The meeting took place behind the locked doors of Hotel Quincy's Presidential suite; the aura of mystery was unmistakable, sworn secrecy being the request of Doctor Karl Grossman, chief research biochemist for Lindale Pharmaceutical.
The men Grossman had assembled were tops in their fields: experts in endocrinology and neuropathology, research medics who had flown here from all parts of the country, who daily pioneered for new techniques, who were now hearing of the boldest pharmaceutical miracle of all: the discovery of Hypothalmic-322.
Dr. Grossman, founder of Hypothalmic-332, had now completed his discourse to the group, having excitedly described the drug's spectacular effect on the prefrontal lobes of the brain; in short, heralding the drug's profound ability to alter personality structure; literally, as it were, to create a new being!
"Dr. Grossman...." Doctor Andrew Bordell, an independent analytical chemist, stood to address the group. His hard cold stare befit the cynic, a man who dealt in quantities not theory; whose day-by-day existence was defined with exactitudes, who, un-like the others, had little tolerance for the unknown, the incredible. "Dr. Grossman ... gentlemen...." He removed his glasses and rubbed at the dark pockets at the corners of his eyes. "...none here is a more enthusiastic proponent of progress than I. All of us know this." He paused. "And you know that. I would defend any scientific program of even limited worth. But this...." Disdain and anger crept into his words. "...this drug, gentlemen, is sheer madness!"
"With Hypothalmic-322, Dr. Grossman has exceeded not only himself, but the wildest stretches of man's imagination. He dares to create a Frankenstein type of drug that alters one's personality, that plays God with the mysteries of the metabolic processes. Aren't we now trespassing to the unknown?" He paused, glancing to each of the scientists, speculating their reaction. Then he said: "Gentlemen, this drug is a creation of the damned! Its use is unthinkable!"
A hush fell over the gathering. Faces were drawn. Borden's opinions were not to be lightly excused, and his angered soliloquy raised serious doubts to the drug's merits.
But Grossman was prepared for a fight; skepticism had been a forerunner to the sulfa drugs, penicillin even antibiotics. And now, cherubic and smiling, unruffled by Bordell's scorching attack, Grossman faced his colleagues and he said: "I think I've just been called some kind of a nut."
A titter of laughter broke from the group. Good humor was restored and with this single remark, Grossman had combed new respect from the men; perhaps renewed their faith in his drug.
"It's true," he began, "that we are dealing with the fantastic, the unknown. I won't dispute that. But...." His chubby face beamed with smile." ... the benefits that are to be reaped are without comparison. Human failures, and I say this with the risk of seeming sensational, will be vanquished forever."
"Dr. Grossman...." One of the scientists came to his feet. "Can this drug be classified as a tranquilizer?"
"Not in the least," Grossman answered. "But Hypothalmic-322 takes over where other so-called "happy' drugs leave off. It reshuffles glandular ratios and unlocks a whole new personality."
"Could you expand on that, Dr. Grossman?"
"Be glad to." He cleared his throat. "A case in point, gentlemen: A patient now being treated with this drug...." He fanned a sheath of papers on the table in front of him. "The patient's name is Rita and for obvious reasons, I'll omit the last name.
"The subject is 25-years-old, quite attractive . . He ventured a mischievous smile "...and single. Now...." He set the report down and looked down the long oaken table to his colleagues. "...when the subject was referred to me, she was suffering from a severe personality regression. Totally introverted, afraid of men, afraid of life.
"Her relationships with people were confined to those who visited the small dress shop she owned, and I might add that that business was as much a failure as her own life.
"Now, under synthetic narcosis, the patient revealed three earlier sex experiences, all of them contributing toward her present condition, her general antipathy toward sex."
Dr. Bordell, flushed with anger, said: "So the good Dr. Grossman developed Spanish fly and the patient lived happily ever after."
Unperturbed, but willing to acknowledge Bordell's sardonic interruption, Grossman said, "We are not dealing with an aphrodisiac, gentlemen. In fact, if it were a sex drug, and had the recuperative effects that Dr. Bordell suggests, I might take a little of it myself."
Laughter again prevailed. Grossman smiled; Bordell assumed a brooding silence.
"Hypothalmic-322 does not stimulate ... it unlocks. It converts an introvert to an extrovert, a frown to a smile, pessimism to optimism. And our patient? Rita now has guts, gentlemen. Guts and the will to succeed. And along those lines, she is selling her present business and opening up a greatly enlarged new one. Her outer attitude has changed, she has assumed a healthy normal outlook on sex...."
"Do you speak from personal knowledge, Dr. Grossman?"
There was more laughter.
"Laboratory know-how," he quipped.
"I'd like to know a little more about the patient's sexual trauma, Dr. Grossman." The question had been raised by Dr. Irving of the Orson Foundation.
"The patient was caught in a masturbatory act with another young girl when she was only nine." He read the report. "She was severely disciplined by her mother, whipped for one week and forbidden to further associate with her playmate.
"At the age of 15, she was coming home from the library one night and attacked by a group of street hoodlums. She was dragged into an alley, brutally raped by each of them in turn, and her mother...." He shook his head sadly. "Her mother insisted that her daughter must have led them on, which is a sad commentary on some of today's parentage.
"Then, at the age of 19 and after she graduated from high school, the subject went to work for a local law firm, and I think it's best that we not mention its name." He smiled at his colleagues. "Her employer," Grossman continued, "and not the most honorable man in the world, was soon taking advantage of our young and innocent subject, forcing her to commit untold perversions upon him and threatening her with the loss of her job if she didn't consent.
"A wiser better adjusted girl would have immediately resigned her job and reported the incident to the authorities, but earlier experiences, not happy ones, thwarted such efforts.
Eventually, her employer became aware of the talk that was spreading through the office and afraid of possible repercussions ... yes, he fired her.
And so that there would be no trouble over her dismissal, he advanced her a loan to open the dress shop I spoke of. But, even though she repaid this loan, and though the shop provided a meager existence, this is only the beginning of the tragedy.
The patient fell into a state of prolonged depression, her business suffered, and she was bordering a complete mental collapse."
"Would you blame her sexual trauma on this, Dr. Grossman?"
"I certainly would. Sex represented trouble and trouble represented personal failure. Small defeats were large defeats and she was resigned to total nothingness."
"And what now, Dr. Grossman."
"The results are spectacular," he said. "She is bursting with enthusiasm. She's afraid of nothing."
Once again, Dr. Andrew Bordell stood to address the group. His anger seemed subdued, but there was no fading of his surly concern:
"Lest we crown ourselves with success before it is earned, gentlemen, has any of you had the foresight to consider the possible side effects of this drug?"
Silence and blank expressions confronted Bordell. He went on:
"Each of our modern-day miracle drugs has had their undesirable side reactions. Some we've been able to cope with and some we haven't. And now we have Hypothalmic-322 ... we have a woman walking the streets here in Temple City who has been materially changed by the wonders of chemistry, and we say: "Bravo, bravo, bravo!" His eyes narrowed. His face was grim. "How can we know, though," he lamented, "that there won't be just such a side reaction? Can we say, for instance, that in unlocking these deep hidden inner urges, we haven't also unlocked evil?"
"Aren't you being a bit dramatic, Dr. Bordell?"
"Dramatic? Or is it realistic?" He paused. He faced Dr. Grossman. "A question, Dr. Grossman: As promising as the patient's prognosis now appears, can you certify that in curing her, we might not have unleashed a sexual monster deep inside her? Can you?"
Dr. Grossman lost his smile. He was faced with the gravest of his doubts. "I can certify nothing," he said solemnly. "We'll just have to wait and see, but...."
"There are no "buts," Dr. Grossman. We are toying with a human being, and this is not medicine ... it is witchcraft!"
CHAPTER I
The two small boys had crept into the shadowy darkness between the tenement buildings. They were unaware that they were witnessing a medical miracle or its beginning knowing only that in a few minutes Rita Lyons would climb into the window of her dress shop and undress the manikins. This was a considerable thrill to their inexperienced eyes. Seeing a naked dummy was almost as good as seeing your sister undress for a bath, they agreed, and if they were lucky Miss Lyons might get careless climbing around in that window and they would see more than they bargained for.
Their wait was a short one; tonight Miss Lyons seemed like she was in a hurry. She dismissed the sales clerks, checked out the register, and locked the front door and all in less than ten minutes.
The boys witnessed these perfunctory chores with a detachment common to their years. They were too young to fully appreciate Rita Lyons' striking dark-haired loveliness, the litheness of her walk, and the lushness of her body. To the boys, she was just a woman with clothes on; and what good was that? There was nothing to see. Not a damn thing.
Nevertheless, the older of the two boys was prompted to voice an observation.
"You know who has bumps like her?"
"Who?"
"That cashier lady."
"Who?"
"The one at the movies, stupid!" The other boy neither confirmed nor denied his friend's comment; however, his eyes quickly darted in the direction of the dress lady's breasts. He gazed intently at her as she moved from the cash register to the back counter, noting that her breasts were not only large, but that they also bounced. His sister's were like that, he thought. But not as large.
And now, as he dwelled on the image of his young sister, also the woman across the street; pondered as to why they were called "boobies', a pleasurable sensation spread through him. Unconsciously, his hands stole to his pockets.
Inside the dress shop, Rita was unaware of the boys' scrutiny, nor that she was precipitating such a tide of excitement in the darkness across the street. She was, however, aware that Henry's phone call was overdue. She had phoned his office earlier this afternoon, asked his secretary to have him phone her at five-thirty. It was now nearly six o'clock and the bastard still hadn't phoned.
Suddenly, Rita caught herself. A bastard? Henry Ridgewood? What had possessed her even in thought to call him a bastard? He was nothing better than that, but what gave her the sudden guts to think of him in that manner? Dr. Grossman had explained that his pills would bring about some changes in her. Was this what he meant?
The phone rang and broke her thoughts. She closed the register drawer and hurried to the curtained back room. It was Ridgewood and he was angry; but strangely, Rita was no longer frightened.
"Rita, I've asked you and asked you not to call my office. Not for any reason. Yet you deliberately chose to disobey my instructions. Why?"
Rita assumed a stormy silence. She envisioned Henry Ridgewood huddled in some isolated outside phone booth, his. head drawn down into the collar of his overcoat: a turtle withdrawing to its shell.
"Do you realize what would happen if it became known that you and I had had an...." He broke off the rest of the sentence, his indigenous caution telling him that the word "affair" was not only unsavory, but that it was also dynamite. "...and the least you could do," he said, continuing his whining tirade, "is to respect my wishes...."
Rita patiently awaited Henry to complete his mentor-to-pupil scolding. She was willing to concede that the city's able Law Director was entitled to some discretion in his dalliance with other women, but wasn't Henry overdoing it? Did the aura of respectability that pervaded his political life have to also follow him in his personal affairs? Must he be so frigging high and mighty?
"Henry," she broke in angrily, "all I did was phone you, and I wouldn't have done that if it wasn't important." She paused. Then, in whispered urgency, she said, "I have to see you. And tonight!"
"That's impossible," he said with brusqueness. "My wife is having some friends over for dinner. I'm late now."
Suddenly fury rushed into Rita's body. She was gripped by an anger and strength she had never known. And she wasn't afraid of Henry the way she had been. Not in the least. She said:
"You dried-up old prune! Who do you think you're talking to?"
He gasped. "Have you been drinking?"
"No!" she snapped hotly. "I haven't been drinking."
"Then what's come over you?"
"Not a damn thing," she said, giving a sudden thought to Dr. Grossman's pills. "I'm just tired of being pushed around. And that means I want to see you."
"But I can't get away."
She threw him a mocking laugh. He could get away, as he put it, when his aging body had demanded the satisfaction of hers and that was just two short years ago. Did the bastard now think she could be callously cast aside? "You'll have to get away, Henry. Just call your wife and tell her that something came up, that you'll be late."
"I can't do that."
"The hell you can't!" she snapped, surprised at her own words. "Furthermore, you will."
"Is that a threat?" he asked.
Once again, a mysterious conversion of personality flooded Rita's body. Hidden strength rose to the surface. She snapped:
"You're goddamn right it's a threat!"
Henry Ridgewood fell into a shocked and stony silence. With but a single well directed statement, Rita had knocked the officialdom out of his manner and left him stripped to his weaknesses. He couldn't risk public exposure of his extramarital affairs; it would ruin him. Furthermore, wasn't it a fact that Henry Ridgewood secretly yearned for female domination. Hadn't he, when Rita was fresh out of high school and trying to hold down her job, forced her to go to a motel with him? And hadn't he forced Rita to strip him of his clothes and whip him because that was the only way that he could get his sexual kicks? Wouldn't that make beautiful copy for the morning paper?
"Where do you want me to meet you?" he said resignedly.
There was no need for a pause. Rita had thought it all out. "How "bout the place you used to take me to .when I didn't know any better?"
"You mean...."
"Yes, Henry. The Flyaway Motel. You said if I wanted to keep my job, I'd go. Do you remember?"
"Rita, that was two whole years ago."
"Yes, and I was young and foolish and too afraid to say no."
"Rita, I don't understand you. You've changed and you're...."
"You're damn right I've changed," she said, again thinking of Dr. Grossman's jills. "And you can't scare me any longer, Henry. So don't try."
"Rita...."
"The Flyaway Motel, Henry. Be there!"
When Rita hung up, she couldn't believe that she'd actually had the nerve to say these things to Henry. It was as if some other person had invaded her body and did the talking. And that same weird feeling was now again filling her body, propelling her toward the motel.
She arrived there a full thirty minutes ahead of Henry, rented suite # ll, leaving her car outside for Henry to find. A month ago she would have blushed at the very word 'motel', but now ... was it those damn pills?
She shrugged it off and prepared for Henry's arrival. Evil swam through her evil forces more compelling than gravity. But with evil came excitement. She was anxious for Henry's arrival, anxious to show him a night he wouldn't soon forget. But more important, she was anxious to reveal her new plans to him plans that not only included him, but required him. And he wouldn't refuse. He wouldn't dare. But, my God, where was she getting such strength of purpose? Was this really her?
She lit a cigarette and thought: He doesn't control me any longer. I control him! And now, no longer questioning this strength, accepting it, she prepared for his arrival.
He had a yen for teenagers a weakness that Rita readily remembered and it was but little effort for her to conform to that same role. She had only to comb out her long dark hair, pin it with a ribbon, and then don the white go-go boots that all the kids were wearing.
Her dress she'd bought it especially for the occasion was a teenager's sailor outfit, and she had altered it until it suited her purpose, shortening the hemline until it was a full five inches above her knees; and then she had removed the detachable dickey from inside the outfit's middy blouse.
Now, and with inordinate self-approval, she gazed at her reflection in the motel's bathroom mirror. All that was lacking, she mused, was a lollipop. She resembled a wretched orphan child disembarking from the boat, lost in the crowds, frantically searching for "Papa". And because she had also removed her underclothes, made the creaminess of her breasts so readily apparent, she seemed as naively vulnerable as any other 13-year-old maybe more so.
Twenty minutes later, Henry Ridgewood arrived. His rap at the door was feeble, his entrance humorously furtive. And he came with the brief case and dark glasses; Henry Ridgewood without these artifices was bread without butter.
She helped him remove his coat, thinking of him as a sickly overaged James Bond. Commercial hair dyes might have forestalled the onset of his years to some degree, but there was no denying the wrinkles that grew from the comers of his eyes, nor the ghastly paleness of his mouth. And he had lost some poundage in recent months, she noted; and the slump of his shoulders was more apparent because of it; so, in summation, she could have said that the pressures of public office had taken their toll. But naturally, she said nothing of the kind. She hung his overcoat in the hallway closet, confronted him with a nervous shy smile, and said, "You're looking well, Henry. Better than I've ever seen you."
He brushed the compliment aside. "I don't think this was a wise idea," he opined. "Not wise at all."
She raised herself on her tiptoes and kissed the end of his nose. Then she affected a look of hurt. "Uncle Henry, you don't even seem glad to see me." And she rendered this in a baby voice that was nearly a whine. He was not her 'uncle' but something possessed her to play the nymphet and she played it well.
He removed his dark glasses and his face brightened considerably. Some of his haughty consternation disappeared; his features registered a tacit approval of her moppet-like costume; and then he was gripping her forearms, holding her at length as if to admire her, then saying:
"But anything for my little Rita...."
Inwardly, she glowed. And she knew how to glance shyly to the carpet, how to milk this moment for all it was worth; how to remain bashfully indifferent to desire until, torn by compassion, he drew her into his arms and patted her gently across her backside the loving touch of father to daughter, but not quite.
He did this very thing now and she was equal to the task, pressing her firm young breasts against his shirt front, holding herself to him like a reprimanded child pleading for forgiveness. And it worked!
Henry Ridgewood accepted the role of "father" with compassionate fervor. Childless, he excitedly welcomed the opportunity to play the incestuous parent. His hands found the curvy warmth of her backside, and he patted and stroked the cheeks of her buttocks with reverent tenderness. But his pseudo-concern was not without self-reward. Rita felt the quickening pulse of his desire: the surprising throb of desire. Strangely, it did not frighten her.
And why am I not frightened? she wondered. Did the pills do this to me? Is that why I feel so different?
Suddenly, Henry's hands began to roam. Rita giggled. She slid out of his embrace and ran toward the couch. There were things to settle, she thought, and it would be less difficult to have her way if she held Henry off for a while.
"Henry," she said, deploring the need for sudden maturity, "I have a favor to ask of you."
He was unhappy because she had so artfully wriggled out of his arms the sagging lines of his mouth reflected this dismay but now that she had uttered the word "favor", his countenance changed again this time to one of suspicion. His watery blue eyes narrowed. He was not her lover now; he was the stern, craggy-faced Law Director of Temple City.
"What land of favor?" he asked cautiously.
She affected a warm smile, the same kind that Henry Ridgewood bestowed upon his voters. "You needn't be so worried, Henry. It won't be that bad." She watched him sit down, begin fumbling with his hands. She called attention to his nervousness; he did not deny it, reiterating what he had said earlier: that being seen in the company of another woman, and in a motel at that, would be his political ruination.
"Then I won't keep you too long," she said, "but I've had the most brilliant idea and it has to be told."
He was not impressed, nor did he search her face for an explanation.
"What would you say," she gushed with a clasp of her hands, "if I told you that I was closing out my dress shop and opening up a new one? One that was just for teens."
He shrugged his shoulders, unimpressed. "What's wrong with the shop you have?"
"It's for the birds!" And again she was surprised by the expressions that came from her lips. "There's no real money in that shop, Henry. I want the big money and a shop that was just for teens
"Would be no better than what you have," he finished.
"And that's where you're wrong," she beamed. And now, exulting greater and greater confidence, she said, "Henry, this teen dress shop will be the biggest success since the advent of the hula hoop. Money will roll in like it's equipped with wheels. Why with the line I'm going to handle and the way this operation will be run...."
"Rita, I-I don't even know you."
"Know me?"
"Y-You're so ... so different." He stared at her as though he were seeing her for the first time. "You were always so quiet and meek and...."
"That's all over with," she said briskly, wondering whether Dr. Grossman's pills could be doing this to her. "From now on, I'm taking the world by the tail." And then she excitedly ran on about her dress shop for teens.
"Just what do you propose?" he asked.
"Propose?" Her excitement brimmed over. She sat on the edge of the couch. "Henry, I'm going to give this city's teenagers the kind of clothes that no other store in town has the guts to sell them: Bikini bathing suits, spike-heeled shoes, lacy under things, French bras...."
"You're out of your mind!"
Rita ignored his blatant comment and rushed on: "Imagine, Henry. A shop just for teens. And I could have teenage models and teenage sales clerks ... and we could have style shows ... style shows with teenage models and the fathers could come ... Henry, don't tell me that grown men don't like looking at teenage girls. It just isn't so!"
Rita had obviously raised his interest; no doubt, he was seeing himself in that audience. But there were objections logical ones and he was obliged to state them:
"But what about their parents? No parent is going to allow their daughter to buy these ... these bizarre clothes. Why if I had a daughter and she brought home a pair of those spike-heeled shoes, I'd...."
"You'd what?"
His face colored; he was going to say "spank", she reasoned, but the word struck too close to the very perversion for which he thrived. "It just won't work," he stated flatly.
"It will!" she snapped back. "I just know it will." Rita's conviction failed to raise Henry's interest. But, still, she rushed on: She'd done a lot of market research, learned that most of these bizarre goods were handled by west coast mail order houses. They did a brisk business, but their trade was confined to adult females.
"And that's just it," she said excitedly. "No one has thought of today's teenager. She spends millions and millions of dollars on clothes, but no one has given her access to the something she wants the most: Sex with a ribbon on it!" She paused briefly. "I, Henry, am going to give it to her!"
For the next several minutes, Henry Ridgewood was transfixed in brooding silence. His own position was not immediately clear, but when it did occur to him, as she knew it must, his eyes filled with abject horror.
"What about the law?" he snapped at her.
"What about it? Am I breaking the law? Is it against the law to sell a minor a bikini? Is it?"
"W-well ... I-I don't know ... I'd have to study the books. But, good God, Rita, the public indignation, the outcry of the do-gooders, the irate parents ... the whole works would fall flat on my doorstep. I'm the Law Director...." He paused. He had witnessed the sudden broadening of Rita's smile. His face filled with scorn. "No! I know what you're thinking, and I won't do it. I won't!"
"The hell you won't!"
His shaggy eyebrows arched with surprise. "Rita, what on earth has happened to you. You never talked this way before."
"That's right, Henry. I didn't. When I worked for you, I was the sweet little nothing that you could goose when I was bent over the water fountain. And you could drag into the storeroom after work and do whatever you damn well pleased. And Rita wouldn't say anything. Rita was scared of losing her job and scared of you, scared of the whole world. But that's over with, Henry. There's a new Rita."
No one was more convinced of this fact than Henry. He squinted; he was afraid.
"And don't tell me I can't open up this new dress shop."
"Well you can't!"
A cagey smile broke from her mouth. She said, "You're forgetting something, Henry. You're forgetting that if the sweet little Law Director doesn't give his sweet little of permission, sweet little Rita is gonna shoot her mouth off to the newspapers. And you wouldn't want that, now would you?" She breathed rapidly, wondering if she'd actually spoken these words, frightened by her own strength, but too elated to question it.
Henry's complexion grew ashen. During his political career, he had never tasted defeat; but he was tasting it now and his remorse could never be keener. His mouth trembled. He failed dismally in his efforts to light a cigarette, finally threw the burnt match and unlit cigarette into a tray; and when he spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"You're a fiend, Rita! An incorrigible fiend!"
She said, "Isn't it rather late for unpleasantries? Aren't you also being a poor loser?"
He started to say something, but changed his mind. Eita leaned back on the couch. Her short little-girl skirt slid up her legs. Her ivory thighs beckoned to Henry. A sudden wickedness gripped her. Then, obeying an evil compulsion that came from deep inside her, she parted her knees.
Henry's eyes glassed. He stole glances at the darkness between her legs. Rita tried to clamp her knees together, but it was if some hidden power were now preventing this; and now her thighs parted to an even bolder width. She heard herself say:
"You see, Henry. I have changed. And being the loser isn't so bad." She proffered a smile. "Not when you get used to it."
"Rita...."
"Come here, Henry...."
CHAPTER 2
Rita was no expert on the psychology or sex; neither, was she a fool. In the five years that she'd known Henry Ridgewood two of them worked in his downtown law office she'd been humiliatingly exposed to the man's sexual idiosyncrasies. She knew,' for instance, that despite the imperial hierarchy with which he ran his office, come bedtime: Henry Ridgewood was diametrically opposite. There existed in his craggy body that overpowering need to submit. And adding to the paradox, Henry insisted that Rita dress as a teenager a reversal of the roles of punishing father and obedient daughter.
Three years ago it had gagged her to submit to his fiendish perversions; but she had been bound to him by the need of a job and by his threats that he would make it impossible for her to get another. But that was behind her, she thought. Now, because of a change in personality that defied explanation, she was no longer afraid of him.
"Is it those pills? Is this why I feel powerful, why he seems so weak?"
She looked at him disdainfully. Henry hadn't changed. Not one iota. With the arrival of .desire, his watery blue eyes had grown sad and penitent: a little boy about to be punished. And fittingly, in a role that must have stretched to the foggy years of his youth, he now bowed his head and awaited her command to come forth.
In the past, she had enacted this role because she was forced to. But now it was something different. Now the power was real. And she could humble him at will, she thought Under the threat of exposure, she could make him crawl at her feet and kiss her boots. And while this "new feeling" puzzled her, she made no effort to conceal her exaltation.
Her breasts swelled as though suddenly infused with the milk of motherhood; to humble so politically mighty a man was as thrilling as anything she had ever experienced. It imbued her with strength the power to hurt.
"Come here, Henry." Her tone was impersonal, cold.
He did not move. Time was static and the sudden silence was overpowering.
Rita was filled with sudden anger. She remembered the humiliating experiences that Henry had subjected her to, the evil perversions he had reaped upon her, his threats: Either do it, or I'll fire you!
More forcefully, surprising even herself, she repeated her command. As though hearing her for the first time, Henry slowly raised his eyes. His face had grown flaccid; fear was ubiquitous.
Now, and obeying a will greater than his own, he came hesitantly from his chair and fell before her feet. He rested his withered face against her bare knees, cradled her legs in his arms. He was the simpering personification of abject humility, and if she had ordered him to grovel on his belly like some whipped dog, to lick her boots and cringe at her feet, he would have done no less.
Rita remained inert, choosing to savor this queenly moment of domination before it passed to the next. Her sudden passivity did not pique Henry's disapproval; instead, he sank deeper and deeper into his role of the beggar, bestowing on her white leather? boots a servile torrent of kisses.
Rita exacted new thrills from her cringing host She tugged at the shoulders of hissuit coat and forced him to kiss her curvy calves, then the bare sheen of her dimpled knees.
Henry Ridgewood was the compliant sycophant, the toad of her wishes; no degradation was too great, with he the slave and she the master.
Crawling on his knees, he proffered hot wet kisses up and down the pristine loveliness of Rita's bare thighs. Rita balled up her fists and closed her eyes, He was horrible and evil and it sickened her to hear him whimper his adulation. She pushed him away angrily.
"Why did you do that?" He looked ready to cry.
"Cause you make me sick!"
"Rita!"
"It's true. You do. I put up with these sick perversions of yours for two whole years, but that was because I needed a job. Because I was dumb and didn't know any better. But not now, Henry. From now on we're going to do things my-way."
He stood up, adjusted his clothing. "What in hell's name has got into you? It was your idea to come here. Remember?"
Rita said, "That's right, Henry. It was my idea. But not for this."
He slicked back his hair. He frowned. "Maybe it's time for me to leave."
"It's early yet. Sit down."
But Henry was glancing at his watch, frowning.
"Rita, I've more important things to do than play games." He glanced wistfully at her breasts. "This has evidently been a mistake, and I don't know why you asked me here and now I'm not sure that I care."
"It's, still early," she repeated.
"It is not early and please be' reasonable."
Rita felt a fresh invasion of anger. Be reasonable? What was that? Was it reasonable that Henry Ridge-Wood should now be able to make a hasty exit and return to respectability, to a $60,000 home, to security.
He was willing to reap perversions upon her and yet he was disinclined to help her open her shop for teens. Was that reasonable? And wasn't this dress shop a means for the very things that Henry already had: Security, wealth, position. Didn't he think she also had a right to them?
"I do wish you'd stay a while longer," she said, holding her temper in check.
But he couldn't. His position must be clear to her, he said. She had worked in his office, therefore, she knew of his commitments. And now his tone was a scolding one.
Rita was disappointed, but not defeated. She crossed her legs, affording Henry a generous view of her svelte thighs, and she met his arguments with controlled sweetness. She pleaded for ten more minutes; but Henry was adamant; he must go and now.
Rita felt the tide of anger growing, sweeping out of control. Henry hadn't said a single word about her store and without his help there could be no store. He was only interested in his sick perversions and his public office that was all.
Why, she wondered, was he forcing her into the position of having to threaten him? It wasn't her nature to step on people to gain her way. Why was he making her be this way?
"Henry, if you could just spare five minutes ... .
"But I can't," he said resolutely, "and that's that!"
Rita angrily snapped a cigarette from her pack. She envisioned Henry Ridgewood sailing toward Temple Heights in his new powder-blue Cadillac convertible, being welcomed at the door of his luxurious home by a butler, being swept inside by his gray-haired elegantly dressed wife: Dinner at the Ridgewoods'.
"But what about my dress shop for teens?"
He scowled derisively a look that said: "That again?"
"I've already told you what I think of the idea. There's nothing left to discuss." Was he refusing to help?
Her skirt slid higher on her tanned thighs. "Henry, I think...." And she hadn't wanted to say this. "...I think you owe me something."
He scowled. "I owe you nothing!" And then he went to his soapbox. "You want me to condone that which is immoral, support that which, by its very nature, is tangibly illegal; in short, you want me to commit political suicide, and all to satisfy this idiotic whim of yours."
"It's not a whim!" Her eyes blazed. She came to her feet.
"Whatever it is," he said, making final adjustment of his necktie, "it hasn't a ghost of a chance to succeed. I won't support it, so don't ask me."
Her eyes narrowed, grew dark. He had refused her. The mutation of turtle to lion, she mused; but what a fool!
"I could make a lot of trouble for you, Henry. A lot-He was unimpressed, even managing a tight smile.
He said:
"I've thought that over, Rita. No one would believe you."
"And why not?"
The smile broadened. "Because I'm the Law Director here in Temple City, and you ... you're...."
"A whore," she finished. "Is that what you'd tell them?"
He shot her a cold empty look. "That isn't what I was about to say. But if the shoe fits...." He went to the closet for his overcoat. "...there's no need for a scene, Rita. This has been fun and . . His watery blue eyes flitted over her body. "...it ought to end with a smile."
She scorned his attempts to pacify her. Her threats had succeeded in drawing him to this motel and she was willing to grant that that had been an unworthy approach but now he had given the matter some logical afterthought, and he envisioned himself as safely in the "driver's seat".
With bitter contempt, she watched him don his gloves, the ubiquitous dark glasses. He exuded victory like an overripe grape, she thought. He was just as proud of himself now as he had been that first week she'd worked in his office, seduced her with the subtle (? ) guise of "valuing her job."
"Goodnight, Rita."
She was silent, letting him reach the door before she dropped her bomb. Then:
"Walk out that door, Henry, and you're dead!"
Henry was amused. He turned slowly. "Going to kill me?"
"Not in the way you're thinking." She leered. "But you'll be dead in politics. Dead in Temple City and dead wherever you go."
"You're making sounds like a Republican." And it was one of his rare attempts at humor.
"But I'll make others sounds, Henry." She smiled with malicious triumph and rushed on. "Remember, Henry, how you used to go to an outside phone booth and call me up and talk to me for hours on end?"
"So?"
"But do you remember the things you used to say, the things you forced me to say?" And, of course, he did, Rita thought. Henry had always drawn a kick out of filthy phone conversations another little quirk of his and one that she had reluctantly nourished. "You used to say, 'Rita, I'd like to...' And shall I finish, Henry?"
"Really, Rita...."
But she rushed on:
"Suppose I told you that I had tape-recorded some of those juicy conversations. What would you say?"
His political urbanity was unruffled. Smiling boldly, he said, "I'd call you a damn liar, Rita!"
"I kind of thought you'd say that." She reached into her purse and tossed Henry a roll of recording tape. "I've been hurt too many times, Henry, not to have taken a few precautions." She gave him a wan smile. "When you reach your office in the morning, you might play that."
"You bitch!"
She almost laughed. The monumental pillar of legal efficiency had at last crumbled.
"I know it's inadmissible as court evidence," she continued, "but don't you agree that it'll raise a few eyebrows?"
"You blackmailing little bitch!" he spat.
"Tsk, tsk."
"You won't get away with this." 'Stop it, Henry. You sound like a soap opera." His face grew red. Suavity was gone. He threatened to explode.
Rita studied him, watched anger subside to resignation. She walked slowly toward him.
"Sit down, Henry. It's early." And then, as he slumped resignedly into a chair, she rushed for the suitcase she'd brought along and opened it. In breathless exhilaration, she showed Henry some of the articles that her new teen shop would handle. "Just feel those slippery patent leather shoes, Henry. Don't they do something to you? ... and this rubber girdle ... girls love black. It'll sell like wildfire!"
And then there was other wardrobe: Lacy silk negligees for the up-and-coming teenager; a French bra that would titillatingly expose her rosy nipples; and finally, a daring black sheath of scintillating satin.
"Can't you imagine what these clothes will do for the teenager's ego?"
Henry Ridgewood had remained uninterestedly silent throughout Rita's demonstration of her fetish wardrobe, but now he was obliged to speak: .
"Rita, I don't know what's come over you, but this is dynamite of the worst order. It will blow the lid off this town, and me with it. It-it's crazy!"
A reckless impulse maybe those pills, she thought stirred Rita to new mischief. She closed her suitcase and went to his side. She began unbuttoning his overcoat.
"Anything is possible if you work at it, Henry." She loosened his necktie. "And speaking of things working...." And it was off with the dark glasses. "...I know you're capable of re-election, but what I'd like to know...." She pressed her warm breasts against his face. "...are you capable of something else?"
Without uttering a word, Henry rose indignantly from his chair and slammed his way out of the motel. Rita heard his Cadillac tearing hell out of the gravel. Then he was peeling onto the highway, speeding into the night.
For a full five minutes, Rita was swept with laughter. She had put him properly in his place, made a fool of him; and questioning his virility, or the lack of it: What greater wound could she inflict to a man's ego than this?
She danced in glee, stood at the Venetian blinds to stare out at the lights that pinpointed Temple City, felt a power and strength she had never before known.
She had Dr. Grossman to thank for this, she thought. Dr. Grossman who, for all his caution, had converted her from introvert to extrovert, from a weakling to a pillar of strength. And besides that and she hadn't told the doctor this the pills had awakened a new sexual desire; and for once in her life, she felt like a woman.
A month ago, before the pills, she'd never had the nerve to complain about a poorly cooked restaurant meal, or the lousy service work on her car. She had no confidence in herself, was begrudgingly content to accept life as it was: a meager existence from a failing dress shop.
But that was all changed now. An incredible bottle of pills it seemed impossible. But she'd flattened Henry Ridgewood, so there was the proof. He had ruthlessly dominated her in years past; now he was nothing. And he'd help her because he had to. There was no choice left for him.
Springing away from the window, she waltzed around the room, her heart singing a melody of new life. It was like a rebirth; and her new store would be a success. She just knew !
Hurrying to the bathroom, she slipped out of her clothes and prepared for a shower. She wanted to cleanse her body of Henry's perverted kisses, to wash away the evil that he had so continuously represented. And if the voters knew ... if they only knew.
She stood naked before the bathroom mirror.
"I've changed mentally. Have I changed physically?"
She couldn't decide. Her gleaming elegant breasts stood up just as proud and awe-inspiring as they ever had. But wasn't there something more majestic about them now? Didn't the pinkened nipples seem more nubile, more provocative?
She turned sideways. The blushing perfect symmetry of her body sent a chill of proudness into her loins. She'd always been ashamed of it; embarrassed by it. But there was nothing to be ashamed of, was there? Her buttocks, lingering for caresses, were carved with Grecian accuracy for beauty: divinely sculptured in animated alabaster, jiggling with sin.
And now the mood, the moment, perhaps Dr. Grossman's miracle drug, combined together to capture her in narcissistic wonderment. She brought her moist palms to the lush hotness of her breasts. She squeezed and moaned. And then to a mirror that provided no answers, she said:
"Yes, I have changed. And I'm going to keep on changing...."
CHAPTER 3
Dr. Grossman was furious when he phoned Rita the next morning:
"Miss Lyons, you faithfully promised to come up to my office yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that."
"Even when I feel good?"
"That is not the point, Miss Lyons. These pills ... this is all so experimental, and we have to know what is happening to you."
"Is something supposed to happen?"
He was losing his patience. "Miss Lyons, please understand. These pills could have some undesirable side effects. We don't know. But we have to run laboratory control checks, encephalograms."
Feeling too happy to take anything very seriously, Rita said:
"It sounds exciting."
"You don't understand what I'm trying to say, do you? You think this is a big joke...."
"Doctor...."
"Suppose toxemia arises. Suppose, as a result of these pills, we have an accumulation of toxic by-products. What then?"
"You drive a hard bargain, doctor."
"I am only asking for some co-operation, Miss Lyons. If we are to learn what the drug can do, we must be able to see the patient."
Rita wondered if Dr. Grossman wasn't dramatizing things a bit.
"Could this examination wait one more day? I've a million things to do today."
"I'd prefer not," he said.
She debated with herself briefly; then, because he was so persistent, because she felt no real animosity ' toward him, she agreed to be in his office within the hour.
She swallowed two of his pills; a few minutes later felt devilish and light-headed. She selected a bright-red dress to wear to his office. It was garishly tight and in a fit of mischief, she decided not wear any underclothes, the rationalization being: Why wear so many clothes to a doctor's office; the first thing he does is take them off!
Dr. Grossman's office was not as luxurious as one might have imagined; especially, since his trade, for the most part, was made up of Temple City's higher echelon: specifically, society's hypochondrical wives. Rita was the lone exception.
His office was on a lower floor of a less than impressive downtown mercantile building. The carpeting was adequate no more than that and his medical certificates, somewhat yellowed with age, hung from walls of an ambiguous green. His plain glass-topped desk showed the earmarks of a busy man, but not a neat one. Ledgers, paper work, an assortment of textbooks were everywhere.
Rita greeted him with a zestful smile when she crossed the threshold; and chivalry was not dead: Dr. Grossman was instantly up and out of his ancient swivel chair, smiling politely, gesturing to a place beside his desk.
"I'm glad you were finally able to come down," he said, creaking back to the swivel chair; and then his round rabbit-like eyes blinked rapidly: a tardy response to Rita's flaming-red dress and the fact that she wore nothing beneath it.
She wondered if he would scold her for not keeping the earlier appointments and she hoped not. She rather liked him, this pudgy little man with the rabbit-like eyes, but it was this amusing roundness and homey affable manner that made him so un-like the doctors she'd known;-likewise, so difficult to take seriously. He was, she imagined, much like some great old codger one would find sprawled, in front of a whistle stop railway junction, a peaceful loner dedicated to the passing of time and trains. Yet, in his field, they came no better.
And now, with a grain of mischief in her marvelous dark eyes, Rita said:
"Do I look sick?"
A sense of amusement reached the corners of his mouth. He blinked rapidly, not missing the spectacular silver shoes, nor the abbreviated hemline, and he said: "You couldn't possibly look better."
"And is that a clinical observation," she said mischievously, "or are you attaining the 'dangerous age?"
He pressed his fingertips together to form a church steeple. Meditation came as a wry smile, and he replied: "I'm beyond the 'dangerous age', as you put it, but...." He looked into her eyes. " ... the compliment still stands. You couldn't possibly look better."
"Thank you."
"Do you feel different?"
"Quite."
"In what way."
"All ways."
"And suppose you tell me."
"Well...." And there was so much to tell, so much to thank him for. No more depression or anxiety; fears she had none; life was rich with meaning. "...and if I sound like a religious fanatic, I don't mean to. But since I began taking those pills...."
"You'll make an excellent testimonial, Miss Lyons. You seem capable of fighting wild bulls and Bengal tigers."
"And wolves," she added with a cynical smile.
"Which brings us to another issue," he said, bending over his ledger. "How is your sex life? Any changes."
She felt the quick return of mischief. "My sex life is lousy. How's yours?"
He cleared his throat, a stall more than anything else, and he said:
"Shall we try to be serious?"
She apologized for her lightness, tried to match the sudden solemnity he wore, and told him she'd been too busy with plans for the new store to worry about sex.
"Would you welcome a sexual relationship."
"Welcome?"
"Yes. That is, do you look forward to it?"
"Well ... I don't know. I never thought of it."
"Think of it now. Suppose you were out on a date with someone you were especially fond of. If the situation warranted it, would you consent to having intercourse?"
The speed of her response surprised her. She said: "Why not?"
Dr. Grossman seemed pleased. He made a note in his ledger.
"Why did I say that?" she asked him, suddenly puzzled.
He smiled. "And why not? It's the change we've been seeking. Before...." And he looked up from the ledger. "...before, if you remember, you were deathly afraid of sex. You thought of it as something dirty. You were a prude to a degree that was actually abnormal."
"And now I'm a fallen woman?" she asked, rather than stated.
"Hardly." He reached to his desk for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "In these times, premarital intercourse is no longer the bogey man it used to be. That isn't to say that I'd encourage indiscriminate love-making, but neither can we go against Nature. The human body has certain reproductive urges that occasionally require an outlet. And if you constantly stifle those outlets ... which is what you were doing ... then we're building toward an explosion. In layman's terminology, Miss Lyons, abstinence is sometimes a quick road to the nut farm."
Rita laughed. "Was I that bad?"
"You were on your way."
"And now?"
He set down his pencil, leaned back in his chair. His thick pudgy fingers formed a new church steeple, and he said:
"I don't know. It's too early. And the thing that worries me...." And, of course, Dr. Grossman would always worry about something, Rita thought. He was a born worrier. "...the thing that worries me," he went on, "is the possibility of reversal."
Rita didn't understand.
"Everything about you has been changed by the miracle of drugs. We have attained opposites. Before, you were weak; now you are strong. You have gone from introvert to extrovert, from a weak insecure woman to a voluble outward one. Exactly the opposite."
"But wasn't that the idea?"
"Yes. Yes, of course. But the thing that worries me ... and this is what I was getting at ... if chemo-therapeutics can reverse one's character traits, who is to say it cannot also reverse the polarity of one's sexual desires?"
Rita shot him a puzzled glance. She didn't understand what he was trying to say.
"Put it this way, Miss Lyons: A woman normally desires the opposite sex. However, since Hypothalmic-322 can apparently reverse character traits, how do we know that it won't reverse...."
"You're kidding!" Rita bolted upright in her chair. "You mean...."
"I didn't mean to alarm you. I was only advancing a hypothesis."
She laughed. "You don't alarm me, doctor. You amuse me." She smoothed down her dress. "Do I look like a queer?"
His rabbit-like eyes pounced on the contour of her thinly imprisoned breasts. "Not in the least. But I am not concerned with outward appearances. I'm more deeply concerned with your inner feelings."
"Well if you think...."
"I don't think anything ... not yet. Try to understand, though, that this drug, like all new drugs, has side-effects that we know nothing about. And if we are aware of such side-effects as the one I hinted about, then we can take preventative measures to offset it."
"And you think that might happen. You think I might get an itching for girls?"
Some of his cherubic good humor returned. He departed from the serious vein of the conversation, and said:
"At the moment, that appears most un-likely." His warm eyes took in an unethical appraisal of her exposed thighs.
"Any more questions?" Rita asked, making no effort to lower her dress.
"A few," he said. "We'll cover them after the tests." He nodded to the laboratory behind his office.
With a fit of sudden daring, Rita came to her feet and peeled off her dress. A warmth spread through her loins. Except for the silver high heeled shoes, she was naked.
"I'm ready for your testing, doctor."
It had all happened so fast that Dr. Grossman had no chance to protest. Professional composure was lost. He was speechless.
Rita wiggled toward his laboratory. Mischief flooded her body, her speech.
"...and don't forget your stethoscope, doctor. You may need it."
CHAPTER 4
Dr. Grossman's fears about the drug failed to dull Rita's enthusiasm about her new way of life. The possibility that he had suggested that she might take on lesbian desires seemed positively ridiculous.
"And suppos'n I did get that way?" she had asked him.
"We would have to stop the drug."
"And I would be the old Rita again."
"Exactly."
And Rita frowned, knowing that if she ever discovered those feelings, she would never tell Dr. Grossman about it. Success was too close; she wasn't going to kill it at this late date.
Her teenage dress shop would be a crowning financial achievement. Grown men would drool when her nymphets appeared on the fashion stage in their spike-heeled shoes and black-leather short-shorts. And when those 14and 15-year-old junior sex bombs came down from the stage to mingle with her male patrons, it would precipitate one of the largest selling waves to ever hit Temple Cityl Yes, the riches were hers.
.She worked furiously during the following days. There was the task of closing out her present store, inventorying her stock, and wholesaling it out with a minimal loss. This, she readily accomplished. She staged a three-day "close out" sale, and it met with greater success than she imagined.
During the second week, she catered only to wholesalers. She ridded the remainder of her stock on a straight 50-percent of worth basis, and by the end of that week she had an empty store, an idea, and some six-thousand dollars in cash.
Henry Ridgewood, even in the face of these early successes, was still stubbornly against the plan. It wouldn't work, he said during a cocktail rendezvous with Rita. Even if you were willing to overlook the immoral fiber of such a business, there was still the problem of obtaining customers; and Henry steadfastly maintained that teenagers wouldn't be interested in bizarre fashions. And without a demand for her goods, Rita's business would collapse and die. This was a certainty, he prophesied.
"...so why don't you quit while you're ahead?" he asked.
They were in a small dimly-lit cocktail lounge on the outskirts of the city. Rita pulled up her dress. She placed Henry's hand between her svelte thighs. "Would you quit when you were ahead, Henry?"
He smiled. His fatigue ridden eyes suddenly brightened with excitement. "Rita, you're a bitch. A real bitch."
She squeezed her thighs together on his hand. He had meant it as a compliment, she thought. Her only rebuttal was:
"You have to be a bitch to get somewhere in this world. Tell me I'm wrong."
But Henry Ridgewood told her nothing of the kind. Instead, his hand came to battle with the elastic band of her panties.
Smiling to these physical overtures, Rita said, "You see, Henry. It's a matter of product and demand. I have the product and you have the demand. And it'll be the same way with my store."
Henry had forgotten what their difference was about, being too preoccupied with the separation of panties from flesh. With an outcry of passion, he had, at last, accomplished a manual invasion which was to say he managed to get his hand inside her panties and now he wanted to go to a motel.
Rita held him off. "But you're a married man," she chided.
"Please, Rita."
She was suffused with a sense of power. Henry, the beggar. She smiled proudly at this complacent pawn hiding her contempt with elation, thinking that before it was over with, the whole town would beg. Then she said:
"All right, Henry. Let's go."
Thirty minutes later they had locked themselves in a motel on the south side of town. Rita had quickly divested herself of her clothes and was naked. Henry, on the other hand, was slower, performing his perfunctory cautions of peeping out the window to make certain they hadn't been followed.
Rita sneaked behind him and slipped his belt out of his trousers. She brandished it like a whip, cracking him playfully across his buttocks. Henry jumped away from the window.
"What are you doing with that?" His eyes went from her magnificent breasts to the black leather belt she cracked at the air.
"You think you're such a lion of a lover, Henry, and now we'll find out."
He wasn't sure if she was fooling, or Serious. He grinned uncertainly.
"I'm waiting, Henry."
He climbed out of his trousers and laid them across the divan with meticulous care. While his back was turned, Rita cracked him across the thighs.
He jumped away, clutched the redness of his thighs.
"Will you cut that out! That hurt."
She laughed imperiously and cracked him again.
"Have you gone out of your mind?"
She cracked him still again, this time higher on his thighs and at the stitching in the legs of his shorts. He grew angry. He tore off his shirt and undershirt. Seconds later, he had dropped his shorts and kicked off his shoes and stockings. His body was reddened from the blows of the belt.
"Enough is enough," he said tartly, advancing toward her.
She threw him a mocking laugh. Her breasts stood high and majestic and shook with her laughter.
"And what are you gonna do about it?" she asked, raising the belt in the air.
"I'll show you what I'm gonna do." He reached out for her, but Rita was much too fast for him. She sidestepped his grasp, let his forward momentum carry him off balance, and slipped her ankle between his legs. He went down with a horrid crash.
Rita leaped over him and cracked him with the belt. He was on his face and Rita, his naked lion tamer, was straddled over him. Twice he tried to rise; twice Rita defeated his efforts, blistering his backside with the leather belt
Rita was rocked with sensual delights. Excitement churned in her breasts. Her loins were on fire. She cast the belt aside and belly-slammed her body down hard on top of Henry's. She slid back and 'forth on his naked back.
"Did I hurt the poor, poor Henry?" she asked in a babyish whine. "Did I?" Her nipples were pressed against his shoulder blades. Her lower body was in contact with his buttocks. Slowly, gently, he rolled her over. He challenged her supremacy with a supremacy of his own. Their bodies merged. In union they were one.
He said, "You're a devil, Rita. Do you know that?"
She wrapped her arms around his buttocks and pressed him back and forth. "You talk too much, Henry. Men of action don't talk."
"Rita...." He stiffened his arms and arched his back so that he might see her breasts. He looked at one, then the other. Suddenly he buried his face between them. "Y-You're lovely, Rita. Lovely and wonderful and warm and sweet...."
Rita clutched her ancient lover to her body. She squirmed her hips and felt response, first in his body, then in her own. She kissed him and when they parted, she said:
"All right, Henry. You're the law director. Let's see you do some directing...."
During the third week and those that followed, there was little time for dalliance with Henry Ridgewood. Rita's every wakeful hour was spent in getting the new store underway. She had to locate new wholesalers for the rare clothing she expected to handle; this was a formidable chore, but her incessant inquiries finally paid off. She discovered two west coast houses that specialized in exotic clothing; another one in New York. All three sources promised to air mail their latest catalogues, and to her questions, they answered: Yes, they could supply her with petite sizes to fit the teenager; if her credit rating was satisfactory, they would work to a 90-day-pay basis; or if she wanted to pay the slightly higher price, the account could be put on straight consignment. To these and other questions, they also added that they would welcome a personal visit if she so chose.
Rita was elated with these early inquiries. It meant that her initial investment would be minimal, leaving her more cash for the alteration of the store. Further inquiries to a national credit rating firm revealed her to have a grading of "excellent"; by now, she was treading a blanket of pink clouds, swimming with happiness.
The following day, she called in the manager of an interior decorating firm and told him what she wanted. The accent must be on youth. It must have lots of little girl appeal; the motif could be warm and gay, but she didn't want it to look like a nursery.
The decorator suggested pink as the predominating color. Around this, he explained, she could come in with her complementing reds and maroons. He recommended deep-red window drapes, matching wall-to-wall carpeting; a candy-striped fourth wall would be most effective, he promised; and if she wanted a touch of intimacy, wanted to make the shop even more chic, he could lower the ceiling and install diffused lighting.
Her desired alterations for the back portion of the store were more grandiose. She wanted the fashion stage enlarged for the model shows; she also desired a catwalk, extending from the stage, that would enable the little nymphets to parade out amongst the audience. More mirrors would be required; also, more dressing rooms.
The decorator was impressed with her ideas. He suggested spotlights for enhancing the theatrical effect and a small buffet area for serving refreshments. And the cost? He would let her know within a week.
Eita was jubilant. The plan was taking shape. And she wasn't worried about costs. If need be, she could float a loan. And if the bank denied her such a loan this was un-likely, she thought there was always Henry Ridgewood. She despised his weakness; but on the other hand, it was these very weaknesses that furnished her with the strength of her position. And Henry didn't dare fail her, she thought. If he did, it would mean his political death...
The following morning she placed an advertisement in the town's single newspaper. Teenage models were needed, experience was not necessary, and to this she added her phone number. She expected some problems: disapproving parents; however, she would cope with that enigma when she got to it. Money, of course, would be a powerful convincer: Not too many parents would turn their backs on the green stuff; scruples would die by the wayside. And now her confidence grew like a tumor; incipient success was hers!
She spent the afternoon straightening her apartment for the interviews. Ordinarily, she detested housework; today, however, she attacked the dusting and vacuuming with boundless alacrity. The apartment must look spotless, and when she was done with it, it would.
She was glad now that she had a good address one on the better side of town and glad, too, that she'd had the foresight to decorate it so lavishly. Being in business had afforded her the chance of getting some whopping furniture discounts: contemporary elegance had been obtained at a minimum of cost. And she was justly proud of this swanky four-room apartment. It was a status symbol far removed from the ramshackle house that she'd been reared in. But with a fierce determination, she knew this was only the beginning.
By nightfall, she had whistled and hummed her way to the finish. The apartment was brightly clean. Tall table lamps diffused a warm intimacy across the thickly carpeted living room, and luxury lingered like a haunting perfume. The deep crimson of her chaise lounge that was the most! beckoned with the promise of comfort, was commodious enough for the wildest of pastimes. And strangely, she reflected, she had never made love on it a dereliction of duty that certainly needed correcting. Might be fun to test its bounce. Might be a lot of fun!
Pushing lascivious thoughts out of her mind, she stripped down to take a shower. She'd eat out, she supposed. Perhaps she would call Henry, ask him to take her to dinner. He was a bore, but it was better than being alone.
Down to her panties and bra, she started for the bath, but the phone rang and carried her back to the living room. The voice was that of a young girl: shy and diffident, expressing herself was a formidable battle that she very nearly lost:
"Y-you had an ad in the paper ... teenage models...."
Rita was taken by surprise. She hadn't expected the ad to appear until tomorrow. "Why, yes. Yes, I did."
I-I was ... I was w-wondering...."
Rita's compassion went out to the poor girl. Every word was a struggle. "Would you like to become a model, my dear?"
"Well I-I don't know.. . I mean...."
"Don't be frightened."
Tm not. It's just that.. . that...."
"You never applied for a job before," Rita finished, "and you're scared. And I was the same way the first time I went for a job, so I know."
The girl brightened. Her voice grew steady. "When could I see you?" she asked.
Rita paused. She hadn't planned to do any interviewing until tomorrow, but a sudden thought crossed her mind: maybe not too many girls would respond to the ad. And maybe she shouldn't let this one escape. "Would you like to come up to my apartment tonight?"
"That would be super!" she exclaimed eagerly. But then she was plagued by self-doubt: "Maybe I won't be good enough, though."
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" she said, trying to reassure the teenager.
"Do you have to have a real good shape?"
Rita again paused. She mustn't frighten the poor thing off; on the other hand, she couldn't be completely dishonest. "Well, a pleasing figure does help. But there are other considerations," she added hastily.
"Well I do have a good shape," the girl said with surprising frankness, "but my hair...."
"We can take care of your hair-do."
"But is fifteen too young?"
"Not at all," Rita answered. "Would you like to come up?"
And the teenager was willing. She could be there in twenty minutes, she was sure her parents wouldn't mind, and after Rita had supplied her with the address, she said, "I hope I get hired."
"We'll see," Rita said, and then she hung up. She swallowed two of Dr. Grossman's pills and went to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, almost to the minute, the girl arrived. Rita had just emerged from the shower, toweled, and climbed into a bright-yellow Japanese kimono. She tightened the black silk sash of the costume and hurried to the door. She was instantly startled; never in her life had she been so swiftly arid incredibly certain of a decision that decision being: The girl was hired!
Her name, Rita learned, was Lee Patterson; and as the youngster came anxiously into the apartment, marveled at its splendor, Rita found herself awed by the perfection of the teenager's figure. High and full of breast, possessing a diminutive waist, she exuded sex with every step. And what made her so winsomely desirable, Rita ruminated, was her completely unaffected manner. If anything, the girl was too immodest: the epitome of teenage sex, she was as humble as a church mouse.
Rita told her to relax not that this had any visible effect and then she excused herself to bring in a tray of soft drinks. The girl was palpably nervous and her shabby coat told Rita that the youngster was unaccustomed to the "better life' and awkward in its presence; however, when the Cokes arrived and Rita smiled, the strain lifted. Rita sat beside the girl, led her into a banal discussion of school; within five minutes, the girl was relaxed and the warm rapport had begun to grow.
During this conversation, Rita had not meant to stare; yet it was impossible not to. Lee Patterson, despite her shabby dress and unkempt long blonde hair, was strikingly attractive. Her eyes, a misty blue, possessed long dark lashes that needed no penciling. Her nose: pert, kind of saucy; the mouth: full, but never pretentious. And all of this young beauty was sculptured in a fair skin that was flawless in its texture. Truly, she was more than Rita had bargained for.
"And you think you'd like to become a model, huh?"
"I'd love to! But dya think I'd be good enough?"
Rita's mind was already made up: the girl would be excellent; nevertheless, she asked Lee to stand up and walk across the room. Lee was less strained now; she set down her Coke and moved above with ease. Her clothes did her no justice: The skirt was a wretched plaid, faded from too many washings; and her plain cotton blouse was not only ill-fitting, probably a hand-me-down, but it was also in need of pressing. All the same, the promise was there: Buttocks that were ripe and firm; pristine breasts that strained to burst forth from her cheap blouse; legs that were reaching the full bloom of young womanhood.
The girl excited Rita, and whether it was a physical excitement or simply the excitement of discovery, was not something that Rita could immediately determine.
"What do you think, Miss Lyons?"
"What do I think?" Rita felt a confident smile spread across her mouth. "I think you'll be wonderful."
"Really!" the teenager gushed. "You really do?"
"Honest Injun. And now maybe I'd better tell you just what kind of modeling you'll be doing." Her tone now grew suddenly business-like. "You may want to reconsider."
And then, for the next ten minutes, Rita hopefully explained the plans for her new fashion shop for teens. As always, her enthusiasm carried her aloft; but this time she had an avid listener, and the enthusiasm was contagious. Her young companion thought the idea was great; the kids would go nuts over clothes like that.
"You're not just saying that because you want the job?"
"Oh, no!" Lee said in a rush.
"And you have no objection to modeling these ... these clothes?"
"Heck, no! How else are you gonna sell 'em?"
Rita wanted it perfectly clear that men would be attending some of her style shows, would be gazing at her teenage models, seeing them in the skimpiest of dress. 'Is that sort of thing going to scare you?" she asked cautiously.
The teenager shrugged it off lightly. Sex was not new to her, despite the wide-eyed innocence of her smile. She had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, had been chased by boys and grown men since she was twelve years old. She was not afraid; she blushingly admitted it might be fun.
"What about your parents?" Rita asked. "Would they object?"
Hardly so, the teenager answered. Her mother-had died when Lee was only ten; her father spent his evenings in the neighborhood bars.
"But would he object?" Rita probed.
"I doubt it." She crossed her shapely legs. "Anyway, how would he know?"
Rita was pleased. She couldn't have asked for a more compromising family situation. The teenager was obviously free to do as she wished.
"Do I get the job, then?" she asked hopefully.
Rita gave her a conditional yes. There was a lot of work to be done: she's have to be taught how to walk, pivot, to look alluring but never pretentious; how to wear make-up and how not to wear it. Her hair-do was atrocious, that would need work; finally, there was the question of wages and hours. She would work after school and on Saturdays. When a style show was scheduled, she would work in the evening.
"And m pay you two-dollars an hour." This was much less than the going rate for models, but Rita knew that the teenager would swoon with any offer at all. And her presumption was entirely correct:
"Golly! I'll be the richest kid in school."
Rita smiled proudly. She'd struck an excellent bargain and, more than that, she liked the girl's cheerful eagerness. Something else: There was no use denying it to herself-the girl excited her. She couldn't analyze these feelings at first even denying their presence. But now the itching was here in full force. A strange hunger throbbed to life. And suddenly, unashamed, Rita gazed at the exposed area of the teenager's comely thighs.
Her thoughts shocked her. She remembered Dr. Grossman's warning:
"The drug might possibly reverse your sex urges. Make you a lesbian....."
And her reply:
"That's silly."
"But it could happen. If only for a few hours, it could happen."
"Is there something wrong, Miss Lyons?" Rita blotted out her thoughts. She stared blankly at the teenager.
"What makes you ask?"
"I don't know. Just the way you were looking, I guess."
"Well I'm fine," she snapped. "Just fine."
"Oh, I didn't mean that there was anything wrong with you. I just meant...."
"Well, nothing is wrong with me," she repeated; but even as she spoke these words, she knew that something was wrong, because she was staring hungrily at the teenager's breasts, being surged with a warm throbbing desire for which there was but one tempestuous answer.
"Lee...?"
"Yes."
"Would you like to...." What difference did it make if they had a little fun? The store could be a success, regardless of her feelings. And now the rationalizations were complete. "...would you like to have a drink? I mean a grown-up drink."
"I'd love to I" the teenager gushed excitedly.
"And then maybe you'd like to try on some of the clothes you'll be modeling. I have this one bikini and it's the most!"
"Jeezzzz!"
"It's kind of daring."
"So who cares?"
CHAPTER 5
Rita flushed with excitement. She hurried to the kitchen, made them a pitcher of screwdrivers: orange juice and vodka; Lee came out to help.
"They sure taste good," Lee observed after a lengthy gulp.
Rita refilled the teenager's glass. Her eyes danced off the girl's cheap white blouse, the swell of her breasts. The feeling was stronger now, and she said, "Do you have to be home at any particular time, Lee?"
"Heck, no!" She took another long gulp from her glass.
Rita watched her, pleased by the recklessness with which the teenager consumed her drink. She said, "Well, then I guess we'll have to get good and drunk."
The teenager wanted to seem grown-up. They all did. And now Lee assumed a cocky stance, leaned spread-legged against the sink, and she said:
"If we're gonna get drunk, then what are we waiting for?"
"Right," Rita agreed, and they both finished another drink.
The teenager loosened up considerably. She wasn't drunk not on just this little bit but she spoke more glibly, openly asked Rita for a cigarette, and she wasn't the least bit abashed at unbuttoning her blouse when Rita suggested the apartment was warm.
They returned to the front room after Rita had made a fresh batch of drinks; Rita slouched on the divan and the teenager drew up a chair and came beside her.
The drinking spree gained momentum, and there was no need for Rita to coax the teenager to the vodka; without any encouragement, she drank as she pleased, and often.
The drinks took their toll; this was inevitable. And it was also inevitable especially after the drinks that the teenager's discourse would then include boys. And she was frank startlingly so admitting that she had never gone all the way with a boy, admitting that she wanted to, admitting that she was afraid.
Rita was the unequivocal advocate of sin. "You don't know what you're missing," she said, mystery in her voice.
"What's it-like?"
"Having sex relations with a boy."
"Yeah."
"like heaven," Rita answered with a sigh. And then she went on to describe the sex act in graphic detail. She lingered over the four-letter words, unashamedly explored all the lurid avenues of sex, breathed passion and excitement into every sentence.
The teenager was an avid listener. She swallowed every intimate detail, her eyes swelled with interest, and by the end of the conversation she was unconsciously squeezing her thighs together, heightening her excitement.
"It gives you goose bumps all over, just hearing about it," she said.
"I know," Rita answered. A tumultuous sigh rocked her body. "And if we had some boys here right now...."
"Yeahhhh," the teenager agreed, hugging herself. "And I could have Joey."
"Who's Joey."
"My steady."
"The one you were telling me about?" Rita asked. "Uh, huh. And he doesn't have to have a mountain fall on him to get fresh, either. Sex is just about all he ever thinks of."
"And you never.. ? "
"Never! I've been scared to."
"Are you scared tonight?"
The teenager gulped half of another screwdriver. "I don't think I'd be scared of anything tonight." She continued hugging herself.
"You mean...."
"I don't know," she shrugged. "But...." Her eyes grew misty, distant. "...could we talk about something else?"
Rita suppressed a chuckle. The teenager was obviously stimulated by such talk and couldn't stand much more of it.
"I'm sorry," Rita offered. "We shouldn't be talking about such things."
"Oh, I don't mind talking about them. It's just that...."
"What?"
"Well...."
"Yes?"
"Well ... Miss Lyons, doesn't it do something to you when you talk about boys and things like that?"
Rita decided to play the naive lamb a while longer. She said:
"Is it suppose to do something?"
"Well
Rita was gripped with excitement. The teenager had allowed her skirt to slide halfway up her thighs. She fingered the hem.
"You were saying...." Rita coaxed her.
"About boys," Lee said after a pause. "When you talk about 'em, doesn't it make you...."
"Yes?"
"Doesn't it make you hot?" She blushed.
After a brief wait, Rita answered, "Yes, it does." And then catching her feelings before they went completely out of control, she added: "So we'll talk about something else. All right?"
The teenager readily agreed; however, in a matter of minutes, the young girl was again talking about boys specifically, her Joey:
"He never leaves his hand in one place for very long. He-likes to travel all over." And she rushed on to describe their last visit to a drive-in theatre, the excitement of their kisses, Joey's sweaty hands, the strange irregular rhythm of his breathing.
Hearing the description brought Rita to new and nearly uncontrollable passion. She wanted to fight the maddening effects of Dr. Grossman's compelling drug effects that were sweeping her rapidly toward the chaotic brink of lesbianism. Her nerves were in shambles, her hands refused to remain still. And no matter how much she tried, she couldn't remove her meaningful dark eyes from the wonderment of Lee's clean virginal body. Her hungry stares coveted the lush upturn of the teenager's provocative breasts, the pert red of her hot little mouth, and the brazen exposure of her enticing thighs.
When Rita couldn't stand it any longer, when her desires threatened to overrun her will to resist, she disappeared to the kitchen, leaving Lee to the amusement of the hi-fi. She poked around the refrigerator, gave her feelings a chance to subside; but the stalling was futile. There was no reprieve from the weird desires that throbbed in her loins just the telephone.
Yes, she could phone Dr. Grossman, tell him it was happening, that the lesbian urges he had warned her of had crawled to the surface. She could imagine the pudgy little medic rushing to her apartment, injecting her with some counter-drug, abruptly discontinuing the use of Hypothalmic-322. But at the same time, she recognized the terrible consequences, because without Dr. Grossman's drug, she'd be her wretched former self: A melancholy Cinderella who was afraid of the world. Nevertheless, and the hell with the consequences, she decided to phone the doctor.
She was halfway to the phone when Lee stopped her and said:
"Could I try that bikini on now, Miss Lyons?"
Rita turned and looked down at her. Lee was kneeling in front of a stack of records. Her knees were parted slightly; Rita saw the dim outline of her under-panties. Desire consumed her. Good intentions dissolved; and then she invented new resolutions: She'd call the doctor after the teenager left the apartment; she could fight this thing if she really tried.
"If I can find it," Rita said, and she hurried to the bedroom dresser. Lee followed her; the bikini was quickly located: a skimpy triangle of 51-gauge black mesh nylon.
"Take your clothes off and try it on," Rita said. "I'll mix up some fresh drinks."
In the kitchen, her hands were unsteady; she was afraid to face her thoughts. Unbridled weird sexual desires danced closer and closer to the surface; how much longer could she resist them?
Suddenly, she heard herself say:
"Hurry up, Lee."
And then from behind the bedroom door, Lee was shouting:
"I'll be right out." And a pause; and then: "Boy, there sure isn't much to this rig."
"D'ya like it?" Rita called to the closed bedroom door.
"It's super!"
"You'll find some spike-heeled shoes in the closet Maybe they'll fit you."
"Where?"
'In the closet. In the back." She waited briefly. "Did you find 'em?"
"Yeah, And, man! Are they ever something!" She opened the bedroom door.
Rita gasped. The creamy whiteness of the teenager's body left Rita limp with desire. The young girl's swollen breasts threatened to burst from their delicate captivity. The pink of her nipples was easily visible; hiding things was not among the bikini's abilities.
"The shoes are kind of tight," Lee observed.
Rita dropped her gaze. The patent leather skyscrapers were elegant they gave the teenager's splendid legs all the majestic curviness they so warmly deserved.
"Turn around, Lee."
The teenager obeyed. Rita sucked in her breath. Desire swan over her. The youngster's firm behind was pressing its way out of the skimpy, bikini bottom. Her ivory cheeks strained for release.
"You look wonderful!" Rita declared. "I can't believe it."
The teenager flashed her a look of pleasure. She reached for the fresh drink that Rita offered. "I sure feel different," she said.
"And now you're a model, " Rita said with crowning pride. "Are you glad?"
"Glad?" Lee's eyes swam with happiness. Tm positively delirious." She rushed into Rita's arms to give her a hug, and it was the triggering of Fate: a spontaneous embrace that led only to hell.
Rita couldn't help herself. The moment the half-naked teenager swept into her arms, Rita was beyond the command of will-power. Her arms encircled the nymphet's breath-taking beauty, her delicate body.
"Ohhhh, Leeee!! ! ! "
Her hands sought the draw string of the teenager's halter. She loosened it, felt the filmy fabric drop away. She met Lee's intense gaze with one of her own. Slowly, Rita's eyes dropped to the teenager's magnificent nipples. Desire went berserk.
Her mouth descended, trapped one of the teenager's pinkened offerings. Savage yearnings caused her to tear at Lee's bikini bottom. Lee moaned, but she made no effort to stop Rita. Plainly, she didn't want Rita to stop; and now there was no turning back. They were catapulted by a passion that neither of them really understood, sought the secrets of forbidden love.
Rita drew the girl to the bedroom. A beast within her was controlling her every action, plummeting her toward a degradation from which there was no return, but there was no turning back now.
They fell to the bed. Propelled by some invisible force, Rita pressed her hand upward between the teenager's thighs. Her other hand coveted the creamy softness of the girl's breasts. Compliance was Lee's stock-in-trade.
Rita tested the springiness of Lee's voluptuous breasts, came atop her and planted lingering kisses on the teenager's passion-racked face. There were kisses and more kisses, whispered blandishments, and tickling endearments. The lamps provoked no embarrassment and Lee went wild when Rita's rich warm lips trapped her in sin.
Unable to rebel against herself, Rita continued her unholy tryst, kissing the teenager's body with mounting ardor until, caught up in the same aggressive desire, Lee exploded and delivered mutual caresses to Rita.
Nakedness and total abandon soon prevailed; and engulfed by a maelstrom of electrifying passion, they merged upon the outer limits of ecstasy and heaven the mysterious open sesame to twisted love.
The teenaged girl crawled on top of Rita. She fondled her own breasts; then Rita's. Her eyes were tortured. Frantic, she bit at her lips.
"Ohhhh, Rita ... Rita, it's so...."
"So what, Lee? Tell me?"
"So wonderful. I never did anything like this before and...."
"Are you ashamed?"
"Ashamed? Oh, no! No! How could ... how could you be ashamed of anything that ... that felt so good?" She pumped her hips against Rita's body. Rita joined the movement. Her hands caressed Lee's backside.
"Kiss me, Lee. All over. Everywhere!! ! ! "
The young girl's mouth dripped with honey and desire. Her warm lips savored the sweetness of Rita's body. Her tongue was aflame. In turn, she set Rita's pulsating body aflame.
"Lee ... Lee, d'ya think ... I mean, can you?"
And Lee knew. And the answer: Yes, she could.
"When?" Rita pleaded. "When?"
"Now. Right nowwwww...."
"Ohhhh, Lee!" And Rita pounded her body against the distraught teenager in the movement of Adam toward Eve: a moment of madness when maleness was hardly needed.
And afterwards when the lull of contentment had passed and they spoke about dressing Lee sat on the edge of the bed and clutched the spike-heeled shoes to her naked breasts, and she said:
"Rita, do you think I'll make a good model?"
Guilt set in, but only momentarily; because then Rita was smiling, appraising the teenager's nudity, and compelled by forces she could no longer comprehend, she was saying:
"You'll be the hottest model in Temple City. In fact...." She threw Lee a knowing glance. "...you already are!"
CHAPTER 6
Toward the end of the week, Rita began to feel the onslaught of mental depression. Nothing had gone quite the way she planned; she had vastly underestimated the costs of the new operation, and her credit, she learned sadly, wasn't exactly unlimited.
The building contractor began the downfall, submitting an estimate for the alterations, a bid that ran to an uncomfortable five figures. Rita was shocked. He was damned unreasonable and Rita told him so. The contractor was a veteran to such protests; he was equipped with figures, figures that amply demonstrated rising labor costs and the sky-rocketing increase in the price of materials.
Rita refused to accept his explanations; instead, she called in another contractor, and to her deep chagrin, the second estimate was higher than the first.
There were other disappointments that week: The wholesale catalogues arrived; to her growing consternation, their prices were exorbitantly high, and their credit extensions were not as liberal as they had described over the telephone.
She discussed these and other financial problems at the bank with whom she dealt, and they were not entirely encouraging. They suggested she needed more capital outlay, and while they would be happy to grant her a loan, they couldn't make one in the size that she would need.
The whole picture was dreary; she saw her dream slipping away to oblivion; and yet there was too much fight left in her to just sit idly by and not fight back. Henry Ridgewood was the answer, she told herself. He'd help her because he had to.
On Friday night, she put on her tightest black sheath, her newest and highest spike-heeled shoes, and she surprised him by coming direct to the office.
He was furious. How could she have the effrontery to strut boldly into his office like this? Didn't she realize what people would think. Was she trying to ruin him? "And how in the hell did you know I was working tonight?"
"No one told me," she said, trying to wrench a smile from him, "I guessed." She sat on the edge of his desk, crossed her black-stockinged legs, and afforded Henry a generous view of her thighs.
"For Godsakes, woman. Get off my desk. If someone should walk in here...."
"Relax, dearie," she said, leaning over to play with his necktie. "There's nobody here but us cleaning women."
"Rita, I've no time for games. The election campaign gets under way next month, I have speeches to write, a new campaign platform to draft ... Rita, I just don't have the time."
She smiled patiently. She raised her sheath to adjust her garter not that it needed adjusting and Henry fought with his Adam's apple. Rita was amused.
"Henry, I can't bear to see you overwork yourself, and there's this new place just out of town steaks deluxe, baked potato with sour cream, and according to the grapevine, they load their martinis with Spanish fly. Will you take me?"
Henry threw up his hands in protest. He simply couldn't. Jobs to be done. Duty to the office, duty to the voters...
"But think of all the fun you'll have," she teased him.
"I'm not thinking of fun," he said sourly. I'm thinking of trouble."
Rita slid off the desk and drew him out of his chair. She said:
"I always thought you liked this kind of trouble...." And then she melted her body against him and kissed him.
Drako's Steakhouse was not the measure of intimacy that Rita had hoped it would be. The commodious parking lot was filled, the bright neon heralded a full house, and Henry stubbornly refused to go inside.
"And why not?" she asked.
"Don't lets go into that again. You know why."
"You can tell 'em I'm your campaign manager," she offered.
"Be serious."
"And I am," she said, her gamin-like eyes suddenly filled with mischief. "But if you don't get out of the car this instant, I'm going to roll down the window and scream rape'. " She giggled. "Now what do you think of that?"
"I think you're crazy, and if I lose the next election, I'll have you to thank for it."
"Henry, you're adorable."
"Balls!" be moaned, and led the way to Drakos.
They came as strangers, wanting, if possible, to perpetuate their anonymity, but this was impossible. In the noisy clamor of Drako's, several of those present recognized Henry Ridgewood and waved. Reluctantly, the balding law director nodded to them, and while it was still not too late to turn and leave, Rita tugged at his coat sleeve and urged him forward.
"You might as well make the best of it," she whispered, and before he could reply, the Captain descended on them and gestured to a table for two.
Henry's manner was less than unctuous; his inordinate coloring betrayed his embarrassment, and while a waiter stood at their table to take their order, Henry remained stiffly quiet.
When the waiter had departed, Rita smiled at him and said, "Cheer up, Henry. It's not the end of the world."
"I hoped you're satisfied," he hissed.
"Why? Because someone recognized you."
"In case you didn't know," he said in a brusque tone, "that's Judge Benson there at the bar, and the fellow next to him is Marc Powell, the Council president."
Rita's marvelous dark eyes drifted toward the latticework that separated the cocktail lounge from the dining room. Momentarily it was impossible to distinguish these two men the crowd at the bar was much too dense but when she did chance to glimpse the two men Henry had referred to, she was neither alarmed, nor impressed. A tall blonde girl was standing behind the judge and had her arm draped around his shoulder; Councilman Powell was occupied by the ubiquitous attentions of an inebriated Japanese girl, one who was strikingly attractive and prone to spilling her martini.
Rita shot Henry an annoyed glance. He was preposterously conservative about appearances "What will my public think?" and the sham of these political overtures angered her. However, she kept her anger intact, hoping that the omnipresent ribaldry here at Drako's would be contagious, that Henry would resign himself to the festivities and join in the fun.
This was not the case. Despite her saccharine smile and lingering gaze, Henry's solemnity showed no respite; and it wasn't until the brassy and noisy three-piece combo set into action and their misplaced rhythm was matched by the drunks at the bar, that Henry finally relaxed. Speech was an effort over the off-key din of the music, but Henry managed a weak smile, and to acknowledge it, Rita leaned forward and pressed her hand to his thigh.
They shared four Manhattans before settling down to order dinner; by now, Henry Ridgewood was less concerned about his "public" than he was at the dominance of Rita's breasts. Rita had clasped her hands just under her breasts, leaned forward, and this womanly artifice brought her lush mounds into even greater prominence, thereby gaining Henry's undivided attention. The black sheath was uncomfortably tight, and beneath it she had worn a French bra, which exposed her nipples. The constant rubbing of her nipples against the fabric of the dress and Henry's hungry gaze had contributed toward a steady stimulation: the incipient hunger that preluded sex.
Henry thought the dress was a knockout: it revealed nothing; and yet, it revealed everything! She settled for the compliment, but pointed out that there were others in the crowd who wore less; Henry's ardent rebuttal was:
"I'm not looking at the others, Rita. I'm looking at you."
She flushed at this unusual gallantry that he had bestowed upon her. Obviously, the spell of the Manhattans was responsible. Ordinarily, Henry Ridge-wood was a wordless lothario, tender speeches being reserved for political gatherings, the apple polishers who gave him rank.
Salads and appetizers were delivered to their table by a red-jacketed bus boy; Henry descended on the hors d'oeuvres like a man edging starvation. Rita toyed uninterestedly at her salad; she was hungry, but at the moment she was preoccupied with the problem of how to approach Henry about the money. Threats would lose their validity if she used them too often; and offering him sex was not a flat guarantee that he would loan her $10,000. But how?
Then, midway in the dinner, while Henry was pawing her under the table, the inspiration reached her. Henry was flatly against the teen fashion shop, mainly, because he didn't wish to have the town's citizenry breathing fire and brimstone down his neck. He could afford to gamble his money there was plenty of that but not his career. So the answer:
"By the way, Henry...." She watched his expression closely. "...I've decided my idea for the teen fashion shop won't work, so I'm not going to open it after all."
Henry Ridgewood was graced with too much suavity to let his knife and fork clatter to the floor in surprise; however, his grim determination not to smile was a failure. Speaking softly, he said, "I told you all along that it wouldn't work, Rita. Right from the beginning."
"Oh, it'll work," she said, turning her attention to the filet mignon. "But not here."
"I don't understand."
"I'm going to a larger city, Henry Cleveland, Detroit. I don't know just where. But this town is just too small to support a business like this."
He beamed his appreciation. He had enjoyed his clandestine sexual relations with Rita, and air travel being what it was, that association could continue. But better and Rita could read his thoughts he wouldn't have to be involved with her damn fool schemes.
"The trouble is," Rita continued, "that in a big city, you have to have a bigger operation, a bigger store, a larger line of stock ... takes much more capital. But here in this town, while the profit is much smaller, so is the investment." She paused before going on, then she said, "Maybe I ought to forget Cleveland and Detroit and keep it small, huh?" And now it was a matter of waiting. Henry would have to suggest it
the old con game: Make Henry believe that the idea was his. And she didn't have long to wait:
"How much working capital, or additional working capital, would you need?"
"You mean to move the operation to a larger city?"
"Yes."
She brooded. Mustn't let the figure pop out too soon. Give it some thought. And then, when she felt that she'd waited long enough, she said, "I suppose $10,000 would see me through. Be skimpy here and there, but it could be done."
Henry did not flinch. He'd been born into wealth and the market had provided him with steady growth. $10,000 was not an amount that one threw to the wind, but Henry was facing other aspects and Rita had known he would and wasn't it worth that much just to get rid of her?
And now, having fed Henry the bait, Rita hurried on: "Maybe I'd be biting off more than I can chew. Maybe the smaller profit, staying here where I'm known maybe that's more important." And then she let it rest as a dead issue, finally picking up a new subject: Weren't the steaks delicious? And how was he coming with his campaign plans.
"Rita?"
But she cut him off before he could say it. Let it build, she thought. Let him practically beg her, and she knew he would.
"Henry, I wish you could have seen some of those young girls I interviewed. Talk about delicious!" She watched him look up from the filet mignon. "This one girl...." She fabricated wild untruths that would excite his imagination, also worry him. "...13 years old and she has breasts like grapefruits!"
Henry cautioned her to lower her voice.
"But everybody has breasts, Henry. Why make a secret out of it."
Again, he tried to hush her. She ignored him:
"if you could just see this little thing when she had her clothes off," Rita said, deliberately talking louder, "you'd have zoomed to outer space ... why I'll bet the boys had her behind the barn before she was ten ... and when she wiggles and squirms, Henry ... Christ, it would send you out of your mind!"
He threw down his napkin. "Rita, I'm going to loan you that money."
"When she puts on these high heeled shoes and starts to ... She affected surprise. "...what money?"
"The $10,000."
"You mean...."
"Yes, I'll draw up a loan, and if you still have those tapes ... you do have them, don't you?"
'The tapes?" She enacted a frown. Then she let a flicker of recognition reach her eyes. A smile was born. "Henry, you don't think...."
"I didn't think anything," he said coldly. "But I'd feel better if those tapes were destroyed."
She reached across the table to clasp his hands. She bore him a compassionate lingering gaze. "Henry, I can't blame you for what you think ... I've been a real Jezebel about those tapes. But you should know ... you above anyone ... that if it came down to it, I'd have never used those tapes against you." She put her hands up to plea. "I know I threatened you. I can't sleep nights, remembering. But I wouldn't have done it, Henry. Not ever." And now she lowered her eyes and played vacantly with her napkin.
Henry nobly accepted her contrition. He patted the back of her hand gently. His watery blue eyes warmed with forgiveness. "And, Rita, I believe you. I really do."
Rita warmed with elation. Henry, for all his brilliance, had been easy to con. And now that he thought he was getting rid of her, the trouble she could cause him, he relaxed and directed his attention to her body. This might be their last night together at least, for quite awhile and he was suggesting more drinks: a celebration.
Rita was compliant. The dinner plates were cleared, fresh drinks were delivered to their table, Rita took on a festive mood, and Henry lost no time in fumbling under the table, searching out the defensive warmth of Rita's gleaming thighs.
They had several drinks; the overall effect was exhilarating. Henry dropped his facade of propriety; Rita felt foolishly reckless. She parted her thighs, allowed Henry's explorations to penetrate the musky darkness beneath her dress, and when his hand crawled above her nylons, stretched and touched the mouth of her panties, she shivered with the want of a man.
Henry paid the check, they drove to a secluded dead-end of a dirt road and parked. Rita snuggled over next to her balding lover, and she expected him to immediately begin tearing at her clothes. Instead, he sat quiet, his arm draped loosely around her shoulder, and he said, "Rita, sometimes it's a living hell to be in the public limelight."
Rita shot him a puzzled glance. His meaning escaped her and she waited for him to go on.
He stared at the moonlight that shimmered off the hood of the car. He was silent for a minute, and then he said:
"Those young girls you were talking about.. . if a fellow wasn't the city's Law Director ... I mean if he just wanted to have a good time...." Rita suddenly understood Henry's sick and perverted thinking. He wanted to hear more about the little nymphets, to imagine himself in the role of the conquering seducer of these innocent street urchins; he wanted to talk about it and think about it to become vicariously excited with imaginary situations that would never exist.
Knowing the kind of perverted devil he was, sickened her. She didn't want him to touch her; she simply wanted to be taken home. But on the other hand, if she utterly refused to co-operate with him, to give his perverted desires some measure of release, then Henry Ridgewood might change his mind about the $10,000.
Moments later, because she was convinced there was no choice, Rita crawled into the back seat with her perverted companion. She played to Henry's twisted whims, inventing such tales that would excite his imagination and bring him to the brink of completion. She described imaginary little girls of wanton desires, of nymphets with unbelievable proportions, of young girls who were dedicated to evil, to the satisfaction of man.
Her fictitious stories turned Henry into a savage. He tore off her clothes, his own, and came at her with a surprising storm. He raked her breast, drooled kisses over the most intimate and treasured parts of her body; and despite rebellion and distaste, Rita soon felt the bubbling of her own desires.
"Let's go in the grass, Henry."
"Huh?"
"In the grass. like Adams and Eve. C'mon." She flung the car door open. "Rita, what if somebody comes."
"Stop worrying. C'mon."
Reluctantly, Henry permitted Rita to lead him to a grassy slope nearby. Moonlight bounced off the bareness of his head. "Rita, this is foolish."
"Is this?" she asked. She undulated her body like an Egyptian belly dancer. Her breasts and torso quivered in spasms of expectancy. The green of the forest was her dance floor; Henry, her audience.
He fell to his knees. "My God, Rita!"
She wiggled closer, delighting in the tease she was bringing him, delighting in what it was also doing to her.
"Do you like?" she asked.
"Oh, Rita! How can you ask?"
"And aren't you glad we came out here?"
"Yes, Rita. Yes ... but ... dance some more, Rita. Do it some more.
"You mean this?" She flaunted and gyrated her lower body inches from his awed face. Henry moaned. He bent forth as though he might have cramps. Rita came closer. She caused her whole body to shake. Henry threw himself at her feet. He kissed her ankles, clutched at her calves, and in a moment he had pulled her down beside him.
"Rita ... Rita!" His coarse tongue sought the perspiring pink of her nipples. His hands brought her burning breasts closer and closer together. Suddenly he gorged both of her breasts in his mouth at the same time. Rita nearly swooned.
"Y-you ... you never did that before," she sighed.
"I never did a lot of things before, Rita. But now...." He raised himself over her. "...now I'm gonna do everything."
"Promise?"
"Y-yes ... yes, Rita. I promise." And then he came at her like a runaway torpedo, blasting her with his passion, exploding her innards, bringing her spasm after spasm of electrifying thrills.
They clutched each other as though this were their last minute on earth. And it almost was. Henry was spent. Completely. And Rita, delivered to an ecstasy that she had never before known, lay back on the grass and stared sightlessly at the stars...
Later, after they had dressed, returned to the car, Rita was ashamed of the passion that Henry had brought to her body. She didn't want him to feel proud of himself and now she had to chide him:
"Those young chicks ... talking about 'em gets you, doesn't it, Henry?"
He disliked admitting to his perversions, and now his eyes grew dark with anger. "That's not true," he snapped. "It's just that...."
She laughed at him. "Don't be ashamed of it, Henry. You aren't the first grown man with a yen for little girls. The jails are full of 'em."
He zipped up his trousers. "And is that the category I belong in?" he asked angrily.
Rita started to say 'yes' but decided against it. If she heckled him too much, he might have a second thought about loaning her the $10,000. "I was just fooling," she said, sliding closer and resting her head on his shoulder. "But you have to admit, Henry, that there's nothing more sweet in life than the seduction of a teenager."
"And there are laws...."
"But if there weren't laws...."
"But there are."
"And laws were only made to be broken," she whispered.
"You know, Rita," he said after a lengthy silence, "as much as I like you, and as much as I've enjoyed our little games, I can't say I won't be glad when you leave town."
"Henry," she giggled, "you sound almost bitter."
"Not bitter. Just wise. Because given the chance, I think you'd debauch every teenage girl in the city."
"Wouldn't you?" she asked impishly.
"When are you leaving, Rita?"
"Just as soon as I have the money."
"Then you'll have it Monday morning...." His dark eyes bore into hers. "...that is, providing I get those tapes."
"You'll get 'em," she said coldly. "Monday ... providing I get the money."
"I think each of us understands what the other wants," he said.
"Yes, Henry. I think we do."
CHAPTER 7
Relationships between Rita and Henry were never more strained. The ride back to Rita's apartment was one of morbid silence, with Henry rendering his abuse on the Cadillac, putting its tires and transmission to the limits of mechanical torture. He ignored Rita's request for a match and coldly nodded toward the dashboard lighter; and when they were at last in front of her apartment, he made no effort to open her door, nor utter a 'goodnight'.
Amused, she said, "No hard feelings, huh, Henry?"
His watery blue eyes filled with hate. Without warning, he slapped her across the mouth.
Rita did not flinch. She could have torn his eyes out, smashed his groin; but instead, she sat perfectly still and grinned. It was a mocking grin, a grin that said the slap carried no pain; a grin that said Henry Ridgewood was a fool the biggest.
She blew smoke in his face to heighten her derision and with her contemptuous smile growing and growing, she learned suddenly forward and plunged the red-hot tip of the cigarette against his cheek.
Henry howled. He flung wild unspeakable obscenities at Rita; she, in turn, merely waved at him and slid from the car. He was still cursing when she disappeared inside the apartment lobby.
Upstairs, she took quick short strides toward the kitchen and poured herself a large drink of bourbon. She drank it swiftly, smacked her lips; and then, in the middle of pouring herself still another drink, she paused and thought: "Yes, you're damn right I've changed!"
But this time, the introspection and self-examination brought her fears rather than elation. She was drinking much more these days; she had always abhored drink. And there was that sad little affair with the teenager what was her name? Lee? and tonight, Henry: a sordid sexual encounter in the back seat of his Cadillac; later, her desire to inflict a mental and physical punishment upon him. And how much worse would she get?
She finally decided not to dwell on her fears; life was too short for recriminations. And then taking another pill a pill because they instilled her with confidence she swallowed it and washed it down "with a half of glass of bourbon.
Her sleep was dream-tossed and broken. And sometime during the night she wasn't sure of the time Henry phoned. He was in some bar, drunk he said; and he hadn't been home.
She listened to his dreary alcoholic outpouring, interrupting to advise him to go home. But he couldn't go home, he said. He was worried. There was trouble coming. He could tell.
She put up with his melancholy utterings until her patience had run the gamut, until she could stand no more. Then she jarred him with a four-letter obscenity and slammed the phone into its cradle. Henry didn't phone back; Rita didn't suppose he would.
In the morning, without knowing just why, she took three more pills in rapid succession. She brewed a pot of coffee; minutes later, there was a banging at the front door. She snatched up a dressing gown, wrapped it around herself, and hurried to the door. It was Lee: full of smiles, gushing.
"And I brought Joel along," she said, motioning to the gangling youth behind her. "Rita, this is Joel Harris and Joel Harris, this is...."
"Pleased t' meetcha, ma'am," the boy said before Lee could complete her introduction, and then the young pair swept inside.
In the utter confusion of their sudden early morning entry, Rita had forgotten to tie her dressing gown. She wasn't immediately aware of this oversight at least, not until she'd drawn them to the kitchen and brought down additional cups and saucers; then she caught the boy's dark eyes probing at the generous display of her naked thighs, and she responded by promptly closing her gown.
A ruddy flush came to the youth's face, and his embarrassment amused Rita. She set down the cups and saucers and poured their coffee. "You'll have to excuse the way I look," she said. "I'm not used to entertaining this early in the morning." She swept the hair out of her face and joined them at the kitchen table.
"I guess I should apologize for coming so early," Lee said, "but we didn't have anything to do, and I was telling Joel about my new job, so we just decided to come up and see you."
"Well I'm glad you did," Rita said, letting her smile dominate the boy. And he was certainly good-looking, she thought: Lascivious dark eyes, unruly curly hair and was he experienced? she wondered. Had the boy ever made love to a girl?
Rita decided that he had. Maybe not with Lee, but certainly with other girls. The signs were there: His cock forward manner; his shifty sidelong glances at the occasional parting of Rita's dressing gown dark eyes that reflected his desire to see more.
Rita thrilled to his secret attentions. The collar of her gown grew warm and damp with perspiration. She tried to hide her concern, to avert his meaningful gaze. It was impossible. She couldn't take her eyes from the boy; the muscular spread of his massive chest filled her with longing and shameful obsessions sprang from the dark corners of her mind.
She entered a conversation to escape her thoughts; a conversation that was entirely banal: What was the weather like outside? Did Joel and Lee go to the same school? How long had they known each other? And would they like another cup of coffee?
They said yes' to the coffee, and when Rita went to retrieve the percolator, she was incensed with a compulsion to tease the boy. She poured the coffee and, sitting down again, she allowed her gown to part. He naked thighs were generously exposed.
The teenage boy was nonplussed. He wanted to stare, but he didn't want to be conspicuous, so while Rita directed her conversation to Lee, who sat on the other side of the table, Joel Harris stole furtive glances at the ivory exposure so close to the touch of his trembling hands.
Rita delighted to the feeling that swept her loins. She affected nonchalance, carried on a bright witty conversation with Lee, and allowed her gown to part further and further.
The youth was numbed into silence and Rita became glowingly aware of his secret excitement. His fumbling and restlessness were noticeable.
Lee said, "You got ants in your pants, or something?"
"Or something," he intoned.
Rita suppressed her mirth. "Maybe the coffee is too strong," she suggested innocently.
"No. No, the coffee is fine." He shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. His dark eyes darted to the wider opening of Rita's gown; then he looked away quickly.
"I don't know about the rest of you," Lee said, rising from her chair, "but coffee runs through me just like I was a sieve." She scampered to the bathroom.
They were alone now and Rita was consumed with dark evil desires. She didn't fight these desires. Something inside her compelled her to wickedness; inhibitions vanished. She raised her arms out in opposite direction and stretched. Her back arched toward the boy. Just for an instant, the top of her gown parted. Her magnificent breasts popped into view, the nipples ached to be fondled; then in a furtive, coquettish fling of her hands, she brought the ends of the gown together and turned from the boy.
It's getting kind of gloomy in here," she said, and though the boy didn't answer her, she wiggled seductively to the kitchen window to raise the shade.
Raw sunlight blasted through the gown, and she had known it would. She looked out at the street below, pretended an interest in an unseen object and turned in all directions. Her movements silhouetted everything she owned: the laschivously dimpled curve of her buttocks, their exciting line of separation; the jounce of her pertly upturned breasts; and finally, the graceful taper of her divine legs.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked impishly.
"W-w-what?"
"I said why are you looking at me like that?"
He was having a great deal of difficulty with his hands. "Cause you're pretty," he said.
Rita shrugged it off. "But so is your girlfriend, Lee.'
"Yeah, but...."
Rita waited for him to complete the sentence, but the boy's befuddling was complete. He was lost for words, enraptured by the stolen glimpses of her body; he could neither move nor speak.
Amused, excited herself, smug because she could provoke such hotness in the youth, Rita opened the refrigerator and brought out the vodka and orange juice. Lee then returned, the coffees were pushed aside, and Rita mixed a trio of drinks.
They moved into the living room, made themselves comfortable, and when Rita switched on the stereo, the boy spoke and said: "This is quite a pad you got, Miss Lyons. Quite a pad."
Rita insisted that the boy call her Rita, then while the two teenagers found their way to the davenport, Rita excused herself to dress.
She selected a pair of pink short-shorts, the tightest pair she had. Coming to grips with the zipper to close them up proved quite a battle, but she finally won, and the reward was worth the effort. Her provocative lower body was pruriently outlined by the pink short-shorts, and nothing was left to the imagination. She had worn no panties there wasn't room for them and the appealing V of the shorts was hellishly obvious.
For a top, she chose a white cotton shell, one that clung to her straining breasts like a second skin. Her nipples pressed outward on the thin fabric: rosy prominences that begged to be licked.
She donned a pair of black patent leather skyscrapers, combed out her hair and added make-up, and then she stood at the slightly parted bedroom door and watched the two teenagers necking.
Obviously, Rita's display of nudity had stimulated the boy. Her permissiveness with drinks had added to that stimulation, and now as Rita gazed out at them, she saw that the youth had pushed his teenage girlfriend over on her back and had crept beside her.
Lee had worn a black pullover and a yellow-pleated skirt, but at the moment not much of that skirt was visible: the boy had drawn the skirt up to the line of her panties, his hands were stroking the smooth flesh of her quivering thighs. They were locked in a kiss; the teenage girl seemed to be straining to force the boy away. Suddenly, she succeeded, and she said:
"Fer crying out loud, Joel. What are ya tryin't' do?"
"Jus' have a little fun." He tried to push her sweater up. She fought him off. "You scared, or something?" he asked.
"like cool it off, huh, Dad. like take it easy for awhile. Okay?" She straightened out her pleated skirt.
The boy was disgruntled. He rolled off the davenport and went to the kitchen to make himself another drink. When he returned, he said: "You loll me, Lee. You know that You saving it for somebody special, or something?"
"You know that's a he," she snapped. "If I was saving it for anybody, it'd be you."
"Then why the prissy missy act?" he asked.
"Well we're not exactly alone," she said, "and if you think...."
Rita suddenly entered the room. She felt the boy's leering smile of approval and then heard his whistle. Lee bolted up to a sitting position. She, too, beamed her approval.
"Wow!" Lee exclaimed.
Rita modestly overlooked their compliments: "And what were you two up to?" she asked demurely.
"Up to?" Lee repeated, her face coloring.
"Sure," Rita said with a knowing smile. "ft" I were a teenager and Joel was my boyfriend, well! I'll...."
The boy grinned his thanks. He turned to look at Lee. "See. What'd I tell you."
The teenager's face crimsoned even more. She followed Rita into the kitchen.
"What'd you have to go and say that for?" she asked Rita.
"I didn't say any thing so terrible." She paused, and then something drove her to say. "Don't you want him to make out?"
"Well ... sure ... but...."
"But what?"
"He wants to go all the way," she blurted out.
Rita suddenly embraced the frightened young teenager. She gave her a compassionate hug. "Nobody can make you do anything," she said. But again an evil inner force compelled Rita to speak from the gutter: "But it's fun...."
The teenager giggled. Rita handed her a drink, then made one for herself.
"What's going on out here?" Joel stood spread-legged in the entrance way of the kitchen. His dark brooding eyes swept up and down Rita's body.
"We were just having a woman-to-woman talk," Rita offered. She turned to Lee. "Weren't we, Lee?"
"That's right. And it's none of your business, Joel."
The youth shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave. Rita called him back. "C'mere, Joel. I wanna show Lee something."
A half-hearted smile broke across his mouth. Uncertain, he came slowly toward her.
"C'mon," she urged. "I won't bite you."
Lee, curious, looked on. Apprehensive, the boy stopped in his tracks. Rita reached for him. She swept him into her arms and pinned him against the cupboards. Grinding her weight against the youth, she mashed her mouth to his. He struggled briefly, then confused, his lips parted to greet the fury of her darting tongue.
Rita ground her pelvis against the boy. Her breasts were imprisoned between the clash of their bodies, and she rocked her nipples back and forth across his shirt front with the sway of the kiss.
A moan broke from the boy's throat and Rita pressed all the more hotly against the confused youth. Thrills bubbled up in her stomach and descended to her loins. She felt the boy's arms shoot around her back, felt the pulsation of life, and then, before he was completely overcome-she, too-she wiggled from his grasp, panted and grinned at his lipstick-stained mouth.
The two teenagers looked at her, puzzled.
"I have to go to the bank before they close," she explained, remembering that she had to get the tapes out of the safety deposit box, "so I'm leaving you to your own evil designs."
"We could straighten up the place," Lee suggested.
"There's not that much straightening up to do," Eita said, nudging them toward the front room. "Besides, I won't be gone that long ... so make yourselves at home, you already know where the vodka is, and if anyone phones, just take the message and tell 'em I'll return the call." She threw on a beach jacket over her short shorts and started for the door.
"Are you sure there's nothing we can do?" Lee asked from the davenport
Eita shot the two of them a wicked smile. "Well there's lots of things you can do," she said in a sultry voice. "Whether you do or not is up to you." And to herself, she thought: "My God, Please help me!" But then the momentary frown disappeared; inner righteousness was dead!
On her way to the bank-a three-block walk-Eita attracted considerable attention. The beach jacket and her short-shorts ended on a common plane; to the passerby, the jacket was apparently all she was thought to be wearing. Consequently, there were shrill whistles, catcalls, and the usual number of hungry, but approving, glances.
Naturally, there was also disapproval. But this came from women-old bags who preached the high-and-mightly, whose sanctimonious way of life was in direct conflict with Eita's. But these haughty stares did not disturb Rita; rather, they made her feel all the more supreme. She was a rebel, she told herself, and if they didn't like what she wore then they didn't have to look.
She reached the bank, and with her breasts held high, she clip-clopped her way to the safety deposit section. Bank decorum inhibited further whistling, but Rita yielded a measure of satisfaction in at least seeing a teller drop his tray of currency, this occurring when he walked into a potted plant.
Moments later, Rita left the bank with her precious bag of tape recordings; she then made her way to a radio and TV appliance store, where she purchased another small tape recorder and some blank tapes. Henry was going to blow sky-high when he discovered what she had done, but her sense of rebellion was greater than innate fear; in short, she simply didn't give a damn what Henry thought, or what anyone thought
After arranging for the delivery of the equipment, she began the journey home. She stopped at a liquor outlet, bought vodka and wash; then ten minutes later, she reached the lobby of her apartment.
The kids ought to be making out like crazy, she thought And if they hadn't it wasn't because she hadn't sponsored the opportunity-even the stimulus. But at least they had the chance, she ruminated, which was considerably more than she had ever had. Rita's mother had been a strict disciplinarian; her sheltered existence had afforded her but little chance to date boys, and maybe that was why she felt the need to be so permissive to others.
Regardless of the reason, Rita climbed the stairs, hoping to stumble on a compromising scene, maybe even taking part in it. She had forgotten the warm pressure of the boy's body, and it filled her with inordinate pride to know that a teenage boy could become so excited by her presence. Maybe ... just maybe...
She opened the door quietly. The apartment was still. Had they left? She felt a tinge of disappointment, but as she latched the door softly in place, she heard the labored breathing, and then the moan-the moan of the teenage girl, Lee Patterson.
The bedroom door was ajar; that's where they were! Rita felt an explosion of excitement. She threw off her beach coat, after quietly setting down her packages, and now she stole cautiously closer.
The sight that greeted her eyes filled her with longing. The teenagers were stripped naked, sprawled across Rita's bed; obviously, their love-making had only begun.
They were entitled to privacy, Rita thought, but she was too spellbound to move. She had a Peeping Tom's rarest of finds: two teenagers experimenting with sex; and Rita wasn't about to miss a single second of this delicious scene. It never occurred to her that she was sick. Sick and getting worse...
CHAPTER 8
The boy eased himself down on his teenage girlfriend. "Just relax."
"But...." Her face contorted, reflected the simmering of pain. She groaned.
There ... there it is." He was motionless, hovering over the girl, studying the tears that had crested in the corners of her eyes. "It's gonna be all right, now," he whispered. And then he began a slow back-and-forth motion that was tempered with gentleness and brimmed with promise.
Rita stole closer. The teenager's golden limbs yawned wider and wider apart. Her hands, clenched in pain just seconds before, now opened and clasped at her lover's broad tanned back.
Joel, cognizant of the thrills that he was now bringing to the girl's body, increased the tempo.
The girl was no longer impassive. Her firm young buttocks squirmed.
The boy went faster. His hands sought the lushness of the teenager's pinkened breasts. Their bodies slapped together. Lee locked her tawny legs around his waist Her eyes rolled.
"Feel good?"
"Ohhhhhhhh!"
"Does it?"
"Y-yes ... YES!"
The boy was enthralled with her moans of delight. He thundered at her like a madman. But the teenager asked for no mercy. She accepted what there was of him and pleaded for more.
Rita couldn't stand to watch them any longer; the sigth of them was driving her insane with desire, and she moved off to the kitchen. Her nerves were a mess, she noticed: Her hands were trembling, saliva was locked in her throat.
She poured herself a drink to steady her hands. She didn't want to recall the mental images of what she had just witnessed, but the exciting visions were not to be easily banished from her mind. Shamelessly, she knew she yearned to be the subject of the boy's ardent thrusts. His endurance was maddening, she thought. Other youths, less experienced ones, would have exploded prematurely. But this youth in the bedroom and why did she have to keep remembering it? he knew the trick of lasting, of coming to a rest and then starting anew.
She washed her desires away with another drink. And then another. She blotted out the frenzied sounds of love that emanated from the bedroom, stood forlornly at the window and looked down upon the busy street below.
She bit her lips and chain-smoked her way through several cigarettes; and at last it was quiet in the bedroom. Sighs of happiness would now be escaping from their mouths, she thought, sighs of completion and love. And they would be locked in that final embrace: A shivering tender resolve of peace. Of peace and contentment. And as Rita thought of it, hungered for it, the loneliness and frustration drove her back to the bourbon.
Surprisingly, it was the girl who first emerged from the bedroom and when she discovered Rita sitting alone in the kitchen, she let out a small cry of fright.
"I-I didn't know you were here. I ... I mean we ... we thought you were still out."
Rita was amused by the teenager's embarrassment. And her hair was disheveled, her clothes wrinkled there could be little doubt of what had taken place even without Rita's eye-witness account. "So quit stammering and pour yourself a drink."
The girl did. Her hands were trembling. "Rita, you'll never guess what happened ... I mean...."
Rita couldn't control the mischievous smile that came to her face. "Tm not a dummy, Lee. I think I know what happened."
"Are you mad?"
Envious would have been a better word, Rita thought, and she said, "Why should I be mad?"
Suddenly, after sipping some of her vodka, the teenager leaned close and whispered into Rita's ear: "And you were right It does feel good!"
Rita was glad. She hadn't set out on a course to debauch the younger girl, but at least the teenager had been given an opportunity that Rita never had: that is, the freedom of choosing whether she wanted to be seduced. In Rita's case, her mother hadn't even allowed her to go out with a boy, much less go to bed with one, so it was good to see that other kids were not denied that right better yet to know that they had enjoyed themselves.
"Were there any phones calls while I was out?" Rita asked.
The teenager shook her head. "Not a one."
Rita frowned. It was strange that her advertisement hadn't brought more response.
"Sunday is probably the day that they'll all call," Lee offered.
Rita didn't answer her, but she hoped that Lee was right. She had to have models and good ones!
"When are we gonna start trying those clothes on?" Lee asked.
Rita told her next week. Monday she would air mail her orders. By the end of the week, the stock should begin filtering in.
"You can come over after school," Rita suggested, "and we'll start practicing."
"Sounds like fun," Lee ventured.
Rita shot a glimpse at the teenager's body, and at Joel, who had just entered the kitchen. "It will be fun," she said. "Lots of fun."
"Can Joel come?" Lee asked.
The double-entendre amused her. Remembering the vivid scene she had recently witnessed in her bedroom, she smiled and said: "Sure he can come! He can come whenever he wants."
The boy gave her a peculiar smile and Rita wasn't sure whether he had caught on, or not. He sat at the table and poured himself a drink; Rita could scarcely take her gaze from him and the memory of him and Lee filled her with renewed desire.
She was glad, therefore, when they announced they were leaving something about a swimming date with another couple and not because there was any lessening of desire on her part; but she knew that if they stayed another hour, she'd get the boy drunk, maybe Lee, too; and then there'd be a wild frolic in bed not that that was so terrible but she had things to do: the pressing details of her business, and she needed every hour she could command.
"You sure you don't wanna come along?" Lee said at the door.
"I'd love to," Rita answered, flicking her eyes at Joel, "but I just can't afford the time. I do hope you understand."
"Sure," they chorused. And then Joel added: "Maybe another time huh?"
"Sure, Joel. Another time."
I'll call you next week, then. Okay?" Lee said.
Rita told her that would be fine, then closing the door on them, she collapsed on the sofa. Her body was wretched with desire. She would have given anything in the world to have gone to bed with the teenage boy; that was one thrill she had never experienced. Maybe he was awfully young, but again remembering his stalwart attack, his staying power, and the zest of his youth, she reasoned him more than capable of satisfying her not simply satisfying her, but perhaps driving her out of her mind.
She finally blotted these erotic thoughts out of her head and made herself some lunch. The drinks had left her slightly numbed, but after she had consumed two sandwiches, drank a measure of hot tea, then washed up, she began to feel herself again, and by two o'clock she was busy at the phone.
The office of the building contractor was closed on Saturday afternoon; however, she was able to reach him at his home. She gave him an effervescent green light on the alterations for her fashion shop; he could bring the contracts to her apartment over the weekend; there was no reason for delay.
After she had hung up on him, it occurred to her that she was really jumping the gun she still didn't have Ridgewood's $10,000 in the bank but this was a small item, she told herself. And by Monday that was less than 48 hours, now she would have the money; and more than enough.
She spent the rest of the afternoon studying catalogues and making selections. She broke away from this on three occasions: young girls phoning about her ad in the paper. Appointments were scheduled for Monday afternoon; she had to explain that Sunday was impossible just too much work and then she returned to her catalogues.
Midnight arrived and she was bone-weary, racked with fatigue. She struggled to an all-night delicatessen, forced down a corned-beef sandwich, some coffee; exhaustion weighted her like a crippling disease.
Sunday was, in many respects, no different than Saturday: She poured over the catalogues and order blanks through much of the day, estimated stock requirements, ranges in size, selections; her discriminatory powers were taxed to the limit.
There was a break in the routine during the late afternoon. The building contractor arrived with his paperwork, and this having been dispensed with, she entertained more phone calls; teenage girls who had seen her ad and wanted a job. The additional response pleased her; obviously, there would be no shortage of teenage models.
Everything seemed to be in order, she decided at five o'clock. Her order blanks were filled, several appointments had been set up for Monday, the building contractor had the green light and then it hit her: Henry I The tapes! She hadn't copied the tapes.
Desperation best described her Sunday night. She had to feed through six hours of recording tape on one machine and pick up the playback on a second recorder. There were minor breakdowns in the taping mechanism, some alarm when she couldn't at first locate some mending tape; and during this madcap ordeal, she smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes.
His sexy conversation failed to excite at least, not in the manner that they had when she first heard them and if anything, they bored her. But Henry, she remembered, had captured a great deal of sexual excitement over talking this way on the phone. He would describe some former sex act they had performed, used graphic four-letter words, and it never occurred to him that she was recording his every word. And why had she done it? At the time, she couldn't have said, but it wasn't part of a plan to blackmail him. Of this, she was certain. But on the other hand, wasn't this exactly what it amounted to? And now Henry's words droned to her ears, his closing words on the last of the tapes:
"Rita, I wish you'd screw me...."
To which she now answered out loud: "I will, Henry. I will!" But not in the manner he so desperately wished it, she thought. And this was one screwing that Henry wouldn't be able to gloat about...
CHAPTER 9
By one o'clock of the following afternoon, Rita was congratulating herself and she was the happiest woman in Temple City. She had successfully duped Henry Ridgewood out of $10,000, deposited the money to her own account, and left Henry whistling his way back to the office with a set of duplicated sound tapes. And he was amply convinced that she was leaving town, that this bizarre clothing shop would be somebody else's headache not his.
Elated with her strong business acumen Henry would call it extortion Rita spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing teenage girls in the confines of her apartment
Some of these girls were outright disappointments; others motivated Rita to copy down their phone number. They were young, they were cheerful, and they were willing. They ranged in age from 15 to 19, and they came in many sizes and descriptions.
Rita was amazed by the boldness of some of them: They evidenced no reluctance to pulling up their skirts and displaying their legs; even less unwillingness to unfastening their blouses and dropping their bras. It was an education; it was also the kindling of sex.
She managed this in a most ingenious manner: Selecting those who interested her and helping them undress. And her thinking was logical: if certain of these young teenagers could excite her, then they could also excite her male customers.
It became commonplace, therefore, to let her hands touch their bodies when she was helping them into the leather costumes she had provided, and if she felt the beginning of arousal, not in them, but in herself, then she knew this was a girl with possibilities. But if not, then she knew the girl was unsuited.
By early evening, she had interviewed a total of 14 girls. 11 of these girls had undressed at her request, thereupon modeled some of the fetish undergarments she had provided and displayed their worth. Of these 11 girls, having seen and touched their breasts and buttocks, sampled the hot resiliency of their flesh, she chose three teenagers with the requisites needed: Namely, good shapes, wild and lack of inhibitions, and of poor parentage. This last requirement she considered important. If their parents didn't care what their teenage girls did, then it was a good-likelihood that no one else would care. Except of course, Henry Ridgewood who, at precisely 7:22, phoned her and called her a bitch:
"You lied to me," he ranted and raved.
"Lied?"
"Don't play that cute innocent act with me, Rita. I was in City Hall when your building contractor put through his building permit. And you told me you were leaving town...."
"Well, I am, Henry. I just didn't say when."
"You won't get away with it, Rita. This time, you've over-stepped yourself. You open up that shop and I'll close you up tighter than a drum!"
Rita giggled.
"You think it's a laughing matter?"
She giggled some more. She couldn't stop.
"Go ahead and have your little laugh, sweetheart. But the last laugh is going to be on you!"
She finally managed to control her laughter. Very soberly, she said, "Henry, hold the phone a minute. Will you do that?"
She hooked up the tape recorder and plugged it in. "Henry, I want you to listen to something."
'I don't have time for games!"
"This one you do." She set the phone down by the speaker and switched on the playback.
After a pause, Henry's own voice came back to haunt him: lingering four-letter words that he had drawled to Rita, propositions that were laden with sex and left little to the imagination. And the speaker, to any who knew him, was unmistakably that of Henry Ridgewood, the Law Director of Temple City.
"You dirty, rotten, conniving bitch!"
Rita shook with laughter.
"Of all the scheming, double-crossing no good...."
Rita's sides ached with uncontrollable laughter. Tears streamed to her eyes. "Ohhhh, Henry...."
"You'll not get away with this...." And on and on he ranted, his eloquent voice pulsating with anger, spilling forth obscenities that were beneath his dignity and which decried his outrage.
When Rita could finally speak, when her mirth was tamed by the need to assert her dominance, she said, "And just what do you intend doing about it?"
"Do?" He sputtered. Rita envisioned his florid expression, the angry, exasperated compression of mouth.
"You're not gonna do a damn thing, that's what," she said, answering her own question. "You're gonna sit on your skinny ass and play dumb. The store'll open just as planned, and if there's complaints against me, then it's up to you to squelch 'em. Ti you don't...." Anger flowed to her fingers. Her hand closed menacingly around the phone as if it were Henry's throat. "...I'll hand these tapes over to the newspapers, and when they get done with you...." Her brittle laughter broke in. " ... you couldn't win a primary against a third-rate dog catcher!" She slammed the phone down; in the same instant, there was a hesitant rap at the door.
"Who is it?" she shouted angrily.
But there was no response.
She stormed to the door, swept it open. Her dark eyes fell on a slimly-built moppet of no more than 13-years-old, a sad-eyed little girl whose lackluster brown hair hung gloomily at her shoulders, and whose shy elfin smile was bound to evoke pathos in the most calloused of hearts. Puberty displayed its beginnings; little mounds swelled against her light-tan pullover; and her dark-brown cotton skirt paid flattery to her nymphet-like figure.
Rita thought she was a Girl Scout, that this was a piteous petition to buy some cookies. Or maybe magazine subscriptions. Such was not the case:
"Am I too late?"
"Too late?"
"About the job. It said in the paper...."
Rita concealed her amusement. Naturally, the girl was too young; and yet Rita couldn't bring herself to putting it on such brassy terms. The little moppet seemed dedicated to making Rita's refusal an uneasy one: her small dark eyes glistened with anticipation; and suddenly Rita was inviting her into the apartment, asking her if she'd like a glass of milk, at the same time wondering how she would deliver disappointment to so eager a child.
The girl's name was Betty Juneau, and while Rita was in the kitchen pouring the milk, searching out some cookies, she was haunted by the familiarity of the name Juneau. It rang a bell, a name she should know, but her mind refused to empty its significance; and eventually she shrugged it off and returned to the living room.
The little girl had seated herself on the divan. Her legs were pressed primly together and her skirt ended in an uneven line just above her knees. Rita pressed a tray of cookies and a glass of milk to her lap, then she pulled a hassock in front of the girl and sat down.
"Betty," she began, "when you get a little older...." Her voice trailed off. In a chaotic burst of inspiration, Rita suddenly thought of all the men in this world who drew vicarious thrills by consorting with young nymphets such as this one, who pulled them onto their laps, cuddled them in movie theatres, and who gawked at them beneath stairways of department stores. And even Henry Ridgewood. Wasn't he the same way? Hadn't he made passing implications of just such an urge?
"Betty," she began anew, "do your parents know about your coming here?"
The girl said, "No."
"Then they probably wouldn't approve."
"I dunno." She set down the glass of milk and moved to Rita's desk. "Is that a tape recorder?"
Rita told her it was. She looked at the girl, the small curve of her rump. "Honey, I can't give you a job if your parents don't know about it. I'd get in trouble."
The young girl shot Rita a wry smile that was older than her years. "No you won't." She leaned over for a closer examination of the tape recorder. "My uncle has a set that looks like this one."
Rita was puzzled. She was still trying to fathom the girl's earlier statement, and she said, "Betty, what did you mean before?"
"About my parents?"
"Uh, huh."
"Well...." She turned to face Rita. "...they won't say nothing on account of I know things about 'em that they don't know I know."
Rita's eyes sparkled. "What kind of things?"
"Well, like for instance, my mother has a boyfriend and they go to bed together." She was again playing with the dials on the tape recorder.
"How do you know this?" Rita asked, trying to remain blase.
"I heard 'em."
"You heard them?"
"And saw 'em," she added nonchalantly. "Once when I came home from school early, and another time when they didn't know I was in the house."
"And they were...."
"In bed together. I sneaked upstairs and saw 'em."
"Maybe they were just resting," Rita hinted, baiting the girl for further information.
"Are you kiddin?" A wise smile flooded her face, an expression that told Rita she was more mature than she's been credited for. "They had all their clothes off, and he was on top of her and they were doin' it." And then, more profoundly interested in the gadgets on the tape recorder, she said, "I betcha this one cost a lot."
Rita gave her an uninterested reply, being more concerned with the young girl's blatant confession. She coaxed her into telling more:
"What about your father? Does he know about your mother's boyfriend?"
"I don't think so," she said. "Anyway, he's more interested in me."
"In you?"
"Yeah," she said bitterly. "He's all the time coming in the bathroom when I'm there, and touching me and stuff like that."
"Your own father?" Rita asked incredulously.
"He's just my stepfather," she explained. "My real father is dead."
"And he...."
"Every chance he gets," she said. "I hate him, too."
"Well why haven't you told your mother?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "She's not interested. All she wants to do is go to bed with her boyfriend. Even if I told her, she probably wouldn't believe me." She bent down and peered at the time dial on the tape recorder. "Is this what tells you how many minutes are left on the tape?"
Rita told her it was. And then as she further explained the workings of the recording machine, her mind drifted to what this cute little nymphet could do for her teenage fashion shop. There were probably many men in this town wealthy ones, too who would pay fabulous prices to cuddle a precociously sexy child such as Betty. Some who would pay fantastic admission prices to see her appear in a style show, to exhibit her young and worldly charms, clad in some skimpy exotic bit of leather goods. And now Rita imagined the girl's slim legs, clad in coffee-tan hose, set off to further beauty by a pair of rare spike-heeled shoes, with her bare thighs laced down by the straps of a black leather girdle. And then, perhaps, a ribbon in her hair to maintain her childish innocence. And the men...
"Would you like to see how the machine works?" Rita asked the young girl.
Betty was all glee. Her uncle used to let her manipulate his tape recorder, and it was always fun.
Rita sensed opportunity knocking at her door, and she was not one to let it pass her by. She removed the tape from the machine that bore Henry Ridge-wood's voice and hid it in the closet. She then put on a fresh tape, switched on the recorder, and she said, "As soon as it rewinds, I'll show you how it works."
"Will it take long?"
"Just a few minutes," she lied, and then guiding the 13-year-old to the divan, she turned up the volume pick-up on the microphone, and baited Betty into repeating her confession about her parents.
The youngster obviously had no idea that everything she was saying was being recorded. In a completely unaffected manner, she spilled the whole works about her rather perverted family. She described her mother's lover, at Rita's coaxing, used the four-letter word that befitted their sex act, and scarcely pausing for breath, she then rushed to describe her stepfather's incessant fondling of her body.
"He doesn't do it in front of your mother, does he?"
"Hell, no! He ain't that dumb." She surprised Rita by asking for a cigarette, and then she continued: "Lots of times he comes into the bedroom to kiss me 'goodnight'. Mom'll be downstairs. And then when he's kissing me, he starts fooling around."
Rita thought of the tape recorder. She wanted Betty to be more graphic. "What do you mean: fooling around?"
"Oh, you know. Tickling me, or wrestling. Jus' any excuse to be touching me in certain places."
Rita prodded her more, and Betty described these 'certain places'.
"He's real sneaky-like. He jus' doesn't come out and do it. He-likes to pretend like it's all an accident, like when I'm taking a bath."
"What does he do?"
"He peeps in the keyhole. I can hear him breathin'. Then when he gets all hot and worked up, he jus' comes in and says: 'Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I didn't know you was in here.' And then he looks at my breasts and wants to know if he can finish washing me.
"Do you let him?"
"If I don't, he gets mad."
"You should tell your mother."
"I told him I was gonna, once. But d'ya know what he said? He said if I ever mentioned a single word of what went on between us, he'd beat me and send me away to a bad girl's school. I think he would, too."
Rita encouraged her to continue until the whole thing was down on tape. Betty further described a picnic that her stepfather had taken her to, explaining how they had separated from the rest of the group and how her stepfather had taken her into the bushes and made her remove her playsuit. He had committed the most vulgar perversions imaginable, despoiling her young virginal body with slobbering kisses, forcing her to do the same to him.
And now the hour-long tape had run to its finish, and Betty was anxiously pleading to know if the machine would now work. Rita lied and said that there was something wrong with this particular tape; and then removing it, hiding it in the closet, she deposited a fresh tape on the recorder and instructed Betty how to use it.
The girl was a natural, Rita thought from the kitchen: curvy rump, the titillating beginnings of breasts; and now she saw her in the role of girl-woman, appealing to those who liked 'em young, who were affluent and could pay the charge. There must be a hundred men like this in town, she thought. A hundred men maybe more who would like to own an hour of this little nymphet's time, and without retribution. And it was possible, Rita reasoned. It was possible because she was going to make it possible.
Rita hurried back to the living room. She had a highball in her hand. "Betty, will you take your clothes off, please."
"Huh?"
"Your clothes ... will you take them off, please."
"But...."
"You wanna be a model, don't you?"
"Well, sure. But...."
"Well then, how else are you going to be a model? I have some things for you to put on...."
The girl's face brightened. "Ohhhh!"
"You can go in there," Rita said, pointing to the bedroom, "but if you're going to be shy, then I may not be able to use you."
"Oh, I'm not shy. You just surprised me, that's all."
Rita rubbed her hands together. She guided Betty to the bedroom. The girl instantly began to undress, drawing her sweater over her head, unzipping her skirt.
"When you were a little girl, Betty ... real, real little ... did you ever dress up in some of your mother's clothing?"
The 13-year-old, clad in only panties and bra now, stood before Rita and smiled. "Oh, sure. Lots of times."
"Well, that's kinda what we're going to do now. You're going to wear things that the big girls wear. All right?"
"Oh, sure. Sounds cool."
Rita handed her a black rubber corset. It belonged to Rita, but it was outlandishly small; she'd only worn it once.
The teenager lent the garment a curious glance. "It's creepy looking," she said.
"You won't think so when you get it on. When you see what it does for your figure...."
"My mother has got one something like this," Betty said, holding the garment against her body. "She says it keeps the bumps inside where they belong."
Rita smiled gaily. "This one works just the opposite," Rita joked. "It put the bumps on the outside where they belong." She took a long swallow of her highball. "But you're going to have to take those other things off, first."
The girl's hesitancy had completely vanished. She was obviously anxious to prove to Rita that she was not shy, that she could be a good model. She unclasped her brassiere, exhibiting sensuous pink-tipped risings that surprised Rita by their unannounced maturity. Her nipples were no larger than dimes: pinkened rosebuds the color of a boy's tongue. And now, as she bent her small body forward to remove and climb out of her thin nylon panties, Rita stole an extra-long gaze at her bobbing small breasts not a child's; not a woman's. Just nice!
And then Rita was face-to-face with the nude child a thrilling five seconds in which she glimpsed the young girl's provocative naked body and was swept with desire.
The youngsters skin was as flawless and clean as fresh snow, so fair and virginal that Rita was awed, spellbound by her loveliness. Her eyes swept the teenager's body, a titillating, brief appraisal that saw a rib cage overshadowed by the promise of her breasts; that saw a flat and tiny stomach yield to the exciting flare of her maidenly hips boyish, but not quite. Rita had never guessed that she would be this lovely, and as her eyes paused briefly on the nubile thighs, she very nearly succumbed to the hot thrills that had invaded her loins.
"How do you get this crazy thing on?"
Rita showed her. And there were brief encounters: fingertips that brushed the satiny warmth of the girl's flesh, seconds when the girl's copious rump failed to yield to the tiny rubber garment and Rita had to squeeze inward on her dimpled buttocks; seconds when it was hell, when Rita had to summon the entirety of her will-power to keep from drawing this angelic nymphet to the pillowy softness of her bed.
Her feelings frightened her. She had never thought of herself as a lesbian, but why did she want to seduce every young teenager she came into contact with? Was it just the thrill of evil? Was it those damn pills?
"It sure is tight," Betty said, interrupting Rita's thoughts. "How do I look?"
Rita formed an objective gaze. She was pleased. The garment rendered sin; it also rendered flattery to the youngster's petite figure, a sexiness beyond her years. And though the garment had no laces, its rubber construction subjected the wearer to the wild, dazzling imprisonment for which it was made. Her waist was now unbelievably tiny; her juvenile breasts burst with pompous authority.
"You look lovely," Rita said wistfully. She then gave the teenager black hose, some high-heeled shoes. "Put these on, and then brush out your hair." She motioned to the dresser. "You'll find all the make-up you need over there."
"This is fun!"
"And it's only the beginning," Rita said, imitating a circus barker. "Only the beeeginning!"
She started for the kitchen to freshen up her highball, was suddenly halted by a rap at the door. She closed the bedroom door to bide the teenager, then she tip-toed to the front door. It was Old Ironsides, as she sometimes liked to call him: Henry Ridgewood; and his face was beet-red, both from the exertion of climbing the stairs and the penetrating anger he bore.
"I oughta wring your lousy neck!"
She was amused. She smiled. "Henry, you sound almost like a man, and if there's anything we need more than that right now...." She opened the door a bit wider and gestured him inside. "...I don't know what it is."
"Rita, how could you?"
His question, she decided, sounded like a line from an overworked soap opera. "How could I what."
"Let's not play games."
"But I like to play games," she said in a sultry voice. She led him to the divan. "Now you sit right down here like a good little boy and lower your blood pressure ... that's it," she said sweetly, "and I'll mix us a drink, and...."
"Rita, you promised me you were leaving town. You said you weren't going to open up that damn fool shop here, and I believed you."
"And, Henry, that was what I intended. Really. But then I realized how much I'd miss you ... Henry, you know you don't want me to leave," she simpered.
"Bull!"
"Do you want your bourbon on-the-rocks, or otherwise?"
"I just want you to leave town!"
And in a colder tone, she said: "You know that's not possible, don't you? So why ask?"
"Rita, a bargain is a bargain."
"You'll get your money back. I won't cheat you."
"But I'm not worried about the money. I'm worried about you ... the trouble that that store will cause."
"There'll be no trouble," she said, going to the kitchen for drinks. "And in a minute, I'll let you meet one of my models."
"I'm not interested in your models."
"You will be with this one. She's only 13 years old."
To which Henry Ridgewood paled, and said:
"God help me!"
CHAPTER 10
An hour later, Temple City's able Law Director needed God's help or someone's. His false veneer of respectability had vanished, and he had compromised with Rita's bourbon-tainted philosophy: If you can't be a good winner, at least be a good loser. This was political corn, of course, but saying it helped Henry Ridgewood to justify his downfall. And then he quickly added that this wasn't a 'downfall'; just a little harmless fun. And people had to have fun. And then more of his election hokum: All work and no play ... And what all this added up to, Rita reasoned, was just this: The righteous holier-than-thou bastard wanted to go to bed with the 13-year-old nymphet!
The realization of all this made Rita sick at her stomach. The effects of Dr. Grossman's pills had worn off, and she was again seeing Henry Ridgewood for what he was: A sick pervert with a pious front. And she could have ended Henry's overtures toward the little girl before they really started, but what was the use? She was no crusader; and the Henry Ridge-woods of the world would always find their little nymphets; and if it wasn't Betty Juneau, then it would be some other innocent young child.
So she did nothing to deter his progress with the girl. Besides, she thought, maybe there was something to be gained. The more evil she learned about this man, the greater advantage she would have over him.
Henry quite obviously did not guess Rita's contempt, being too occupied with the charms of her 13 year old guest. He couldn't believe that this delicious creature was a mere 13. And when she had waltzed into the room for the introduction, ventured a flirting smile, then promptly sat down on his lap and gave him a hello kiss, Henry was flabbergasted.
The rubber corset that Betty wore left little unsaid. Her pink bottom peeped out from the underside of the garment, and her juvenile breasts squeezed forth from the top. And when she climbed from his lap, performed a graceful pirouette, Henry's desires reached their zenith. His eyes bloated; he bristled with the expectancy of a young schoolboy.
Rita was pleased with the effect that young Betty Juneau had on Henry. With the sound tapes in her possession, she expected no real resistance from him; but, on the other hand, if he 'joined the club', so to speak that is: became a happy prey of the 13 year old then things would go all the smoother. And this was exactly the way it was happening. "What do you think of my little prot'g', Henry?" He didn't answer immediately, being too preoccupied with the way in which the straps of the corset bit into the youngster's firm thighs. But now, with the nymphet standing in front of him, with her dark impish eyes fixed on his, he listened to Rita repeat her question, and he said: "I think she's the cutest thing I've ever seen."
"I'm jealous," she chided. "Downright jealous."
"And you should be," he said, taking Betty's hand and drawing her against his knee. "She's beautiful."
The 13 year old stammered out a "thank you", and with Henry's coaxing she returned to his lap.
Rita said, "You two get acquainted. I'm going to make some sandwiches and something to drink." And then she disappeared to the kitchen.
For a while at least, from what Rita could observe from the kitchen Henry behaved like the proverbial paternal grandfather. He held her to his lap, bound her with his arms, and they talked about school, about what she would become when she grew up.
To the outsider, it might have seemed a touching scene; but Rita knew Henry, his flair for perversions, his classic desire for the younger set; therefore, she wasn't surprised when the 'touching scene' became a 'touching game'.
From her outpost in the kitchen, Rita heard the young girl giggling; and when she glanced to the living room, she saw that Henry was discovering the girl's ticklish "spots", poking his curious fingers first in her ribs, then at her breast, and more boldly, between her thighs.
The young girl was not alarmed by the games he had devised; in fact, she responded by tickling him back in some of the very same places. Rita encouraged their game, conveniently providing Henry with more drink, and then conveniently disappearing to the kitchen.
When she again looked into the living room, Henry was on all fours', giving his precious nymphet a horsy-back ride. However, the half-naked child was scissored around his neck rather than straddled over his back, and the effect was ludicrous. Ludicrous until Henry lost his balance and they rolled over on the floor. His face ended up between her thighs; it came as no surprise to Rita when he then began to kiss that which was closest to his lips. Nor did it surprise Rita when the child suddenly stopped giggling, when the only sound in the room was her rasping, emotion-filled breathing.
It was obvious to Rita that the 13 year old was pleased with her new-found experiment with sex. But then, because she was young and coy, a devilish flirt, Betty squirmed from Henry's grasp, ran from him and dared him to catch her.
Henry was no match for the game of catch-and-tag. She skittered from corner to corner, ducking behind chairs, circling the divan, always being one step ahead of Henry's frantic grabs at space.
He finally captured her by leaping over the back of the divan, seizing her wrist and wrestling her to the floor. Amidst screams and giggling, he lifted her to his lap, and then they began talking in hushed tones; Rita continued with the sandwiches.
She set the sandwiches on a plastic tray, closed the cupboards. Suddenly, Henry burst into the kitchen. He seized Rita by the arm and guided her toward the back door. His eyes were filled with fright.
"For the love of heaven, Rita, why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"That girl, that's what." He ran his hands dejectedly through his hair. "Of all the goddamn situations to get into...."
"What is it, Henry?"
Henry smacked his forehead in exasperation. "My God, woman! Doesn't the name Betty Juneau mean one single thing to you? Are you that much of an idiot?"
Juneau? Juneau? What had it meant? Rita pondered.
"Her stepfather just happens to be Paul Juneau, and Paul Juneau, my ignorant little bitch, happens to be the Chief of Police of Temple City!" He gulped down a shot of whiskey, then another. "What the hell d'ya think is going to happen when he finds out about this?"
Rita's flesh prickled with alarm. Her face whitened. She shot an uneasy glance toward the young girl, seated on the living room divan; but then she remembered the tape recording confession, and she thought: 'Chief of Police, and he's a pervert. The biggest of all." Her eyes mocked Henry Ridgewood's trembling alarm. The frown she wore was displaced by a cunning smile. She said, "Don't worry about it, Henry."
"Don't worry about it? Rita, how can you...."
"You see, Henry, it's this way. Once upon a time there was a tape recorder...."
On the following day, Henry phoned Rita on at least six different occasions. He hadn't been able to sleep the previous night. His nerves were shot, he said; Paul Juneau was not a man to tangle with.
Rita was unimpressed. She had seen the Chief of Police when he appeared on a TV broadcast: a dark-eyed blimp of a man whose gross corpulence suggested a beer baron of the 30's. He did not excel as a public speaker, and in Rita's opinion his gruff semi-illiterate overtures sounded like the rumblings of a cheap hood. But Rita was not frightened by him, simple logic telling her: She would not bother him; he, in turn, would not bother her.
None of this was particularly consoling to Henry Ridgewood. His own shadow was a thing to be wary of, and his gloomy prophesy was that they were getting in deep water, that Rita and her crazy fashion shop would be their death knell.
Surged with an even grimmer determination, she spent the week interviewing and selecting more teenage girls. Having learned the value of a tape recorder, she recorded these interviews and dug for family skeletons. And by acting like a teenager herself, encouraging the girls with a few vodkas, she was able to learn which of them had fooled around with boys, and to what degree. She anticipated no trouble; the tape recorded "confessions" were simply additional insurance.
In the meantime, she allowed her apartment to become a hangout for the teenagers. If they didn't cut school and come there during the morning, then they drifted and collected there in the afternoon and evening.
Their presence made Rita feel younger. And she fitted easily into their crowd; it was no great task to comb out her long dark hair and act like one of them, to don short-shorts and bobby sox, to be a swinger, to smoke with them, drink with them even wrestle with them, if the occasion called for it; and it was no small wonder that they called her "regular" or "coo!" and jibingly referred to her as "mother".
Some of the gatherings grew noisy, and when the janitor finally had to complain, Rita settled their differences with a twenty-dollar bill. There was more where that came from, she told him; and then rubbing against him before she closed the door on him, she added: "...a lot more!"
On Friday, Rita decided to sponsor a party for her teenage friends. Her store would have its grand opening in just one more week; the party would be a sort of pre-opening celebration. She sent out invitations to her teenage models and suggested they might bring a friend, if they liked. She also phoned Henry, told him that things were going great.
"But they won't be," he said gloomily, "once you open that store."
She laughed. "Henry-Henry, quite contrary...."
"All right. You'll see."
She laughed again. "Rain bringer. Crepe hanger."
"Okay.. . okay."
"Lis'n, Henry. The reason I called is this: I'm having a real swinger of a party tomorrow night. Gonna hit the ceiling, if you know what I mean, and I thought that maybe you'd like to come."
"Thank you, no," be said coldly.
"But Henry, you don't know what you're missing.
I'm having all my little teenage models here, and their boyfriends ... and we're gonna eat and drink...." She decided to tease him. " ... and then we're gonna take off all our clothes ... are you listening, Henry?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Be original, Henry darling. Everybody is out of their mind. But I'm gonna be out of my clothes ... and tomorrow night." She giggled. "Are you sure you won't reconsider?" And he was dying to, she thought
"Rita...."
"And I'll have the kind you like, Henry. Soft and young and tender ... oh, and one more thing: Willing."
"Rita, you're headed for a pack of trouble. What are you trying to prove?"
"Prove?" She laughed haughtily. 'Only that the flesh is weak, Henry. Would you care to test that theory?"
"Rita, for chrissakes!...."
"And if you're coming, Henry, stop at the drug store, huh? We wouldn't want Temple City's Law Director knocking up one of our little teeners, now would we?" Still laughing, she hung up. And now her wickedness took a turn for the worse. Pills that came from a dark brown bottle confidence pills brought evil in disastrous tides, led Rita to ruin.
By seven o'clock Saturday night, Rita was ready for hell. She had stocked a plentiful supply of gin, vodka, bourbon, beer for those who preferred it; there was also two cases of wash; cold cuts for those who grew hungry. They were too young to drink, but the drug had numbed Rita's logic.
She was bristling with excitement, humming while she applied make-up and worked with her hair; actually whistling when she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Some of her exotic clothing had arrived ahead of schedule, and for her role as hostess, she had decided to wear one of the dresses.
Examing the curvy excitement that the dress added to her body, she was filled with pride. Made of white satin, Oriental in flavor, it swooped to fetching depths at her bosom and was slit on both sides all the way to the line of her hips. The slits were held loosely together by thin bands of red sequins and as Rita turned, first one way and then another, she saw that great expanses of ivory thigh were exposed. The kids would really get a charge of out it, she thought. And maybe much more.
Frowning slightly, she wondered if she shouldn't have worn something underneath the dress, but remembering how tight it fit her, the battle it had been to get it on, she thought the hell with it. And if her breasts, unencumbered by a brassiere, jiggled when she walked, so what? The boys would get excited, they'd start goofing around with their girlfriends hell, the dress was better stimulus than any aphrodisiac.
At seven-thirty, the first of the teenage crowd began to arrive: Lee Patterson and her boyfriend, Joel Harris. They chorused their acclaim for her startling satin dress; Joel was hypnotized by her red patent shoes.
Rita led them to the kitchen for an initial round of drinks; and she swung her lush buttocks for Joel's approval: a slight case of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. But the curly-haired youth didn't mind. Not at all. He flashed her an eager smile and when Rita reached across the table for the olives, she could feel his intent gaze: dark eyes that raked the daring neckline of her dress and sought the rosy hue of her nipples.
Then, as if to confirm that he had, indeed, seen those nipples, he said: "You sure look cool, Rita. like wild!"
She thanked him, and not without deducing the tingle of jealousy in Lee's momentary loss of smile. But it would be nice to have him, she thought; to have his broad young body sweeping over her. And now if she could just get Lee occupied by another boy.. .
"I'll betcha you haven't got anything on underneath that dress," Lee whispered into her ear.
"And you're right!" Rita said out loud; and then appraising Lee's tight-fitting maroon slacks, she added: "But I'm not the only one, am I?"
Lee laughed, hugged herself to Joel's arm.
"Here's to a real blast," Rita said, lifting her glass; and the drinks were gulped down non-stop, there was another round, then another; and some two hours later, it was a "blast', indeed.
At least 20 teenagers had showed up for the party, and most of them, by now, were slightly 'smashed'. Even 13-year-old Betty Juneau had found her way to the gin bottle, and though her first few drinks had been hesitant ones, she was consuming the stuff now as though it were going out of style.
None of the other girls present had let the alcohol pass them by, either. 15 and 16 years old, they had reached various stages of alcoholic stupor and were game for anything. The first hour of the party had been devoted to merely getting acquainted, then it had swung to dancing and spin-the-bottle; but by now, sobriety was gone, and the boys and girls had paired off in different parts of the apartment to neck and fondle; resistance was now a nasty word.
Lee Patterson had sacked off in the corner with a newcomer to the group: a red-haired youth by the name of Tommy; and at the moment, Tommy was doing his best to divest Lee of her slacks. He had succeeded in lowering her zipper; his other hand was manipulating the warm mounds beneath her sweater.
Lee's boyfriend, Joel, was not to be left idle; He was being occupied by a tall bosomy, olive-skinned girl known as Lorraine. Joel had the girl pressed against the wall; the way he was squirming against her, it seemed to Rita that he might push her through the wall before he achieved his purpose.
The others in the crowd were of equal abandon: necking in great fervor on the divan, or seeking out the shadows beyond the center of the room; one couple had even deserted the rest for the privacy of Rita's bedroom.
Seeing all this orgy of excitement and the spending of passions left Rita weak with desire. And how ironic, she thought, that she who had sponsored this party was the only one without a partner. Even 13 year old Betty Juneau was now a participant, seated on some boy's lap, allowing the youth to feel her thighs, to raise her dress higher and higher, not caring in the least.
And there was Carlotta, a slim Italian girl of no more than 16 she was one of Rita's new models and who was currently modeling not clothes, but her body. This was being done in the narrow hallway that joined the front room with the kitchen, a dark vestibule that afforded two youth the chance to explore Carlotta's body at will, none of which seemed undesirable to her.
To Rita, who stumbled back and forth through their midst, this was frustration at its ultimate. Everywhere she looked, she saw young girls giving forth the charms of their bodies; moaning and sighing because it felt good, because they wanted more.
Carlotta's blouse and brassiere were off. One boy was licking one nipple; the other, a more demanding lad, was sucking the other breast most violently. The girl's eyes were closed; her hands were pressed to the backs of their heads.
Lee's slacks were now down to her knees. The red-haired boy was kissing her bare stomach. His kisses were going lower and lower.
Groans came from Rita's bedroom, but she was too hot with desire to look in on them. And there was enough here to see: Beck, a 15-year-old black-haired girl being disencumbered of her brassiere by a party-crashing youth named Vince; two other teenage girls, Nan and Vickie, having a contest for some boys: letting them decide which of them had the prettiest thighs; and Cora, a plump 14-year-old who had come, uninvited, along with Betty Juneau; at the moment, having her buttocks caressed by a boy, a dance that had no music and didn't particularly require music.
Rita's frustration became nervous agitation that, in turn, became anger. She stalked to the kitchen and swallowed two inches of bourbon. The sounds of fun and gaiety echoed from the front room, haunted her:
"Kiss me again, Ralph...."
"If you want me to take my bra off, please ask...."
'We-are-thirsty. We-are-thirsty. We-are-thirsty...." I'll give you just 25 minutes to stop that...."
"I'm hot!"
Rita poured herself another splash of bourbon. She gulped it down. The hell with this, she thought. God helps those who help themselves. She stormed back to the living room. She looked for some sign of Joel Harris, the teenage boy who had earlier aroused her interest. She found him behind the divan, rising slowly from the dark-skinned girl: Lorraine. The girl's clothes were more off than on; Joel shook his head in disgust.
"Ain't that enough to tee you off!" he said, looking at Rita. "She passed out." He zipped up his trousers and stumbled to his feet. "Hotter'n a stray cat and she passed out."
Rita put out her hand for Joel's. "Which is just as well," she said. "I need some help in the kitchen. Wanna help?"
Joel was game. He stepped over Lorraine, came around the divan and followed Rita to the kitchen.
"One quick one before we go?" She gestured to the bourbon bottle.
Joel shrugged his massive shoulders. 'Why not?"
"Having fun?" Rita asked, pouring the bourbon.
The boy glanced forlornly back to the living room. "I was," he said "until jerky-ass passed out." His dark eyes licked the cleavage of Rita's dress. "What about you?"
Rita shrugged her shoulders dismally. "The party is for the kids not me," she answered. She forced a smile. "Bottoms up!"
Joel clicked glasses with her. They killed their drinks.
Rita said, 'Wow!"
"Potent, huh?"
"Kind of." Her eyes lingered on his broad young chest. "You ready?" she asked. "Where we going."
"To the basement."
Mischief danced in his dark eyes. "That sounds like a winner if I ever heard one." He grinned. "Mind telling me what we're gonna do in the basement?"
"Well...." She ran her hands through his dark curly hair. 'We are suppose to be going down there to look for more drinking glasses...."
"In the basement?"
"I've got a locker down there," she explained, "and I need somebody who's big and strong to help me carry the glasses back up. Savvy?"
"Yeah, I savvy." He grinned some more. His eyes played over the svelte lines of her body. Then, with the bourbon giving him added bravery, he said: "I always wanted to see your locker, anyway!"
Rita started to laugh, but a sudden wave of nausea spread over her. The enchantment caused by the drug was wearing off. She recognized the symptoms: a throbbing in her head and a sudden weakness in her legs. But the feeling would only be momentary, she knew; then the horrible drug would again take hold and her bubbling lassitude would return. But these moments, the temporary asylum to normalcy, left her weak and ashamed. She saw herself as others must see her: a shameless vixen who preyed on teenagers, who defiled them with her own evil lust
"Is something wrong, Rita?"
She gazed vacuously at the handsome teenage boy beside her. His dark eyes lurked at the bosom of her dress.
"No, Joel. Nothing is wrong." And as she said it, she felt the return of lassitude, the waning of concern. She was no better than the hopeless alcoholic, she thought; and like his kind, even knowing the harm of her weakness, she was powerless to do anything about it. The drug did this to her; it was doing it now.
"Are we still going to the basement?" Joel asked. She said: "And why not?"
CHAPTER ll
The pills might be a source of success, Rita reasoned, but they were also transforming her into a hopeless sex fiend: Now she wanted Joel.
"You got the flashlight?"
"Naturally. Only how come your crumby janitor don't fix the lights?"
They were in the basement. Rita was leading the way toward the lockers just beyond the wash tubs. "How do I know?" she asked.
"A guy could break his neck down here, in all this darkness." He was at her side, guiding the flashlight to a string of wooden-fenced lockers. "Which one is yours?"
"The one down at the end." She led the way and opened its creaky wooden door. Joel followed her inside.
His flashlight swept the box-littered eight-by-ten cubicle, came to rest on a dilapidated, porcelain-topped kitchen table. Rita pointed to the line of shelves overlooking the table.
"They're on the top shelf," she said.
He started to hand her the flashlight. "Which box?" he said.
"You'd never find 'em in a million years." She climbed onto the table. It wobbled under her weight "You'd better hold me," she whispered.
She stood up. Joel wrapped one of his massive arms around her calves. Rita felt a quick tinge of desire. She raised to her tip-toes, began looking in the cardboard cartons.
"That's no job for a girl," he hissed.
Rita didn't answer him. Being on the table was a part of her plan. Joel was far too inexperienced to simply make a pass at her, so she had to encourage him, stimulate him as it was; and her present position was calculated to do exactly that. Being on top of the table, bent forward at an awkward angle, the short Oriental party dress exposed plenty! And Joel didn't have to tell her that he was looking under her dress; the beam of the flashlight told the story a beam of light that probed the darkness between her parted thighs.
"You find 'em?" he said weakly.
Rita detected the change in his voice, and while she could have instantly put her hands on the glasses, she decided to tease him a while longer.
"I was certain I put them on this top shelf." She flashed a glance at the boy. His face colored; he re-aimed the flashlight.
"You want me to look?"
"No, I'll find em." She turned away before he could see her wry proud smile.
Now, and learning as far forward as she dared, she balanced herself on one shoe, assumed an arabesque-like stance a position that left nothing to his imagination, that exposed her in the fullest. One leg was straight, the other extended straight out and behind her. Her satiny short dress climbed several inches above her knees; Joel's befuddlement and excitement was at its peak.
"I found them," she said at last. "They were right in front of me." She handed Joel a dusty carton, waited until he had set them down, then extended her arms.
"Gonna help me down?"
"Naturally, naturally." He raised his muscular arms.
Rita descended to him like a cobra gliding down the trunk of a tree. She slithered against him, clung against his muscular hardness. The impact of the moment, the touch of their bodies, was electric in its response. Rita merely looked at him wistfully. She said nothing, made no effort to unlock herself from his embrace; and suddenly Joel bent his head down and kissed her.
Dr. Grossman's strange pills had unlocked part of Rita's dark desires; but now a 16-year-old boy unlocked the rest. And with his hot young mouth pressed against her and his lean muscular hardness surging forward, Rita gave vent to her tortured emotions.
In a slow, teasing undulation of hips and pelvis, she rubbed herself against the boy's body. He gasped and gasped again when Rita forced her tongue between his lips to reach the boy's. He crushed Rita with new awareness. And now his uninhibited love-making led Rita to even more lascivious abandon. She pressed closer, moaned when his hand dropped and touched the curvy softness of one breast
"Ohhhh, Joel! Joel, you shouldn't...." But she didn't mean it; not in the least
And the boy sensed it. He squeezed the front of her white satin dress. His fingers found and pinched her nipple. Rita moaned more loudly.
"Joel...." She had to stop him; an inner fear nagged at her, told her it was wrong. But now his hands had dropped behind her, cupped the chaotic, twisting churn of her buttocks, urged her against him.
She felt the strength of his lean hard body, his youth, the fire of his passion; slowly the resistance drained from her arms. She couldn't help herself; and she knew it was shameful: a 25-year-old woman and this teenage boy; but the tormenting desire was there, the moment, the darkness; and she let it happen.
Joel's hands ran up and down her body and produced a chain of hot thrills in her loins. He sought a fastener on the dress, moaned in anguish when he failed to locate it. Rita helped him, guided his hand to the zipper at the side.
"Ohhhh, Rita!" His hand sneaked through the unlocked zipper, found the hotness of Rita's bare waist.
Rita shuddered. Her desire was mounting by leaps and bounds. She ground her body against the youth: a pumping motion that defined her want.
The boy was equally impatient. His hand left her waist, traveled upward through the slit-like opening of her dress and squeezed down hard on her breast.
Rita could take no more. The dress was a hindrance. She backed the youth away and removed the dress. He heard the rustle of the satin. He sucked in his breath.
"I wish I could see you," he whispered out of the darkness.
Rita gazed at the dim outline of the boy. His features were vague; only the white of his T-shirt was plainly defined.
"I could let you turn the flashlight on," she said mischievously. And now the madness took complete possession of her: "But since you can't see me, Joel, you can still feel me...." She heard him moving toward her, smelled the animal of youth. "...and maybe feeling is even better than...."
He seized her from the darkness. His brute strength surprised her. Her breath was cut off by his violent embrace. His mouth was hot, demanding. Nipping kisses brought gasps of pain from her lips; yet she liked it. liked it and wanted more. And Joel gave it to her.
His biting kisses left their mark on the satiny warmth of her throat, on the trembling hollows of her neck; on the blossoming nectar of her breasts.
He went crazy when his lips reached her nipples: a boy salvaging all the delicious sweetness of love from this never-to-be-forgotten interlude of evil His tongue savored the pink hardness of her nipples; again and again, he squashed her splendid breasts against his perspiration-soaked face.
Rita was beyond caring. Never in her life had she been met with such frenzy. Never in her life would she have believed that a teenage boy could bring her such joyful and electrifying hotness. And while his eager mouth labored the lush fullness of her breasts, his hands were equally industrious with the rest of her anatomy.
Rita's passion carried her over into near stupor. The lad knew all the erogenous zones the forbidden ones, the practiced ones. Rita moaned. Her passivity gave way to aggression: She unbuttoned his shirt as fast as she could. In another minute, she was fumbling with his belt.
"Do you want to?" he asked.
His superfluous remark brought a smile to Rita's lips. She attributed the misplaced question to his youth. She said:
"Do you?"
"If you do."
The silence was awkward. Finally, Rita said: "Well, we've got all our clothes off and...."
"Where."
"Huh?"
"Where?" he asked. "Where can we do it?" Rita blinked at the darkness. She hadn't thought of that, and the floor was littered with cartons. She said, "The table."
"Huh?"
"On the table. It's better than nothing." She boosted herself to its cold porcelain top. The boy shuffled toward her. He fumbled with his clothing.
"Hurry. I'm cold."
"You'll never make me believe that."
"What?"
"That you're cold." He circled her waist, manipulated himself to the awkward stance that would make it possible. Rita helped him, at the same time suffered misgivings, the slight subsiding of passion. She felt guilt, remorse, considerable shame. But now it was happening; now it was too late.
He moaned loudly when the union of their bodies was complete; but Rita continued to experience misgivings, and the thought passed her mind: Why am I here like this? What in God's name is wrong with me?
"Is it all right?" Joel asked, and now he had stopped and his brooding eyes were searching for the expression in her face and because she hadn't gasped or moaned, said something nice, he was afraid that he was not enough.
Rita placated his doubts. She was glad that they were in such total darkness and glad, indeed, that he could not see the wincing that contorted her face. But she told him it was all right; yes, it was just fine.
"But hurry," she pleaded, and then she had to hope that he hadn't read the real meaning of those words that she wanted to get it over with, that she was just a little sorry it had ever started.
The boy checked his movements during their brief conversation; now, with his confidence restored, he again began the slow back-and-forth ballet of love.
Rita had looked eagerly forward to this moment: the boy and her; but now that it was happening a mechanical thing, at best she was disappointed by her inability to respond. Seconds ago, when they were just goofing around, she'd been hot enough to cook an egg on; now there was nothing, just his labored breathing, the sounds of love.
She blamed this response on a number of things: The cold damp basement, the hard table, the shameful gap in their ages. Nevertheless, she pretended excellently. She clutched at his naked back, raked her nails over his flesh, groaned and moaned, rocked to and fro to the sway of the table and the rhythm of his body.
A less experienced youth would never have guessed, but Joel been around and his seductions of teenage girlfriends must have been numerous. He said:
"What's wrong, Rita?"
"There's nothing wrong. Just hurry."
"But there is. You're not enjoying this. I can tell."
She didn't answer him. How could she tell him what was wrong when she didn't even know herself.
She said, "Please hurry. I need you."
He didn't argue. He came at her with new vigor, forceful thrusts that might have been calculated to hurt that certainly did hurt.
Rita muffled her scream, her pain. It didn't seem possible that a teenage boy could exert such force, such brute strength. She joined his movements, guided his hands to her breasts, felt the beginning of enjoyment; but each time that feeling threatened to engulf her, to take her to the sweet mysteries of erotica, something happened and the feeling faded. She was disappointed enough to cry, but she held it back. And Joel? Joel could hold nothing back not any longer.
He squeezed her buttocks with a fiercer determination. His breathing was broken. His thrusts were more savage.
"H-honey! Ohhhhh!"
"C'mon, Joel! C'mon!" she sought his mouth. "Honey?" The question: Was she ready. "Yes ... yes ... yes!! ! ! ! ! "
Misery and pleasure exploded. His bull-like strength swept her over on her back. The table rocked precariously, scraped and grated against the concrete floor. Rita locked her arms around the boy's neck. She kissed him. The boy let out a giant sigh.
"Ohhhh, Rita ... Rita...." And then he was silent, sprawled atop her, and silent.
Rita held the boy to her breasts: a mother comforting her young. She held him and rocked him gently, kissed his forehead, the feverish moistness of his face.
And then the commotion: Somebody hurrying down the basement stairs. Voices.
Rita pushed Joel from atop her. She slipped her dress over her head; Joel climbed into his pants.
"Rita ... Rita, are you down here?" It was Carlotta, one of the teenagers from her party.
"Be out in a minute," Rita called. She swept her hair into place, straightened her dress.
"Now I wonder what they were up to," Carlotta said to the youth beside her when Rita and Joel emerged from the locker.
"We were looking for glasses," Joel said with a snicker, tuning on the flashlight.
Carlotta smiled cynically. "Well I hate to disturb you, BUT...." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ... there's a man on the telephone and he wants to talk to Rita and he says it's urgent"
Without knowing why, Rita felt a stab of coldness. Who could be calling her at this hour? And why was it "urgent"?
"Didn't he say who it was?"
"He didn't say anything. He just said it was important and to get you."
Rita didn't like it; she didn't like it at all. She hurried upstairs, the others behind her. An unexplained fear pricked her with goose bumps. But why fear? She hadn't known fear for weeks. Why now?
She picked up the phone. It was Henry.
"Rita. You've got to clear the place out. And fast."
"What?"
"Your party. Get everybody out of there."
"But why?"
"Don't ask questions now. Just do as I say."
"But...."
"NOW, Rita. NOWWWWW."
"Can't you tell me what's wrong."
"I'll call you back."
"When?'
"After everybody is gone. But get them out of there!"
Henry hung up. And now the fear was back. Fear and weakness. Fear, fear, fear...
CHAPTER 12
It took no more than fifteen minutes for Rita to empty the apartment. Some of the teenagers had been a little rebellious about leaving; Rita told them she'd explain later.
The place was still a mess: Beer bottles and whiskey glasses were everywhere. She picked up what she could, straightening things in a somewhat haphazard manner, uprighting lamps, getting the cushions back where they belonged, emptying ash trays, but still wondering why she was so jumpy and what it was that had prompted Henry's phone call.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a double bourbon. But neither this, nor the drink that followed, did anything toward settling her nerves. She was her "old self': No poise, no confidence, weak, afraid of anything and everything the same way she'd been before Dr. Grossman had given her the pills. And then it hit her. The pills! She'd forgotten to take them today. Not a one.
She hurried to the medicine cabinet. And her reaction to the boy in the basement. Was this the reason she had re-discovered coldness, frigidity?
She swallowed two of the pills. A minute later, a warmth began to grow in her stomach. A warmth, a strength. And then the warmth spread and she felt the incredible transformation not in physical features, though she did notice the new coloring that swept to her cheeks but in an inner gain of self-reliance and fortitude.
She should have guessed what was wrong down there in the basement, why she couldn't respond to the boy, and why she'd felt so weakly different.
And Henry's phone call. His pushing of the panic-button. What the hell was he scared of? The idiot! And to think that she'd ruined and cut short a perfectly good party. When he called again, she'd tell him plenty; and the wait was a short one: No more than five minutes.
"Has he been there yet?"
"Has who been here? What's eating you?" Juneau.
"What?"
"Paul Juneau. The Chief of Police. He called me at my home. He knows."
"Knows what. For chrissakes, Henry, make some sense."
Henry calmed down enough to say that Paul Juneau had somehow learned about tonight's party, about the new teen shop that Rita was opening up, and even worse, that his own daughter was involved.
"He knows you used to work for me and he wanted to know where you lived. I told him I didn't know."
"And that's all you called me about?"
"Isn't that enough. Do you realize what will happen when he finds out for sure. Do you realize...."
"I realize you're a worm, Henry. A spineless, gutless worm!"
"Rita!"
"Don't 'Rita' me! When this big blow-hard gets here, if he does, I'll have plenty to tell 'em."
"If you're smart you'll keep your mouth shut Juneau is trouble. Big trouble." He paused. "And don't think he can't find out where you live. He's a cop and he'll find you."
"Henry, why don't you crawl back in your hole and die?" She slammed down the phone. She felt angry. She despised men who were jellyfish. Henry was even less. No backbone. Nothing.
Then and it never occurred to her that she was mixing her drinks she opened up a bottle of beer. And she was this way: seated at the breakfast bar, sipping from the bottle of beer, when she heard the rap at the door. The door was unlocked and she shouted: "Come in."
She heard the door open, but she never turned to look, knowing that it would be Paul Juneau, certain of it when she heard his thunderous footsteps, heard him bark:
"Miss Lyons?"
"You're talking to her," she heard herself say. He slammed the door.
"My name is Juneau. Chief Juneau. Chief of Police."
Rita remained with her back to the man. She said:
"You want something?" And she scarcely recognized her own voice.
"You mind turning around?"
She sipped at the beer. "I like it better this way."
"But I don't." His voice was surly, rough. And now, she thought he'll start throwing his weight around. And she was not wrong. He was a few feet behind her, and he said, "I want your attention."
White fury etched into her brain. She spun on the stool and slammed him in the mouth with the beer bottle. She tore his mouth open, knocked teeth out His nose bled profusely.
He fell back against the wall, stunned. He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, plastered it to his face. Blood soaked through the handkerchief, seeped through to his knuckles. Broken bits of glass lay on the breasts of his uniform. He was a mess.
"What the goddamn hell did you do that for? I asked for your attention and...."
"You got my attention." She was standing. The neck of the broken beer bottle was still in her hand. She was trembling with anger, ready to cut his eye out if he made one foolish step. "I know why you're here.
I know all about you. About your crummy wife and about the sick relationship between you and your 13 year old stepdaughter. I could get you sent up for twenty years if I wanted to...." She laughed coarsely. "...and you want my attention...."
The pompous authority of Temple City's Chief of Police crumbled. He couldn't believe that this had happened to him, that his face had been butchered up, that this incredible woman knew of his vile past.
He mopped at the blood that covered his face. He felt the empty spaces where teeth had been. "Look lady...."
Rita cut him off:
"No, you look! I know what kind of a bastard you are, and you know what I am. So the score is even. And you keep your mouth shut and I'll do the same."
He didn't like it. Some of his bravery returned. "Assaulting a police officer is a pretty serious business, Miss Lyons."
"So is playing with your little girl's body."
He turned white. He said:
"Think anybody'll believe that?"
"They will if they hear your daughter's tape recorded confession." She nodded toward the tape recorder. "And it's in a safety deposit box, so don't think you're gonna do anything about it."
New blood dripped from his mouth and splashed to the linoleum. The cookie had crumbled; so had the haughty countenance of Paul Juneau. With grizzly bear proportions, the so-called pillar of strength was now reduced to bleeding rubble. A zero.
"Now get out of here!" she commanded. "Just leave me alone."
Without another word, he turned and walked meekly from the apartment. She slammed the door after him, then dropped the bottle or what was left of it to the carpet, then turned and fled to the bedroom.
She had a long cry, a cry during which she had to ask herself: What's come over me? How could I possibly be so brutal? How did I dare?
The answer always came back the same: The pills. It must be the pills. So if she stopped taking them ... yes, she'd be like she used to be: Sweet and innocent; but also weak and afraid, sexless and nothing. Could she face this kind of existence again? Did she want to?
There was no reason for a decision; her mind was already made up; and with a new and bitter resolve, she knew that she would never stop taking those pills. As long as there was one single solitary pill, she would take it Yes, it was the lambs who went to the slaughter. The strong survived and the weak perished. And moments later, she was proving it to Henry Ridgewood, describing over the phone just what had taken place:
"You hit him with a beer bottle," he said incredulously. "That's right."
"But...."
"He won't bother me any more. From now on, no one will bother me."
Henry was briefly silent. He obviously didn't like the trend of things, wished no part in it.
"Rita, it's not too late to get out of all this. You could still open up your store in another city,"
"Are you on that of horse again?"
"But it's time to think of those things. People have heard about this shop and they don't like it. I've already had a few complaints. And there'll be more. Lots more."
"Tell 'em to pound salt."
"But you can't do that. You're in office and you have to listen to them."
"So listen."
"Rita, it has to be more than listen. If I keep getting complaints...."
"Complaints about what? I haven't even opened the damn store yet. What in the hell are you talking about?"
And now he wanted to say more, but she cut him off. Nothing was going to happen not as long as she had pills, she thought so he could turn off the worry faucet.
"But the Police Chief, Rita. You carving him up like that. He won't take it. This isn't the end of it, you know."
"So I've got more beer bottles if he comes around."
"Rita...."
"You talk too much, Henry. I told you I was a violent woman and if you're not doing anything right now...."
"My God!"
"Well a woman does get hot once in a while, you know."
"How can you think of sex after all this?"
She wished that Henry could see the winsome smile she produced. "Henry, I can think of sex 24 hours a day. But just think about it...." She paused. ". . .is not near as much fun as doing it."
Rita waited; Henry was silent. She thought he'd hung up. Finally he spoke:
"I think you'd better go to bed, Rita."
She laughed.
"That's what I intend to do ... just as soon as you get here...."
CHAPTER 13
She awoke the next morning with a painful headache a hangover, she supposed but after taking a couple of Dr. Grossman's pills, flinging herself into a cold shower, she felt fine. She had never felt happier crazy as a bird, she could have sung and today seemed like that exuberant first day of spring.
She put on a pair of flaming-orange short-shorts and a matching polka-dotted halter. Her face was warm, her lips bright red; she even hummed while she salvaged a cup of last night's coffee. She was gay with expectation when the doorbell rang, and it proved a real surprise: Dr. Grossman, himself.
"I've been trying to reach you all week," he said.
"I've been busy."
His eyes were troubled. He said: "But you promised...."
"I know, I know," she cut in, "but with the grand opening of the store just around the corner, I haven't had a second's rest."
He found a chair and sat down. "I'm here about the pills, Miss Lyons ... about Hypothalmic-322."
It came as no surprise to Rita. He was visibly upset and he was about to scold her. "Coffee, Doctor?"
"No, thank you."
"And you're worried about me. Right?"
"Very. This drug ... Rita ... Miss Lyons ... you agreed to abide by certain rules that I laid down...."
"But I came to your office," she offered. "What more do you want?"
"One time," he said coldly. "And you were suppose to come daily. Do you remember?"
Anger bubbled up inside her. He was treating her like a child. She said:
"Why don't you admit the truth, Doctor Grossman? You're not worried about me. You're worried about yourself. You goofed, didn't you? You violated one of the cardinal ethics of the medical profession and now you're worried."
He stuttered. His dignity had been assaulted. "I violated nothing," he said sharply.
The hell you didn't! This new drug you developed ... testing it on a patient ... is that the standard practice? Is that the way it's done?"
"Well ... there are ... there are some allowances and...."
"Allowance, my ass! You were so anxious for success that you were willing to jeopardize a patient's health just for your own selfish gain."
"Now just a minute...."
"Don't back water, Doctor. I wasn't born yesterday."
"But. . r
"You made me a guinea pig, Doctor. A human guinea pig!"
That isn't true. I explained about the drug."
"You explained nothing," she snapped. "You told me I could expect some changes in my personality, that I'd feel better...."
"And you do, don't you?"
"That isn't the point, Doctor. The point is this: You chose to experiment with a new and dangerous drug before it had been clinically approved. You had no more conception of its side-effects than the man in the moon, and if this isn't the most voluble example of malpractice I ever heard of, then my name isn't Rita Lyons!"
"You're being rather harsh, Miss Lyons."
"And I have a right to be harsh." She lit a cigarette.
Tm sorry you feel this way," he offered.
She said, "You're not sorry. You're worried. You're worried because this is a damaging indictment against the medical profession, the drug industry, and YOU." She circled the room, came back to him. "But you needn't be worried, Doctor. I won't sue you. You're safe." i
"Miss Lyons...."
"I don't want to be bugged any longer, Doctor. Just leave me alone...."
"But, Miss Lyons."
"The door is behind you, Doctor. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave."
"Will you promise me just one thing?" he said, standing to leave. "Will you stop the pills?"
She took him roughly by the arm and walked to the door. "Good day, Doctor."
"Promise me you won't take any more of them...."
She pushed him out the door, slammed it in his face. Then, a moment later, she was in the kitchen, taking another of the pills, appraising the number that was left, guessing how long they would last.
There was enough pills to last about three more weeks, she decided. But by that time, her bizarre fashion shop would be in full swing. Yes, the weird-acting drug would give her the strength of purpose to carry her through the ordeal of the opening; after that, she'd need no strength; the dress shop would provide its own.
She spent the rest of the morning on the telephone. She called the Temple City newspapers and arranged for garish full page advertisements to carry the news or her opening. Each of the local television and radio studios were contacted and arrangements made for commercials. She also phoned a Mr. Brockton of the Temple City School Board.
"We can't advertise products like that in our school newspapers. You ought to know that, Miss Lyons."
"Are you refusing?"
Isn't that apparent?"
"Then go to hell!" she said, and hung up.
And a moment later, she was even less kind to a Mr. Spinoza, the building contractor. He had phoned to say that he couldn't possibly make the promised deadline on her store, that he needed at least two more days.
"Then you'd better work some overtime, Mr. Spinoza".
"But overtime costs money. The men get double-time after four-thirty. I'd lose my shirt."
"I don't give a damn about your stinking shirt! And I don't care if your men get quadruple-time. I want that shop opened on the day you promised. It's in the contract."
"Be reasonable, Miss Lyons. There've been some unexpected delays...."
"I don't want alibis, Mr. Spinoza. I want results. I've got ads in all the papers and I'll not be made a fool of. Either you finish the building according to the terms of the contract or I'll...."
"You'll what?"
"I'll sue you for every nickel you've got!" She slammed down the phone.
She took another pill, another shot of bourbon, one more cigarette. Her breasts tingled. She felt a sudden constriction in the area of her loins. She touched herself. Her nails dug into the skimpy shorts. A great sigh escaped from her lips. Then the phone rang. This time it was Henry Ridgewood.
"I tried to warn you," he cried. "I tried to tell you what would happen and you wouldn't listen."
"What the hell are you blubbering about now?"
"I told you that there'd be protests."
"Balls on the protests!"
'That's easy for you to say. You don't have to face it."
"You want a crying towel, Henry."
"Go ahead. Be funny. It's a big joke to you, isn't it?"
"Well what do you want me to do about it? It's your problem. You handle it."
"That's just it, Rita. I am handling it. I've been handling it all morning: Petitions, ladies' civic leagues, the PTA. The outer office is filled with 'em right this very minute, and they don't want your shop in Temple City. They want you to get out, Rita. Now!"
'Tell 'em to go to hell."
His exasperation bubbled over. "I can't do that, Rita. You know I can't. I have a certain responsibility to the voters. There's a matter of personal integrity...."
"Crap!"
"Rita!"
Tm sick of this personal integrity bit and duty to the voters. Are you afraid to stick up for what you believe?"
"But they're right, Rita. You can't tell people they're wrong when you know they aren't."
"You will, Henry. You will if you know what's good for you."
"But what should I do?"
"Do?" She moistened her lips. "Give 'em a hammer and a pound-box of salt. Tell 'em to pound it. . . and you know where."
"Rita!"
She hung up. She stalked angrily to the kitchen and poured herself another shot of bourbon. She gulped it down.
Suddenly, the whole wall seemed to explode. The window crashed in. Glass flew. Rita hit the floor. She heard the clamor of voices in the street below.
Cautiously, she picked herself up and waded through the broken glass to where a window had once been. Twenty or thirty people had gathered and were pointing upwards. Rita turned and gazed at the opposite wall. There was a hole in the plaster a hole the size of a quarter. The slug would be inside, she thought
She phoned Henry Ridgewood. Her voice was impersonal, matter-of-fact:
"Somebody just tried to murder me, Henry."
"What!"
She told him what had happened. And then: "I want you to get your hind-end over here. And now!"
"Rita, I don't want any part of this. If it's turning into a shooting fracas, then count me out."
"I don't wanna say it again, Henry. Get your ass over here!" She hung up. Then she dialed the police station. She asked for Police Chief Juneau.
"I've seen better marksmanship from a Boy Scout with a BB gun."
"What are you talking about?"
"Somebody just tried to blow my head off," she said acidly. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you?"
"Now look here...."
"Okay, forget I said it. Just get up here."
He blew up. "Just a minute, Miss Lyons. You're talking to the Chief."
"And I'm also talking to a fat bastard that plays games with his innocent little stepdaughter. Are you coming up here, or not?"
"I'll send a couple of men to investigate," he said weakly.
"You'll do nothing of the kind. I said you."
"You're going to get yourself stomped to death one of these days, lady. You're gonna get that pretty little face of yours carved up like a hunk of raw hamburger." , . .
"Don't take any bets on it, pervert. You II lose.
CHAPTER 14
After Rita hung up the phone, she buzzed for the janitor to. tell him about the window. He had big ambitions for such a dried-up little man; he reached her apartment in something less than minutes, and when she opened the door and he saw her flaming orange shorts-shorts, his red rimmed eyes swam like a couple of flying saucers. She called him "Curly" because of the half-dozen or so hairs that dotted his bald head; and she called him that now, guiding him to the blasted-out window frame, asking him to get it fixed.
The damage numbed him. So did her short-shorts. So did her revealing halter. "What happened?"
She looked at the little man in the gray shirt and the grease-stained khakis. She decided it was none of his business.
"Somebody threw a pumpkin through the window." But he saw the bullet hole and he shot her an inquisitive glance. The super isn't going to like this." The super?"
The building superintendent. He's gonna want to know what's going on around here?" His eyes undressed her.
"And do you have to tell 'em everything?"
His shoulders were hunched over, his natural stance. "I don't have to tell him anything, lady?" His glance dropped. His eyes beheld the defining tightness of her short-shorts. His mouth watered with desire.
"What don't you come out and say what you're thinking?" she said querulously.
"I don't know what you're talking about, lady." He broke his stare.
The hell you don't! You're wondering what I'd be like in bed. You're wondering if I'd let you."
His secret thoughts had been stripped bare. He was speechless.
Rita confounded him even further. She felt the drug releasing new and maddening sexual obsessions, and she said:
"I'd be good in bed, and if you're wondering would I, the answer is why not?" She skinned out of her short-shorts; then she flung off her halter. She was naked.
The janitor dropped the tape measure he had fished out of his khakis. He was dumbfounded. His eyes bulged like two oil-coated marbles.
"All right, Curly. Are you gonna fix the window or fix me?"
He looked like a man in the throes of a coronary occlusion. His mouth was popped open but nothing came out. Rita clasped her hands behind her head and wiggled her breasts for him.
"Maybe you'd rather fix the window," she teased.
He found some words:
"I'll fix the w-win ... I'll fix both," he said weakly.
She undulated toward him. Her eyes were half shut with desire. A hot wave of wanting flooded her loins.
"But which are you going to fix first?" she asked. "The window or me?"
He quite plainly didn't know what was happening here, but he wasn't going to question the turn to good fortune. He dropped his khakis.
"What the hell do you think I'm going to fix?" he said.
"I was just asking," she said, leaning her breasts against his arm.
He shot her an incredulous stare. He still could not believe this was really happening to him--him, the janitor.
'If you're just gonna stare all day...."
He turned slowly and cupped them gently in his hand, held them as though they were prize fruit, as though a sudden squeeze would bruise them and ruin them.
They're lovely," he said. Too lovely for words."
"Wouldn't you like to kiss them?" she teased. "Wouldn't you."
"Oh, would I!" Then why don't you?"
And gingerly, perhaps afraid that she would suddenly change her mind and scold him. he bent down and kissed their lingering tips one at a time. Rita felt no shame; she knew only that the crazy drug had again taken possession of her senses and that, as such, she would have to have release. But the janitor was timid, defensive. Rita coaxed him.
They won't bit you," she said quietly. "You're suppose to bite them." She cupped one of her melons in her hand and pressed it against his mouth. "Go ahead," she urged. Try it and see."
The janitor's defenses crumbled. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth and let Rita ease her hot breast inward. His eyes rolled and Rita thrilled to the touch of his tongue. ;
"Harder," she demanded. "Real hard."
The janitor complied. His mouth worked her nipple to a profound hardness. Meanwhile, his fingers were coaxing the other nipple to an equal hardness. Rita could hardly wait for the consummation of their mutual passion. She began undressing the janitor, and when she had gone as far as she could, he broke away from her and finished the task himself.
Rita led him into the bathroom.
"In here?"
"Why not?" She flashed him a mischievous smile. "Did you ever ... I mean ... in the shower...." He shook his head.
Rita parted the plastic curtains. She turned the water on, gauging its warmth. The janitor was obviously reluctant, but Rita took his hand and led him inside. She closed the curtains and handed him the soap.
"You're kiddin', " he said questioningly.
"The hell if I am." And then she instructed him how they would lather their bodies and make themselves as slippery as possible. The rest was pure instinct. And crazy. Because with the warm water spraying their bodies, the dizzying thrills were beyond measurement. And completed, it was so wild that Rita passed out in the janitor's arms. He revived her with cold water, and she said:
"I don't know if you fixed that window. But you sure fixed me!"
"That was the idea, wasn't it?"
"Am I complaining?"
After the janitor had left, Rita again turned on the shower. She felt soiled, dirty: self-recrimination, the equalizer to sin. She knew it was her addiction to the pills that led her to such degradation, but those same pills were also the pathway to success. But how foolish, she thought, to have come so close to having her brains blown out; then immediately afterward, think of sex. It seemed impossible that the pills could do this to her: remove fear from everything; but it was true. As long as she continued to take the pills, she felt no fear from no man, no thing. She was queen of the jungle, the high priestess of evil.
She came out of the shower now and took another pill. New courage coursed through her body. Her majestic breasts stood out noble and proud. Unyielding strength of purpose surged through her like a mad rampaging river. Anger was close by.
She climbed into a pair of skin-tight leather pants. A gold-sequined half-blouse covered her breasts. Her stomach was bare.
"What the heck kind of get-up is that?" Henry Ridgewood asked after he arrived. His eyes were fastened on her spike-heeled shoes.
Rita ignored him. She commanded him to sit down.
"I don't like being here," he said, glancing toward the pile of window glass on the kitchen floor. "I don't like it at all."
She paced the floor like a hungry tigress. Disdain crept into her voice. "For once in your life, will you shut up!"
"I have a right to say what I think."
She didn't answer him. The doorbell sounded: Paul Juneau, the Chief of Police.
Rita let him in. There was no need for introductions; the two men knew each other arsenic and strychnine, the boob and the blimp. Two perverts.
Juneau threw her a sour look. His face was taped up: the lingering effects of running into a beer bottle. He went to the window or where a window had once been. He examined the hole in the wall, then turned to gaze at the building across the street. Rita stood at his side; Henry remained meekly in the background.
"From the roof," Juneau said, pointing to the gray brick building across the street. "He must have crouched behind that chimney and...."
"Who?" Rita demanded.
"Who?"
"Well ... I-I don't know ... that is...."
"Yes, who. You're the big shot Police Chief, the big brain. Who'd pull a stunt like this?"
Rita led Juneau through the rubble of glass back to the living room. She pushed him onto the couch beside Ridgewood, who was fluttering like a wounded sparrow trying to get off the ground.
Rita stood before them, bold and garish. Her tight leather pants gave her sweeping masculine overtones, and she said:
"I don't scare easily . . She paused before she added the final word. . . men." Her dark eyes bore into her two guests. "And I don't know which one of you arranged for it, but it won't work. I'm not quitting the store, and I'm not running."
Ridgewood remained effeminately silent. Police Chief Juneau was bolder. He said:
"You've got a lot of guts, making an accusation like that."
"Not guts. Brains." She lit a cigarette. "One of you did it. Who else?"
"Maybe you've got more enemies than you imagine." He found an evil grin. "There's a lot of people that feel this town can do well without you. They don't want the store."
"But they're getting it," she snapped. "They're getting it and they're gonna like it." She picked up an ash tray and paced back and forth as she addressed the two men. "Both of you had reason enough to want me dead. I've got enough tape-recorded evidence to hang the both of you. Only hanging is too good for the-likes of you. Perverts ought to have their...."
"Now wait a minute," Juneau cut in.
Rita rushed on. "But killing me isn't going to save your lousy necks. Those tapes are in a bank vault and if anything happens to me, those tapes will be turned over to the District Attorney. You might be thinking about that."
Ridgewood was ready to cry. He said:
"Rita, it wasn't me ... I swear it wasn't" She told him to shut his mouth. "I don't like being called a pervert," Juneau said menacingly.
"Are you anything better?" Rita asked with a smirk. I Juneau tried to haul his huge bulk off the couch. Rita flung the tray of ashes in his face. He coughed and choked. His hands went to his eyes. "You bitch!" he sputtered.
Rita raised up and jammed her needle-sharp spike heel into his gut. The back of her hand cuffed him across the cheek. He reached out for her and she brought her knee up between his arms, catching him under the chin. His teeth clattered. His head went back.
"Don't you ever call me that again," she glowered. "Not ever!"
Juneau rotated his jaw to see if it still worked. He wiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth. Hate washed over him, but it was coated with fear. Ridgewood was as motionless as granite.
"We'll run through this just one more time," Rita said, still trembling with anger. "Maybe those pea-sized brains you have will grasp what I'm trying to say." She paused. "The store is opening just as scheduled. And I'm not interested in public opposition. The more I get, the more determined I am to open. I'm giving this thing the touch of a Hollywood premiere. That means klieg lights, a ribbon-cutting ceremony, the whole bit. And what could be more fitting," she said, with a proud leer filling her face, "than to have two of Temple City's most promising dignitaries officiate at the proceedings."
Crestfallen and frightened, neither of the two men protested. Rita luxuriated with the force of her intimidation. She said, "Henry can cut the ribbon and you...." She exchanged glances with Paul Juneau. "...you can deliver the opening address. You can tell the public what a great bonanza the shop will be for Temple City, how fortunate the citizens are to have such creative fashions so close at hand."
"I can't do that," Juneau whined, still bleeding.
"You can and you will!" Fata glared at him, daring him to utter another word. He didn't and she went on: "And then we'll have our style show. We'll have the little 13 and 14 year old nymphets parade down the stage in their sexy bikinis and...." She paused, letting her smile become a disdainful grin. This'll be right up your alley, boys. You both like 'em young, don't you?"
"Rita...." It was Ridgewood groping for words. "Get out of here," she hissed. 'Both of you. You make me sick." They got up to leave.
"I'll be in touch with you," she said. "And soon." She walked them to the door. They went down the hallway without a word. Rita shot them a brassy laugh and slammed the door.
An hour later, Joel Harris came up. He'd ditched his teenage girlfriend, Lee Patterson, in a downtown dime store, slipped up a side street and come straight to Rita's.
"Which wasn't a very nice thing to do," Rita said, going for the vodka bottle and glad that he was here.
Joel had kicked off his loafers and sprawled on the couch: very much at home. "Gonna tell on me?" he asked.
"I should," she said, coming to him with the two highballs. "I should tell Lee what a naughty boy you really are."
He helped her set the drinks down. "You talk too much. Why don't you give me a kiss, instead?"
"There oughta be an answer for that," she said, bending over him, "but at the moment I can't think of one."
He pulled her down on top of him. His arms snaked around her waist, bound her close. He kissed her.
Rita cupped his face in her hands. She kissed him back. The boy moaned. His hands sought the warm resiliency of her buttocks. He pressed downward. Rita giggled and wormed out of his grasp. He chased after her. He cornered her in the kitchen, pressed her against the refrigerator and kissed her again.
When the kiss was finally broken, he saw the glass, the broken window. Rita told him what has happened.
"And you're not scared?"
"Concerned," she said, "but not scared."
And he wanted to know who was responsible and why it had happened. She told him what she knew.
"Then maybe you shouldn't open the store." He led her back to the living room. "Maybe you should just forget about it, go somewhere else."
Rita answered, "It's too late. I've got too much time and money tied up in this thing to kill it at this late date."
"But supposin' ... suppose they try again?"
"To kill me?"
He looked at the smashed out window, then at Rita. "Yeah. What if they...."
Suddenly Rita pulled the boy down beside her. She circled his neck, crushed her breasts against his turtle-neck sweater.
"Now who's the one who's talking too much?" She kissed him, letting her tongue dart between his lips.
The boy broke away. "But what if they try to kill you?"
She melted against the handsome youth again. Her glistening dark eyes worked over the boy's face, then his body. She said, "You're the lady killer, Joel...." Her hands lurked in his lap. "...Why don't you kill me?"
"Rita...."
"I'll bet you could," she whispered. 'I'll bet you could kill me just fine...." She melted against him, letting the haunting softness of her breasts press to his chest. "Make love to me, Joel...." She purred. Her head rested on his shoulder. "It'll kill me if you don't...."
The boy had been very game until he'd seen the shot-out window; now his reflexes were dulled and he seemed anxious to leave.
"I should be going," he said, his eyes on the door. "Lee's gonna be madder than hell."
Rita led the boy to the couch and sat beside him. She put her arms around him and let the weight of her breasts drug him with desire.
"You don't wanna go this early, do you, Joel?"
"I really should, Miss Rita. Really."
She slid her hand under his sweater and fondled his nipples. "Does that tickle?" she asked.
"A little."
"And this?" She breathed gently into his ear. The boy reacted with a soft moan. Rita continued to fondle his chest. "You know you don't wanna go this early, Joel." Her other hand crept under the back of his sweater. She caused her fingernails to trail up and down the lean muscular hardness of his bare back. The boy shivered. "Just think of all the things we can do, Joel. Just you and I."
The boy's defenses were shaken. He wanted to leave, but now Rita had aroused him. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he whispered weakly.
"Why, Joel? Doesn't it feel good?" Her right hand dove to his navel. New tremors of excitement spread over the boy's body.
"Rita...." The beginning of a protest, a weak one, but it died in a gasping shiver of uncontrollable desire.
Rita climbed across his body and kissed him. She slipped her tongue into his mouth. Her hands caressed the nape of his neck. Joel trembled. Rita drove her hot tongue deeper and deeper into the boy's mouth. His reflexes took over. And now his hands searched for the buttons on her blouse. She helped him.
"Ohhhhh, Rita!"
She bared her chest to the boy. "Isn't this better than in a darkened basement?" She gyrated her shoulders. Her breasts bounced lightly off the boy's crimsoned face. He seized her breasts and put one of the magnificent fruits in his mouth. Rita pressed herself to his face.
"Take all of it, Joel!"
And he did! And he had forgotten about broken windows and shotguns, about his girlfriend and his desire to leave.
Rita was elated that she had seduced the young lad. The first time this had happened it was because of loneliness; and the event had occurred in a damp dark cellar: a thrashing of bodies that had brought her but little satisfaction. But this time it was different. She wanted him. Really and truly wanted him. And maybe it was the pills that had peppered her with such hot desires, but she wasn't going to question the deliverance of joy.
She rose from his lap and led him to the bedroom.
"Let's undress each other, Joel. It's more fun that way."
Joel smiled at her uncertainly, but Rita didn't give him a chance to entertain any further doubts. She unfastened his pants and his underclothing. Her hands stole the last of his resistance. He moaned. And minutes later he was sliding Rita's leather capris from her body.
Rita held him at bay for a teasing embrace. They stood beside the bed, naked and unashamed.
"Isn't this better than the basement?"
"Cool," he intoned.
She pulled him down onto the bed.
"Joel?"
"Y-yes:"
"You said ... you said it was 'cool'. "
"I know." He dug his nails into her buttocks. He gained momentum. Rita was nearly out of her mind with the thrills that reached her.
She said, "I-I don't think it's cool. I-I think it's
CHAPTER 15
Opening day was a bang!
She was up at six o'clock in the morning, scrubbed and perfumed and down at the store by seven. She was glad that she had scheduled the opening on a Saturday. The kids had no school, it was the day of the week that people did most of their spending; it was also the most exalted day in Rita's life.
She was trembling with excitement as she rushed back and forth through the store. There were a million details to attend to; but would there ever be time? The opening festivities were set for two o'clock less than six hours to go.
"I still wish you'd back out of it," Henry pleaded, phoning her at the store. "It's not too late, you know."
"Henry, if I back out of this, I'll be backing out of things for the rest of my life."
"Which might not be long," he said. "Aren't you even a little bit concerned about ... about what happened?"
"You mean . .
"I mean somebody trying to put a bullet through your head. Doesn't it worry you?"
"To tell the truth, I haven't had the time to worry about it."
"But somebody tried to kill you. Doesn't that mean anything?"
"Of course it does. I'm not a fool. But if they wanted to kill me, they would have. And they've had a whole week to try again and they haven't." She paused. "Henry, someone was trying to scare me." They wanted me to quit and I won't."
"But they'll try again, Rita. And they may try it tonight."
She said, "That's a chance I'll have to take."
"But.. r
"I'm running out of time, Henry. I'll talk to you when you get here." She hung up.
Then, for what seemed like an eternity, she stood and stared at the phone. Henry's morbid reflections were still echoing through her mind, and she knew it was very possible that somebody would try something. She supposed that it was Juneau who had arranged for the shooting scare, but she hadn't discounted Dr. Grossman as a suspect; and there might be a thousand fanatic, do-gooders here in Temple City who would do no less if they had the chance.
But she wasn't going to worry about it. Not now. And there were pills to eradicate those fears. Pills that sent new courage into her veins; pills that gave her the wild driving force of a maddened stallion. She had never taken six of them at one time before, but today she would need all the courage and ambition she could muster. The drug did not disappoint her; energy was limitless.
The countless peripheral duties that had to be done were done. She dressed the manikins, ran to the bank for silver, set up the counter displays, inspected price tags. She ordered more chairs for the fashion room, polished down the mirrors in the dressing rooms, and tied multi-colored balloons from the lighting fixtures in the ceiling. A catering firm had been contacted for the free refreshments she would serve, and at ll o'clock she began the most daring exploit of all.
According to earlier plans, this was when her teenage models arrived. She dressed them in fetching kelly-green short-shorts, white wooly sweaters and black patent leather spike-heeled shoes. They had over 3,000 handbills to distribute; by noon, the teenagers were stationed at busy downtown street corners, passing out the advertisements.
"And this is one part of it that I don't like," Henry had said earlier. "They'll be half-naked. You can't get away with it."
"But I will." And then with a giggle: "You see, I'm intimately acquainted with the city's Law Director."
But Police Chief Paul Juneau felt no different. In fact, he phoned just after the girls began passing out the handbills:
"Do you have any idea what kind of an explosion those girls are causing? I've had over thirty complaints in just the past 15 minutes. Indecent exposure, contributing to the delinquency of a minor ... what the hell am I supposed to do?"
Rita replied, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"But this is putting it on too thick, Rita. The citizens won't stand for it."
"And I don't give a hoot in hell about your precious citizens."
"But it's the citizens that run this town." She was colder and more callous than she had ever been in her life. "Not any more they don'. "
"But, Rita...."
"Don't worry about it, Chief. You'll think of some-thing."
"You're crazy, woman. As crazy as a loon."
To which Rita replied: '
"See you at two o'clock, Chief...."
By two-fifteen, the store was jammed. The opening ceremonies had been pointed, brief. Juneau had made a short address to the crowd; Henry Ridgewood had sliced the ribbon. Thereupon, a five piece high school band had provided sidewalk music and the customers began streaming into Rita's Shop for Teens.
To say business was brisk would have been an understatement; business was rushing, chaotic, wild. Rita was delirious with happiness, but Ridgewood stately in his funereal black suit-was far more cautious. He gloomily predicted that there would be trouble; and his uniformed counterpart, Police Chief Juneau, shared these predictions.
Rita refused to let the two men dampen her enthusiasm. She controlled the Law Director, the Police Chief, business was flourishing; their pessimism, she reasoned, could only be attributed to jealousy. They were envious because of all the money she was making; this was the only way they could strike back. And if they truly believed that there would be trouble, they certainly weren't in a hurry to get out of the way. They remained when they didn't have to, made passing jokes to her scantily-clad teenage models, used the swarming crowds as an excuse to rub against the young girls who had flocked into her store.
At five o'clock, she decided to close the store for two hours. It would give her a chance to straighten out the mess, catch her breath, and prepare for the MEN ONLY opening, which was scheduled for seven o'clock.
"And we can all go in the back room and have something to eat," she suggested.
And Police Chief Juneau, a little drunk from the bourbon he'd been nipping out of sight, said, "Which one?"
They all laughed. Even Ridgewood, so stiffly conventional, was now loosening up. He realized that his fears had been groundless, and he said:
"I'm not going in that back room. I rape too easy." But he went-and fast.
Rita locked the front door; then the cash register. The teenagers, their boyfriends, Ridgewood and
Juneau, shuffled into the back of the store. Rita drew the curtain that separated the front from the back.
Juneau popped open a bottle. Ridgewood was peeling the metal band off another. The tray of sandwiches was ignored. Everybody wanted to drink. Police Chief Juneau insisted that they all toast Rita's apparent success.
He was gracious, complimentary, Rita was touched with compassion.
"I told her it couldn't be done," Juneau said, hoisting his glass into the air in a gesture of tribute, "but she proved me wrong. And I give you Temple City's prettiest young lady, a fireball of energy who can't fail because she doesn't know how."
The kids clapped. And with additional bourbon, even Henry Ridgewood became dewy-eyed with respect and admiration. He kissed her lightly, and said, "You've done the impossible, Rita. Congratulations!"
Rita floated to a pink cloud. Happiness washed over her; and in tearful abandon, she embraced the teenagers one-by-one and simpered her thanks.
Revelry followed. Revelry and madness. And the merrymaking swelled out of control, but after so much hard work by the teenagers, Rita couldn't blame them for wanting to have some fun. She joined in with the festivities. Liquor flowed like the April rains.
From boisterous joke-telling, they went to dance; from dance they went to necking. No one tried to define the direction of the celebration; things happened too rapidly for that.
Rita made no effort to discourage the merrymaking. They had two hours before they re-opened. If the kids wanted to cut loose and let their hair down, why not?
She re-fortified her ebbing energy with two more pills; and suddenly she was in Ridgewood's arms, being urged toward one of the dressing rooms. She balked at the invitation-not a reincarnation as a prude, she explained to him-but she didn't want to be cut off from the rest, and if they were having fun she wanted to be a witness to it.
Henry disengaged himself; a moment later he had pulled one of the teenagers to a darkened corner for a closer and more private examination of her bikini.
Slopped up with more bourbon, Police Chief Juneau was reaching new depravities: He had mounted his 13 year old stepdaughter on his lap and was playing peek-a-boo with the wispy halter she wore. It apparently made no difference to him that some of the others were watching; and if these fondling manipulations had any ill effect on the girl, she was reluctant to show it. In fact, when his thick pudgy hands dropped to her naked thighs and began fumbling with her leather short-shorts, the girl eased her legs apart and kissed him.
Rita turned her back on his depraved perversions and on Henry Ridgewood, who was kneeling obsequiously before 16-year-old Carlotta. Their degeneracy sickened her; particularly so because these two men were supposed to represent law and order, justice and decency. But they were the biggest hypocrites of all.
Joel seized Rita from behind. He kissed her neck, her ears.
"Having a good time?" he whispered.
She turned and flung herself into his arms. "It's like a dream," she said happily. "A dream come true. The store is a...."
"I didn't mean the store. I meant this...." He kissed her hotiy on the mouth. His hands rambled at her breasts, surged her with desire. He jammed his body against her. His tongue told of his passion.
Fata trembled with a wave of anxious want. Joel drew her away from the others. He fumbled under her sweater. Rita's eyes swam. She moaned as his hands crawled under her flimsy bra and touched her nipples. Time ran away with her ... and so did desire.
The others-Rita saw them over Joel's shoulder-followed the example they witnessed. An insidious Roman orgy developed. The raucous laughter of teenage boys filled the perfumed darkness. The scantily-clad teenage girls screamed and giggled; some of them moaned. Bikini bathing suits became undone. Short-shorts were slid from squirming thighs. Boys' trousers were opened, dropped. Hell and sin broke loose; a shocking and shameless abandon prevailed over the ebbing instincts of morality and goodness. Prudence succumbed to passionate gasping and writhing bodies. Virtue was dead.
The commotion came too rapidly for anyone to notice it Rita heard the loud angry voices; but by that time it was too late. Someone threw a brick through the store's plate glass window; then another.
The kids scrambled wildly for their clothing. Rita dug her nails into Joel's face and crawled to her feet A mob of angry people broke through the front door. Rita panicked. She couldn't find her dress and she was not alone in her confused intoxicated befuddlement. Midst screams and clamor, the naked teenagers ran for their, clothes and cover.
Wild disorder prevailed. A mob of angry women raced through the stores, shouting, swinging ball bats and clubs, carrying banners and placards; and they broke everything in sight
Rita seized a whiskey bottle and hurtled it into the mob. Glass broke. Counters were smashed. Garments were ripped from their hangers and stomped amid the broken glass. The women went wild.
"Bitches!" Rita screamed. She threw more bottles. One of them struck a woman in the head. She sagged.
The teenagers began scrambling and pushing out of the back room. Ridgewood grabbed his clothes. In just his shorts, he tried to make it to the front door. He ran into a ball bat and went down.
Juneau blew his police whistle. A two-by-four split his face open. He fell.
Somebody yelled:
"There she is! Let's get her!"
Rita leaped at the hordes of women who closed in on her. The kids rallied behind her. Forces met. Obscenities flew. Angry shouts and screams exploded amid the rubble.
Somebody slapped Rita in the mouth. She balled up her fists and struck out at space. She slammed a fat woman between the eyes. She raked two faces open with her nails.
"Dirty lousy bitches...." She kicked and screamed and flung a wild torrent of obscenities at them. And suddenly, everything went black...
CHAPTER 16
It was over. So was Life. At least this was the way it seemed to Rita as she slumped dejectedly to a bunk in the County Jail. The cuts and bruises over most of her body had been treated at the prison hospital. Strangely, they yielded no pain.
Dr. Grossman, equally dejected, stood before her, tried in the five minutes that had been allotted to him, to bring Rita some small measure of reassurance.
"This is all my fault," he said soberly. "I'll be making a full report to the local medical authorities and the police and ... well, it won't diminish your guilt, but they'll have to realize that there were certain extenuating circumstances and ... are you listening, Rita?"
She did not answer. Her eyes were fixed in a sightless stare at the cement floor.
Grossman continued. "Your store..., " he bowed his head, "...is a complete ruin, but...." He wanted her to look at him. "...maybe it's just as well. They'd have stopped you one way or another and...."
She remained stiffly silent.
"It it's any consolation," Grossman went on, "your friend, Ridgewood confessed about the tape-recordings and his part in this thing, and the district attorney has ordered a full-fledged investigation. They'll subpoena the tapes from the bank vault and Ridgewood and Juneau will get what they deserve." Rita was silent.
"The kids ... and I know you'll be happy to hear this part ... they're letting 'em off light ... maybe just probation."
Rita did not move.
"It had to be this way, Rita. The women couldn't get any satisfaction from the authorities, so they just took the law into their own hands. That's wrong, perhaps. But the Bible says that good will always triumph over evil and this sort of proves it, you know."
Tears crept to the corners of Rita's eyes. She trembled in her anguish.
"I made you this way, Rita. For that, I alone am responsible, but if there is justice and compassion in the heart of that jury...."
"There is, Doctor. There is justice and compassion and human dignity in all of us. Only...." She bowed her head to hide the tears. "...only sometimes we're too weak to find it."
"I'm sorry, Rita."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were coated with tears, but they suddenly shone with a new brightness, a clinging hope for the future.
"Don't be sorry, Doctor," she said very tenderly. "Be glad. Maybe in discovering evil, I've suddenly realized the value of goodness. And courage and success don't come from a pill bottle...." She smiled through her tears. "...those things come from the human heart and whatever is there."
Dr. Grossman put his arms tenderly around Rita's shoulders. She buried her face against him and had a long cry, and after it was over with, after she had borrowed his handkerchief and wiped her eyes, she said:
"Everything is going to work out all right, Doctor." She blinked away her tears and swallowed the lump in her throat. "It's gonna be just fine."
