the Orchardburg parish.
"Aaaggghhhhh!" she yelped as red-hot agony raged through her ravished rectum. "Stop! Have mercy! You're killliiinnggggmmmeeeee!"
Good God! He'd plunged that monstrous pole all the way down to the hilt-she could feel his heavy-testicles thudding against her upthrust nether cheeks, and his rock-hard cock-head surging straight up into the sensitive recesses of her shuddering belly! If he didn't murder her, he'd certainly maim, her for life! She'd never be able to look a decent human being in the face again!
Twisting and sobbing, the suffering schoolteacher made a last effort to escape from the outrageous attack. It was a wasted effort; her struggles stirred an unexpected streak of savagery inside Puddocky, who hammered his huge hardness more viciously down into her forbidden channel with each successive stroke until the defenseless young girl was groveling in helplessly limp defeat.
Let me pass out! she prayed frantically as she fell flat on her naked belly on the cool tile floor. I can't stand anymore of this! I'm not even human anymore! Ripples of self-loathing washed over her as the searing pain slowly subsided and was replaced by unwanted waves of the same strange masochistic pleasure she'd come to know so well in the past week, and the more she tried to control the perverted excitement, the stronger it grew. Let me pass out... before I start liking it! her tortured conscience cried again.
As far as Gene was concerned, this was the most excruciatingly triumphant moment of his twenty-five years. Not only was his long-neglected penis enjoying the most exquisite physical sensations imaginable as it furiously fucked up into Monica's tight, butter-walled anal channel, but he was also recognizing for the first time what it meant to be a powerful man. Instead of being vaguely ashamed of his unusually long penis, he was prouder of its performance than he was of his A-average academic record at the seminary. A hundred times prouder! After tonight, he dimly realized, he'd never be the same again.
When he first noticed her warm-velvet passage pulsing in rhythm to his brutal battering and her cock-impaled ass-cheeks wriggling up to meet his thrusts, Puddocky's passion flamed even higher. He was not only forcing the cheating bitch to submit to his will-he was forcing her to like it!
"Feels good, huh!" he panted. "Guess you like my cock after all, you slut! See what you've been missing?! And I should have known a hot bitch like you would love ass-fucking as much as cunt-fucking!"
As her ex-fianc�'s crude insults reverberated through the warm Mediterranean night, something snapped inside Monica Blakesley. He knew how lewd and lascivious she really was, and now there was no possible hope that once he'd calmed down and listened to her side of the story he could forgive her. There was also no point in pretending she was anything more than a mass of sinful, sensuous flesh, or that she cared about anything else in the world right now except her oncoming climax.
"Yes, goddamn you, I like ass-fucking! I LOVE IT!" she heard her own voice scream out, and it excited her so much that she ground her tingling vagina against the floor in maniacal desire for release. "Fuck me harder, you bastard! Harder, deeper! Yeah, I love your BIG FUCKING COCK!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bernard rubbed one hand over his painfully swollen groin and cast a baleful glance at young Spike and Cordelia, who were madly screwing on the floor of the terrace quite as though he weren't there at all. Cordelia, who was obviously neither as pure nor as prudish as she liked to pretend, had willingly raised her skirt to be finger-fucked, and now the teenage boy's turgid young cock was spearing furiously in and out of her firm, girlish buttocks as she moaned and mewled in obscene encouragement. Ungrateful little brats! But once he got into his act, they'd take some notice of him again!
It was high time the world stopped depriving Bernard Cretin of all the fun and games it had to offer. Why should he be the one who had to slave for the motorcycle which he deserved as his just due? And why should he stand here with an agonizingly aching hard-on while everyone else was getting their kicks? Who'd engineered this erotic scenario, anyway? Cretin, of course!
"All right, pal!" he growled in his best blue-movie English. "This here's my girl you're fucking in the ass!"
Puddocky froze in mid-stroke, his thick penis half-embedded in the pulsating folds of Monica's warm rectal passage. He was on such an extraordinary ego trip that he was tempted to tell the intruder to go to hell, but before he could open his mouth he caught sight of the gleaming metal blade. His powerful potency automatically shrank to half its former glory, and Monica's eyes opened in glassy frustration as she wrenched her head around to see what was the matter.
"Come on, you bastard, fuck me!" she pleaded, wallowing in her own wantonness. "C'mon, make me cum! Fuck me, HARD! Give me your-Ooohhh, NOOO!"
Cretin chortled at the fright that twisted her face when she saw him, and took another couple of steps forward. He hoped those kids out on the terrace had stopped screwing long enough to see the Miss Blakesley and her tall boyfriend cringing in terror beneath him. If his cock hadn't been so violently impatient, he'd have loved to torture them with suspense for a good long time.
"No hard feeling, buddy," he addressed the white-faced Puddocky. "I don't mind sharing the hot little bitch once in a while. Just turn her over and let me into her cunt, okay?"
He'd swished the lethal weapon through the air as he spoke, and Gene was suddenly filled with fear for his own safety; he saw no choice but to follow the Frenchman's instructions. It was funny, considering how much he'd hated Monica five minutes before, that he should suddenly feel pity at the thought of her slender body suffering two huge penises at once. Surely it wasn't possible that a woman could endure that, was it? And yet, along with his chagrin, he was simultaneously suffused with a weird, wanton wish to experience this perverted double-fucking.
Monica's mind was already so deranged that she couldn't think of anything at all. She moaned a little as her bruised body was flipped over and Puddocky's penis slipped from her asshole, leaving it empty and aching. A second later, however, she was whimpering in the throes of intense prurient passion as the detested bus driver's long penis slid smoothly up into her already soaking wet pussy. Again her figure was bounced over; now she was on top of Bernard, and Gene's cock, once again hard as an iron poker, was back in her quiveringly craving anal channel.
"Oohhhh .. . oohhhh ohohohoohhh!" she gasped in an ecstasy of uninhibited lust. "Yeah! Gimme your two hard cocks! Oh, it's gooodddddd!"
She was totally vanquished, transformed into a wanton sexual being; she knew it, but she didn't care. The old Monica was gone forever, and the new Monica only wanted one thing: hot, hard male flesh hammering her to the oblivious release of orgasm. Once again, she felt her sensual body shuddering in the bliss of onrushing climax, the passionate explosion which would obliterate all worries, all guilt, all
Then, as the two pistoning poles automatically established a lewdly arousing rhythm and her naked body was sandwiched between fiercely flexing hard male muscles, Monica exploded into her climax and became a mere mass of mindlessly spasming female flesh. Blackness swam before her pleasure-blinded eyes as thick jets of sperm spilled into both her fire-filled vagina and her quivering anal passage, and when her shrill wails of bliss finally subsided she collapsed in unconscious satiation and knew nothing for a very long time.
Cretin squirmed out from under the woman's voluptuous, perspiration-slickened form and regarded her with satisfaction as she rolled over to curl in a fetal position on the tiles, her tousled blonde curls hiding her face. Semen had spilled out from her twin orifices and dribbled over her damp pubic hair and full-fleshed thighs, and she presented a picture of absolutely obscene degradation. Just the way he'd dreamed of seeing her after she'd had the nerve to snub him! Then he turned back to the tall skinny fellow, who was stumbling to his feet and looking around anxiously for his discarded pants.
"You get the hell outta here, now," he threatened, retrieving his switchblade from under the bed where he'd dropped it to mount Monica. "And if you say nothing to anyone 'bout this, you've had it! 'Least not till you get back to wherever you come from-then you can open your big mouth all you like and I do not give a shit."
Puddocky's pleasant boy-next-door features contorted in a tragic/comic mask of despair as he, too, gaped down at Monica Blakesley's sperm-splattered figure. How would he ever forgive himself for having turned into a sex-crazed wild animal-never again would he touch a drop of Pernod! And he would definitely never forgive her either, for after the debased way she'd responded to the salacious sandwiching he knew she was in the devil's hands now. Besides, there was that knife pointing at him ...
As soon as the American man had zipped up his fly, adjusted his glasses and sidled out the door with a last stricken look at the girl, Bernard jumped into his own jeans. Paranoia was pulsing in his chest again as he realized what a lot of lurid noise they'd made, especially that sex-crazed Mademoiselle Blakesley, and he wanted to get out of the Hotel
Modern right away. The kids, he noted with relief and pride, were standing at the open terrace door with expressions of awe on their faces.
"Shit, Cretin, you sure did screw the hell out of Miss Blakesley!" said Spike Soderberg. "Didn't know you had it in you!"
"Get your clothes on," smirked the Frenchman, and he strutted proud as a peacock toward the overhanging oleander tree certain that now they would obey him unquestioningly. "We gotta split this scene quick!"
Monica was left alone .. . but not for long...
Just as her heavy lids were drifting open to stare bleakly at the broken champagne glass, just as she was starting to remember the shocking scene she'd just endured and her own inexcusably wanton response, just as hot tears were brimming up behind her burning eyes, the hotel room door burst open. Another stranger, with a horrifyingly familiar bulge in the crotch of his pants. After all she'd been through this evening, Monica wasn't even surprised.
What now? she thought, dully aware that even now her traitorous loins flickered with sinful flames at the sight of the protruding penis. What does it matter, anyway?"
After his angry exit from the Hotel Modern, tour director Dubois had raced his rented Renault along the coastal highway in reckless disregard of the hoards of holiday traffic. Finally he'd found himself in Monte Carlo and stopped in the first bar he passed to have a drink and get a grip on himself. The double whiskey cost almost as much as a duty-free bottle of Scotch, but it calmed him down enough to take a rational look at the situation.
He'd been too rash, definitely, he decided, calling for a refill. His over-reaction didn't make sense, not when he considered that he was a firm believer in sexual freedom. Besides, he honestly hadn't given the girl a chance to explain why she'd said she was a virgin when she wasn't. There could be any number of good excuses: lots of girls had accidents riding horses and things-she was a country girl, after all-; she could have been raped by an uncle or something when she was an adolescent and been too ashamed to tell him; oh, anything was possible, but he ought to have let her talk before he lost his temper.
Alan drained the watery whiskey and got back into his Renault. Only one thing to do, he decided, since he had to admit now that he genuinely cared about the voluptuous young blonde one hell of a lot more than he cared about his frigid wife back home. He'd go on back to the hotel, with another conciliatory flask of vintage champagne, and apologize. And then...
He pulled up in front of the Hotel Modern just as Elmer Watkins was ramming his blood-bloated member into the sperm-lubricated mouth of Monica's unprotestingly offered ass-hole.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Winter days along the Cote d'Azur could be extremely bleak, as Monica Blakesley was rapidly realizing. She shivered and wrapped her thin cardigan sweater around her low-cut lace blouse as she hurried along Nice's windswept Promenade des Anglais, remembering how the wide seaside walkway had looked on a summer day. Sailboats and elegant pleasure cruisers anchored out in the brilliant blue water .. . sun-bronzed bodies packed like sardines in a tin on the stony beach . . . hundreds of interested male eyes appraising her svelte, shapely body and responding to the invitation in her eyes ...
Yes, she thought as she turned into a cafe to warm up, I know a hell of a lot about men now... I guess I never thought I'd know so much. "Un cafe-cognac," she said to the waiter, who knew her and flashed a lewd wink as he plopped down the glass and cup.
Sabina . .. how lucky she'd been to run into the Swedish girl that awful summer day after Dubois had fired her and she'd been wandering around Nice trying to find a job to earn her fare back to the States. Not to Orchardburg, Illinois, of course-she could never go back there!-but to some big anonymous city like New York or Chicago or Detroit where she could try to put her life back into some semblance of respectability. She'd figured that her college degree in French literature would make it easy to get work as a translator or something, but all the job bureaus she'd visited had either told her that there was no work till after the holiday season, or that she needed an apparently in-obtainable working permit. By late afternoon, when she ran into platinum-blonde Sabina in a cafe, she'd been ready to drown herself in the deep blue sea.
What a silly little fool I was then! she smiled into her second cognac, then automatically straightened her posture to emphasize her breasts in the d�collet� pink lace blouse as two well-fed conventioneers entered, ogled her, and headed for a nearby table. Thank goodness I had Sabina to teach me what the score is! She called for a third cognac, consciously keeping her voice soft and husky for the benefit of the Germans.
The Swedish girl, whose real name was Else Aaronsson, was thirty-one although she didn't look nearly that old when she had her make-up and wig on. She'd introduced Monica to some of her men-friends, and given her lots of pointers about meeting her own financially lucrative males. The best thing, Sabina said, was to find a stupid "sugar-daddy"-but that would have to wait till next summer, probably. In the meantime they had their flat with its butane heater, and by May when the big-spenders descended on the Riviera again, Monica was sure she'd have put on weight again so she didn't look so wan and drawn, and that she'd meet the perfect man.
At least my breasts are still nice and full, Monica reflected, and she shifted her weight again so that an inch of cleavage would meet the Germans' eyes when they glanced her way again. It seemed that she'd be able to turn a trick this afternoon, after all, and make enough for the sexy fur coat she needed so badly.
