One day two grimlins named Werb and Wert sat on a cloud, watching Men and stuff.
So what shall we do today, Werb says to Wert.
Gee I dunno, Werb, what you wanna do today, Wert says to Werb.
I really dunno Wert, what you wanna do? I meanI'm tired of this whole vacation bit. A month off's too much, baby. We gotta do something!
Well ... what'say we run up to Washington and screw up the Senate?
Slerthy vagels, Wert, you unimaginative croller ... you got a one-track mind. Don't you ever get tired of the same old thing? I mean like man that's all we been doing since 1913! Can't we think of something else?
Uh ... well ... howsabout we go back up there and fix things, then? Make em all tell it Like It Is.
Werb shudders: Hokey marmashes, Wert, you kidden? You're the dumbest grumlin I ever! That's destroy the country-speed up the revolution! We can't do that. Ifd screw up the Master Plan. Besides ... Greeb and Breeg are in charge of Washington, now. Remember?-the sadists.
Well ... Whaddayou wanna do, Werb, you're so smart?
Werb considers, watching the festering scab below his cloud perch. It has drawn them, this place, by the absolute inane insanity of its existence. The ocean it pollutes laps thirstily at it. The hills its greedy developers have denuded pour oceans of water and earth down the slopes and into the canyons. Fires sweep those hills constantly (in season); there is either too much water or none at all. And it is built on the worst geologic fault in the world, maybe even in the universe-certainly in this System-a fault whose pocked face greedy developers-a redundancy, that-have filled with sticks and stones and dirt and garbage and shit and everything else they could lay claws on to throw up more throw-up homes for its throwing-up millions. It is called City of the Angels. No one can imagine why. Maybe its named after all those filmbackers who live there. On hillsides. Catching each other's front yards, in descending order of importance and wealth.
Looking down at the gangrenous carcinoma eating at the world below, Werb grins.
What's funny, Werb? Wert says.
It's kind of funny, you know, Wert.! mean they're going to slide into the sea and miss the whole Revolution, boy! What a shame! And everybody else in the country will think how sad it is about this scummy little scab, and while they're feeling sorry for them.
Breeg and Greeb up in Washington will vote Aid To The Survivors and call it a Disaster Area-and everybody else Gets it, right after, in the Revolution. I swear Wert-it's almost enough to make a grum feel sorry for theml " Oh?
And what do they think about? Look, tune in, Wert: there's a man walking down Cahuenga Boulevard. Coordinates 34251436352637-12349583624-1/2 +.
Yeah, got im. Ugh. Mind like a snakepit.
Come on Wert, what you got against snakes anyhow? Tune in. Listen: boy would I like to fuck that look at that pieca ass wow catch those jugs boy would it ever be a pleasure to crawl into those thighs and!!!! Me, My and holy christ looka that goddam picture if they keep this up they'll have to start maken movies about the puritians just so's they can have clothes on for a change it's disgusting I I'm gonna tell father o'brien jesus h on rollerskates willya look at that ass
Ugh, Wert says, with feeling.
Right, ugh, Werb says, the whole country, the whole world, going to hell in a Momist handbag and what do they think about?
Me me me!!! And cocks.
Penises, Wert, penises. Remember the new Administration. Protect Our Children Help Keep The World Safe For Prejudice.
Yeah well maybe I better say members then, huh?
Mightn't be a bad idea. But-there's sure a lotta unhappy little nerds and schmucks wandering around down there Wert. What'say-what'say, just for a change, we do something decent for a ghange?
Huh? You gotta be-like what? Decent! Ye-e-eechhh!
Let's ... fulfill some dreams, huh? They're all dreamers, alla time dreaming. So maybe we let em have their dreams. Just for like one day huh?
Wert starts looking excited, which is something to see if you could. He begins bouncing up and down. His round little a-remember the Administration; better make that "backside" or better still seek the security of a foreign language and start again.
His round little derriere punches a hole right through his cloud, and Werb grabs him as he starts to fall through, looking very much like someone who's just been flushed.
Werb gives him a slerthy look and sprisles the cloud back together.
(The cloud is number ten, the one just beyond Cloud Nine.)
If, Werb says. Hold still, idiot. Now. Spose we just do a 24-hour thing. A Twenty-Four Hour Thing. For one day, starting at ... uh, like maybe 6:30 AM, getup time for a lot of them, we do this: we grant every man his every wish.
Oh wow dangerous, Wert says thoughtfully.
Yeah it is ... howsabout ... that guy's mind then! Look what was in it.
I. Me. My.
And....
Sex.
Right. Sex. That's what they all think about.
You kidden? American WOMEN?
Uh-well yeah-watch those contradictions in terms, buddy. OK, we better make it just the males, then. Yeah. Otherwise we could have some mighty strong cross-purpose wishes and shenanigans.
Huh? Make it all the males what?
For twenty-four hours, Werb says squinting his grabes, starting at 6:30 AM, 0630 hours like, we grant every man his every sexual wish.
Wow, Wert says, or rather spongs, for grumlins of course do not really talk at all. Werb really has the smart ideas boy, Wert thinks. (Grumlins do think.) He'd start a whole New Thing, a whole new wave In grumlin activity, sure as hell. It oughtta be more fun than the time ole Qeerb took over the mind of that McCarthy fellow, sure as vagel!
So they did.
Tuesday, 0603 hours:
Zero Hour minus 27 and counting
"Charles, you're three minutes past time to get up already. I'm not going to bother to call you again. Get up. I'm starting breakfast."
Charles Allison wriggled, scratched, and made a disturbed lion noise that came out rather more like the sound made by a mildly disturbed housecat. He lifted one eyelid, slowly, as if it were a hydraulic lift.
Bitch. My wife's a bitch. You're a bitch, Mildred.
"I'm getting up, dear," he said, and then realized he was addressing an empty bedroom: she and her curlers and shapeless robe had gone, padding shuffling on those damned old slippers he had once got up the nerve to throw away. She had retrieved them the next day.
At any rate, she was gone, and Charles Allison said, "You are a bitch, Mildred."
Then, with a groan, he thrust back the covers and swung his legs out and over and down until his feet intersected the cold floor. He gasped.
First thing I'm going to do when I Make It is put wall-to-wall carpeting in here. Everybody wall-to-walls the living room-for other people. Why the hell don't we behave sensibly and make the bedroom livable first? ... And the bathroom.
He swung his robe around himself-he didn't sleep in pajamas, Mildred or no Mildred, and those times when he awoke during the night for this reason or that had told him undeniably that Mildred was really delighted with his naked body and the warmth it radiated. At night. After it was dark. After he was asleep. She cuddled up to him like a kitten, he thought.
Or like a warmth-seeking missile.
He went into the bathroom, peed, and dutifully read off the note that had been scotch-taped to the medicine cabinet mirror for the past eight of his nine years of marriage.
Day After Day, In Every Way, I'm Getting Better end Better. I Shall Wind Up A Goddam Tiger!
"Bxm-owf!" he replied, and he took out the Rexall shaving cream and his razor and flipped the hot water on to let it get hot enough. Then he went back into the bedroom to decide what to put on today. He pulled the suit out, gray-on-gray with some little silvery threads, and the new Now-blue shirt, and a Club tie. Last year it had been wide; this year it was damn near too narrow. It was black, with a heraldic design in gray and blue with a spot of silver. Having conquered that problem-he always wore black over-the-calf socks; no sweat there-he returned to attack his beard.
Gonna grow a beard some day, he thought. Got a lot of hair here. Barber's never seen my scalp. Grows fast, too. I could raise a good Sir Lancelot beard in about two weeks, I bet. Plenty of hair for a sexless old bastard of thirty-four.
"Charles? Are you shaving?"
To answer meant that he had to stop; only in movies do men talk while they're shaving their necks. Skin has a tendency to twitch and wriggle when one talks, and 30-day stainless steel razor blades have definite vampirish tendencies around wriggly, twitchy skin. He sighed, paused, backed his razor from his face to a distance of three or four inches, and called down that he was indeed shaving. He made it succinct:
"Yeeessss."
It could have been even more succinct, of course, but the sarcasm and put-upon boredom wouldn't have come across.
He could answer his wife with sarcasm and put upon boredom, you see. It wasn't as if he were henpecked, like John Quincy or all those other thousands who dutifully donned wedding rings and yokes in the same swift motion sponsored by jewelers and Momist women who didn't even know they'd been recognized, labeled, and written about by Phylip Wylie years ago.
It was just that she was ... a bitch. She did things to spite him. He was sure of it.
Take her tits. They are not at all hard to take. Or rather, wouldn't be. She didn't have a particularly broad back; she was a small woman, and so her "chest" measurement (that means stretching a tape around her body berieath the armpits so that the tape just tautens in front across her nipples) was thirty-four, which a lot of people would think meant she was breastless.
She wasn't. She wore a size thirty-four bra, of course. But its cup-size was C. And it is cup-size, friends and breast-fetishists, that is important, not the measurement of a woman's girth.
So she wore sloppy nowhere brassieres and loose clothes and spent about 85% of her waking hours in that damned chenille robe that had been royal blue and now was the color of the sky on a clear day in May, tra-la. She knew damned well Charles was a breast-nut; few men of his generation were not. Maybe it had something to do with the thirties and reaction against those titless flappers. So-she not only didn't bother to make her breasts attractive, she de-attractive-ized them.
And the way she belted without cincturing the robe which was two sizes too big, damnit; it had faded without shrinking, unfortunately-was designed to help Charles forget the fact that she possessed a nicely indented waist and nicely flaring hips. Even the robe couldn't quite disguise the fact that her burgeoning buttocks were an absolute delight to behold, observe, watch, and touch.
But when Charles Allison touched them, his wife became enraged.
He often saw the curlers in her hair; he seldom saw the result. Christ, he'd thought more than once, if she ever took those damned things out her hair'd look like L'il Orphan Annie's!
As to the unfriendliness-it was that, not really nagging, just a general unfriendliness, despite the fact that she considered it her duty as a wife to rise first and get his breakfast; there'd never been any trouble in any of the housewifely-duty departments-as to the unfriendliness ... it began the moment he awoke, or just before, and continued until he was asleep. And, he suspected, even after.
She did forget things. This morning, when he went down she advised him that she'd forgotten they were out of eggs. But it was pretty chilly anyhow, and oatmeal should taste good for a change.
He'd been raised on it. He had learned to hate it as a child second only to his carefully-nurtured hatred for the big three bogies: Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo or Hirohito (there had always been some ambiguity there: was one supposed to hate Hirohito or Tojo? The true Japanese leader wasn't as well-defined as the leaders of the Swastika and Fascist crowds).
Furthermore, he felt certain that Mildred knew damned well he hated it, and he felt reasonably certain she served it for damned meanness, and he could easily have been convinced, by H. H. Hunt or somebody maybe, that she had deliberately run out of eggs just so she could serve him oatmeal this Tuesday morning at 6:23.
"God," she said, as he sat down to the dismal prospect of dipping into that icky stuff that came out of the box with the grinning idiot on the front with his silly hat, "God, you look like an undertaker."
"Undertakers," he advised, "traditionally wear black."
She shrugged, a movement which should have bounced her estimable bosom and made him forget all else. Maybe they moved within the robe; who could be sure?
"Black tie, black socks, black shoes," she enumerated. "Blue shirt, gray suit." Another shrug. "Dead."
"Tomorrow," he said, "I am going to start a beard, and wear a blue shirt, yellow tie, brown sport coat, and those off-green waslipants. And sneakers. With white athletic socks."
"You don't have any white athletic socks."
"I shall buy some," he said, regarding his spoonful of nourishing, steamy mush, "today."
"Well don't come near me in that sort of getup," she said, lifting her coffeecup. "I'd rather be married to an undertaker than a-a hippie!"
"A hippie," he said, "is merely the current national bogie. When we were kids it was Hitler-Mussolini-Tojo, and-"
"Hirohito," she corrected, sipping.
"-and then it became Communists, and now it's hippies and-whatever that wildass phrase was Agnew used."
"Agnew's a great man," she said, knowing damned well Charles hated and feared the man.
"Agnew," he said, "is a shit." And he spooned into his mouth a big spoonful of ... ugh. He really wished he hadn't used that word.
"He speaks for all us little people," Mildred said.
Scraawwwk, Charles Allison thought, Polly Wanna Cracker! But he said, "He does indeed, and so did good old Joe McCarthy. All the very little people, and their little bitty prejudices."
"YouTl see," she said, which was precisely what his mother had used to say. It was The End. There is not and never has been and never will be any adequate response to You'll See, other, perhaps, than a well-placed ax in the cranium.
He sighed. "For god's sake get some eggs. I hate this stuff."
"It's very good for you," she said. "Let's send it to the poor starving children in where are all the poor children starving this week?"
"A red tie, maybe," she said.
"Red ties are sex-symbols. I'd be lusted after by all the women I saw, all day," he-said, picking up the abrupt switch without missing a beat. In about five minutes, he knew, she'd come back, from left field or outer space, and say something like, "What we should do is send eggs to the starving children of Vietnam." She said, Ha!"
He said, "Buy me a red tie then, and we'll see."
She regarded him, thinking that one over. "Well, I'd rather be married to an undertaker than a hippie."
He dropped his spoon into the bowl. It sank, like a man in quicksand.
"You," he told her with sudden urgency and studied nastiness, "would rather be married to a mute. Or in a nunnery, maybe."
"What's-" She stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Mildred ... have you taken a good look at yourself lately? I mean have you given yourself a sort of gynecological examination? I think that it is highly possible that your sexual organs have atrophied."
"Chariest"
Charles Allison stood up with a strange fire in his blood, a strange firmness, a strange and wild light in his eyes.
"Mildred, I wish to hell your damned unused cunt would just dry up and blow away, so I'd know it wasn't there, and wouldn't have to wonder about it!"
Fortunately for Mildred Allison and her seldom-breached quim, the time was at that moment precisely Zero Hour minus seven seconds.
Tuesday, 0630 hours and then it began....
The Great 24-hour THING
Tuesday, 0635 hours:
The Highnosed Broad
Here she comes again, Joe Gonzaga thought Lord, what a fine woman, what a marvelous bodyand look at that walk! Like she owns the world, the whole damned world. Legs to squeeze a man to death!
Trouble is, he thought, reaching down onto the shelf of his kiosk for the Times she now had him roll and secure with a rubber band-he suspected she was saving rubber bands-trouble is, she thinks she does own the damned world!
She'd been coming by about this same time every morning, six days a week, give or take a few minutes on a daily basis and a few days on an annual basis, for her copy of the Times. He didn't even know what she did. He knew the names of most of his regular customers, and the names of their kids and wives and cars and bosses and what they did and all sorts of other information, some of which could undoubtedly have made him either a quite wealthy or a quite dead man, had he decided to put his knowledge to use via blackmail.
But he didn't know this one's name, or what she did, or where she worked. Nothing. She didn't answer questions. Didn't even pass the time of day. "Nice day," he'd said a few times, and once she'd glanced up, spotted a dark cloud, and looked at him with a little frown, then looked around as if seeking his keeper who must be lurking near. Once it had been established that she would be here daily except Sundays, and that she always wanted a Times, she said nothing. Nothing, until the time she told him-she didn't mention it, or ask him; she told him-about the rubber bands. She wanted one around her paper. Under the counter, ready for her.
She paid daily. Always had the money in her hand. He advised her of each price increase, and she never said a word, just nodded and brought out extra coins, and from there on out that was how much change she had in her hand. Long, pretty hand, and he'd bet it was cold as ice. He never found out.
She was Untouchable.
About thirty, maybe a little older. Always well coiffed and handsomely, if a bit stifBshly and unapproachably, dressed. Sort of ... lacquered looking.
She thinks it don't stink when it comes out of her, Joe had thought long ago. That was about a month before he shrugged mentally and decided that she also put her drawers on one leg at a time like everybody else even the President, and he quit trying.
He just rolled up a paper, doubled a rubber band on his fingers, and slipped it around her paper. And laid it up on the counter when she was a few long-legged, swinging, click-clicking strides away, and watched it as it was swept away accompanied by the tinkle-click, now, with the new coins, the Johnson funny-moneyof her payment. And she was off.
Lord, what an ass. It rolled, it undulated, it pistoned up and down in its two neatly-bifurcated halves, it drew the eyes and dried the tongue and clutched the stomach and tightened the scrotum. Click-shift-roll-up-undulateclick-down-click....
At six thirty-five AM on Tuesday, the Tuesday, he watched her approach.
You goddam high-nosed witch, you teasen bitch, he thought. I bet you never gave a man-not a single man-all your body has and promises, the way you dress and walk! I wish your goddam clothes would drop off and blow away, you teasen Jesas God!
See? Wert says to Werb. Dumb bastiches can't even wish big enough)
Sharrup, Werb says to Wert. I'm watching-gor, looka that! She really is something else ... our boy Joe isn't disappointed at all!
All those guys running to see aren't either, baby!
Wow! First three-car pileup I ever saw off the Freeway, Werb says.
Four, Wert corrects, nodding to indicate the fourth car. Its driver goggles out the window at the long, naked woman racing in frantic pursuit of her elusive clothing. It impacts the other three. Then caroms off. The door flies open. Out rolls the driver. He rolls over five times, and when he comes to rest he is still watching the frantic girl. He pays absolutely no attention to the geyser of water from the hydrant his ear has burst on the rebound. The girl squeals and dances. Water's cold, Werb says.
Wert says, preoccupied in his watching.
0649 hours:
Ole Charles Allison again.
After leaving in a huff-and amid a barrage of sobbing, screaming challenges and threats and epithets from his wife-Charles Allison hurried down to the corner. He went in, slid into a booth that emptied as he entered, and sighed.
The waitress made it to him within seven or nine minutes.
"Coffee," he said, "please, cream and, and a couple of Danish."
"Coffee with, two Danish." She nodded and departed.
Nice set she's got, Charles Allison thought. Nice tight uniform. That's what I ought to get Mildred: a nice tight uniform or something. Cute little French maid's uniform, maybe, short-short skirt and a little white doily right over her thingy. Her atrophied thingy, he reminded himself, and sighed still again. He watched the waitress; it was the major occupation of the other patrons of Sandy's.
I'll bet that gal doesn't act like Mildred in the morning, he thought. I bet she even wakes up looking good! What ole Charlie-boy needs is a nice big hunk of that. Ummm ... be nice if she'd punch me right in the old shoulder with one of those big bazoos when she brings the coffee!
The waitress returned with coffee and doughnuts. Pausing by his right elbow, she leaned forward to set down first the coffee, then the unmatched pair of glazed doughnuts. Her leaning punched her big left breast into his shoulder; it felt firm and soft, all at once. Each movement, as she set his breakfast before him, agitated the breast, pressuring him so that the thing felt even bigger and firmer. He wished he'd ordered eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes-all ala carte.
She turned her head to smile at him, still gouging his shoulder with her chest
"How'd you like to have a nice big hunk of this, doll?"
Charles gulped, gasped, and stared. He felt flames engulf his face-damn this damned reaction he'd been plagued with all his life! He blushed as easily as a virgin in a Victorian novel.
The waitress laughed, leaned harder, and then turned and hurried back to the two new customers at the counter.
Charles Allison gulped again, gasped again, slapped down a pair of quarters, and departed in haste. Still without breakfast.
0700 hours:
Steve and Sally in bed.
Steve Leibowitz awoke with a yawn and an odd sensation ... he wriggled. Ummm! His ear was being tongued. Nibbled, softly. He frowned a little. What the hell....
It didn't take long to remember.
Yesterday he'd become a married man. Yesterday he and Sally had got on the plane and held hands all the way across the country on the wedding trip her dad had given them. Last night, a little embarrassed, they'd gone to look at Haight-Ashbury. Last night they'd had genuine California pizzas, which tasted very much like genuine New Jersey pizzas, only not as good. And wine. Then they'd come back to the hotel.
Sally had changed in the bathroom. Steve, in the room with the two big beds-not the Honeymoon Suite; they hadn't wanted to advertise-had got himself out of his clothes as fast as he could, so he would be changed into the brand-new, bought-for-the-occasion, white nylon tricot boxer shorts by the time Sally came out of the bathroom. He hated boxer shorts; never having been in Service and got himself imprinted with the things, he wore briefs. He didn't like to feel himself swing around. Besides, a guy never knew when he was going to get a hard-on, and when you wore briefs Junior was already pulled up, ready to rise without having to be adjusted by a surreptitious hand in the trousers pocket.
But he'd bought the white nylon tricot boxer shorts, because he didn't wear pajamas and had already told Sally so, and wasn't about to buy some and let her know what a scared chicken he was. The shorts were a compromise. He'd bought a tube of K-Y Jelly, too; Jerry had suggested that. Not as sloppy as Vaseline, Jerry said. And he'd need it, with a virgin, boy!
He had got into the shorts and turned off the light and waited, sitting in the chair and smoking. Gazing at the bathroom door.
He heard her turn off the light before she opened the door, and he tensed.
He didn't see much. Sort of like a ghost in the dark, a swishy fluttery figure, all in white that fell to the floor in a thousand long furls and creases.
Somehow they got together, despite their nervousness, and were in bed, with him focusing his way through her voluminous nightgown, then, after awhile, tossing it through the air-with both of them laughing-and watching it open in the air and flutterdrift down like a parachute. It wasn't as if they didn't know anything, as their parents probably hadn't. Before they'd even set the date Steve had done everything, with Sally's breasts but screw them, and had stroked and petted and titillated her soft little vaginal lips, and she had brought him, with her hand, rather more times than one.
So they knew about loveplay, and so Sally wasn't one of those girls who was raped and promptly turned off on her wedding night, and when he'd pushed into her she had shuddered and gasped with only a little trace of groan in it, and clutched him tighter against her. She wanted him in her, very badly. She stretched, stretched, stre-e-e-etched, then popped, and he was in her, in her, in her, and they both cried out in exultation and the glory and beauty of it.
He came very quickly. Too quickly.
But he didn't the second time, and it was even lovelier, with Sally experiencing what she thought was an orgasm-and didn't she have some lovely surprises in store for her, in future!
And they had gone to sleep, and now it was morning, the Morning After, and Steve was married, and waking up to his wife's chewing his ears.
It was lovely, shuddery. He could feel himself up, way up, and throbbing. He turned so that it throbbed against her belly. She moaned and transferred her lips from his ear to his mouth, and her hand went down between them to fondle the big hard shaft of flesh that she had fallen in love with, just a few hours before.
He squirmed down a little so that he could get at her breasts. They were firm in their youth, tip-tilted, firm and resilient and quivering with sensual yearning. In a moment, laved by his tongue, they were hard at the ends, and he squeezed their springy softness.
She squeezed the shaft of his penis, scratching it gently with her fingernails.
With a little chuckle he popped up in the bed, heedless of the fact that they could see each other now, in their nakedness-the white nylon tricot shorts were somewhere on the floor where he'd thrown them, a command performance. He bestrode her belly and smiled down at her, and she smiled back.
Then he placed a hand flat on each of her breasts and began to push. He played with them, treating them as flaccid, delightfully warm and eminently manipulable toys for his amusement. He pressed hard, and he pushed them as high as their conical shapes would stretch toward her face. Then he jerked back his hands to watch them flow springily back into shape, quivering saucily.
Fascinated, he did that several more times, playing and playing with the soft firm masses of flesh, while she lay beneath him, rather glazed of eye. Her nipples became inflamed, enticingly pink and edible-looking stalks on the ends of the breasts they decorated.
He sprawled forward on her to kiss her some more, to feel their bodies together, melting and molding together, into one single unit of soft love and hard desire.
He tormented her with only the faintest contact of his swollen sex with the lips of her vagina. He had learned very quickly, last night, that she was a sexy girl, that he was lucky, lucky, lucky, that she longed for it and loved it.
Her loud moan emerged through parted, quivering lips as he teased her. He held her tightly, hard against him, feeling the life and the lust throbbing through her. She ran a hot hand down his thigh; another up over his chest, his shoulder.
She gripped him. Her eyes pleaded. She made little pelvic hunching movements, rubbing herself against his crotch and belly.
He smiled and slipped forward, and the outer lips welcomed him, sent him swiftly on his way to nudge the soft, damp inner lips, ragged little pink folds that clutched him as tightly as they normally clutched each other. He smiled, and tightened his buttocks, and slid easily into her. His hands slid down over her hips, caressing, and she wriggled her buttocks with a spasmodic tightening and unclenching of each.
He seized them. His fingers gouged the resilient flesh, fondling the ripe fruits of her rump-it was her best feature, a magnificent bottom, soft as silk and hard as a fresh Florida grapefruit-a rather overgrown pair of Florida grapefruits. They were driven down into his hands with each of his forward strokes. They became slamming lunges, carrying him deeper within her.
Her legs swung very wide. She began to pant, then more rapidly. A low animal groan erupted from her throat as he lunged and lunged, crushing her down into the hotel mattress with each powerful stroke toward her core.
Little rivulets of sweat-sweat, definitely not perspiration-rushed down his sides and slid onto her hips, blending with her as if in understanding symbolism. His arms pressed those hips with fierce strength, holding her still and tight with her buttocks driven down into the hands cradling them.
She squirmed. She wreathed in a delicious, smiling ecstasy. Her eyes, her open mouth, her tense, straining face urged him on: more, more. He gave her more. Her buttocks seemed to burn into his sweatslick hands as he 'pounded down onto her belly. She writhed around the impaling pole sunk within her in a sensual ecstasy that rippled her belly and rolled her breasts beneath his hard chest.
She squealed when it began, throbbing its liquid way into her, and clutched him so tightly that he-gasped. He moved her legs together, between his, and lay upon her until he felt her squirm beneath his weight. Then he shifted, moving only half off her.
"Stee-eeve," she said quietly, after about two minutes during which she stroked his back, feeling its tenseness leave it as it did his penis, "how ... how long before ... before you can do that again?"
He grinned. "In a little while," he said. "Better have some breakfast-and get the maid to change the sheet. My little virginal bride bled all over it."
"Oh Steve!" There were some things that would still embarrass them for days, others for weeks, others for months and probably years, if they were as normal as they thought.
But they had already begun abnormally; they had made love, love rather than the rape that is the beginning and middle and end of the war between the sexes, and particularly the married ones. And he was strong, and virile, and so was Sally, and she loved it.
But it was Tuesday, the day of the great 24-hour thing, and it was 7:29 AM, fifty-nine minutes past Zero Hour, and Steve quite naturally gave vent to a normal human male wish, and thereby made them even more abnormal, so that they would bid fair to becoming the most ecstatically happy couple in the country-what with the Pill, and all.
"I wish," he murmured, half asleep and snuggled against his bride who was ready for more, and more, "that I were a superman, just able to do that about every ten minutes. Always."
She laughed and shivered. "How would we ever get anything else done, darling?"
He shrugged. "Oh I didn't say we would do it every ten minutes, sweetheart. Just I wish I could, if we wanted to! Think of it!"
She shivered against him.
It was 0730 hours on that Tuesday.
Precisely seven minutes later his penis stirred and thickened and came jerking up like a proud red banner hoisted by a spastic.
He said always, Wert says to Werb, a little nervously.
When they say always, Werb says, they mean for the rest of their lives, this life, not really always.
Yes, but-wow man, this is like just for one day!
True, Werb replies, but it sticks. I mean, he said always, man. Today the wishes come true, but when they say always or for my whole life or something like that man, that's the way it is. I mean-no cheating.
Hey, Wert says, thinking hard and frowning a little, listen ... what about the crazy way they put things? I mean, slangstuff and like that. What if one says ... uh....
Whatever they say, Werb says, that's the way it is baby. No cheating. Their precise, literal wishes. All the way.
Man, Wert says with fervency, this is going to be one vagel of a day!
0745 hours:
Joe Kowalski onna bus
This, Joe Kowalski thought, tooling the bus away from the curb and back into traffic, is going to be one hell of a day! I can feel it in my bones. All that sunshine; even the smog seems to be taking a vacation today-hey, that's poetry. Joe baby, you're wasting your time, burning a great talent in a blue uniform sitting on your steadily-fattening ass behind the wheel of this bus!
Anyhow, I bet this crate stays packed all day. Stop at every corner. Gonna be a four-beer night, that's for sure.
He saw her, at the next corner, and he smiled a little smile, a rather sad little smile.
There she is, poor baby. Day after day. Every day, all alone, mopey-looking, and the prettiest eyes I ever seep in my life! But-geeze I wish I could tell her! She dresses like she thinks clothes are to keep you warm or something!
He pulled in to the curb, sighing the door open right in front of her, and he didn't start off until she was dropping into a seat, vacated at the same corner. She scooted over next to the window. Joe pulled out in front of a Cadillac-fuck you buddy, go ahead and hit a bus, you slob!
I wish she'd get herself picked up and seduced and sweetly laid by some handsome slob, he thought, glancing up at the girl in the rearview mirror. He spotted a passenger at the next curb-two. Fat lady, tall dark handsome guy with a white turtleneck and a dark blue coat with brass buttoms and black-and-white striped pants, belling over his George boots. Italian, but not a Dago. Eye-talian. A fashion plate. A regular fashion plate, Joe thought, heeling the big wheel hard over and planting the door in front of the guy instead of the fat woman, to see what they'd do.
There. There's the joe for Miss Lonelyhearts back there. Not a good Polack boy, but he ain't greasy like mosta them wops. An okay guy, I bet. Not too handsome, either, but good-looking. Uh-huh-lets ole lady fat ass on first-smart! She looks like she'da creamed him, otherwise! Christ, what a mustache ... she and he oughtta swap! He could use that mustache ... she could stand some of his looks. Don't even speak.
Look, ya handsome slob you, whyncha go back there and sit by Miss Lonelyhearts and strike up a conversation or something. Then you two get off, go do something nice like go to Disneyland, eat a few hot dogs, then go home and let the girl cook supper, maybe some nice wine, and sit in front of the television with your hand on her tit, easy-like, she's a nice girl, and then quietly take and bed her. Gentle now, easy now, damnit, because if she don't look all sparkly tomorrow I'll find ya and kill....
Be damned! He's sitting down beside her!
It was the nicest thing Joe Kowalski had ever done for anyone. And for once a dogooder, a genuine, norewards-asked dogooder, was rewarded. Sometime later that afternoon, when a girl with a butt on her like Liz Taylor's (he'd never paid any attention to her other attributes; Joe's wife had a big pair of jugs, but had got shorted in the tail department) got on the .bus, Joe eyed it lustfully in the rearview mirror. Even jerked the bus a little, to watch the big cheeks jerk and clench as she grabbed her balance with a pair of calfy legs.
Quit looken Joe ya big bastard, ya got a great wife opens ya beer for ya, loves ya like you was somethen and somebody, and whaddaya do? Eyeball asses on the bus, in the old rearview like a dirty old man.
He sighed.
Still, it'd be nice if Alice had a butt like that! God, then she'd just be perfect! Got the big knockers-got the big belly a man loves to feel and lay on ... got the legs to break a guy's back and carry kids like she was made for the coalmines! Yeah ... guy just can't help wishen for perfection all the way, I guess! Like that ace back there with Miss Lonelyhearts. If I had my wishes he'd be the greatest lover in town, and they'd fall crazy in love with each other.
And ... yeah, I'm a wicked sonuvabitch, but ... I wish Alice had a good broad round ass like that broad just got on!
Somewhere, a grumlin was tuned in.
And Joe Kowalski had the swellest surprise of his life. It wasn't a four-beer night. Just one, and that drunk hurriedly, dumped down so he could get at beautiful Alice with her big floppy jugs and big round soft belly and plump thighs and that unexplainably beautiful big butt, burst into full bloom between the time he left the house and the time he returned, like Venus from the seashell or whatever it was.
Who wants beer with a bod like that switchen around the house?
0902 hours:
The adenoidal broad
She had a lot of hair, some dark color, maybe red or black or brown, and he wished it were a color picture and turned a couple of pages to see: ah. Brown ... and some black, and some red. She had kind of funny eyes and cheekbones like an Indian, and her mouth was open. Her mouth was hanging open in every picture he'd ever seen of her. Looked like a very bad case of adenoids; spoiled her face.
But it wasn't her face made her a star, made her talked about by everybody and his brother, made her the likeliest inheritrix of the mande of the dead blondes, the sex queens, Harlow and Monroe and Mansfield.
It was her tits. With white beauties like those, round and standing out saucily, provocatively, begging to be grabbed, she didn't have to worry about her adenoids making her mouth hang open all the time. She didn't need his sympathy, either. Not Rochelle Walsh.
He studied the picture, then turned back to the black-and-white, studied it and the side pose, the profile-nice butt, small and pert and juicy-looking. Turned back to the big color shot. Hm. Maybe it wasn't even that she had big ones; they didn't appear to be-huge, come to think.
It was just that she was so willing to display them. Share them, with anyone who looked at her pictures or went to her movies. She was tough-looking, and tufflooking, tuff, boy. Looked like she didn't have any blouses that hadn't had all the buttons torn off in the wash. He'd never seen her that her mouth wasn't hanging wide open-and her blouse. And in that movie....
He squirmed. It was a triumph for all of us, baby! All you white mothers sitting there eating your goddam hearts out, and up there on the screen ole Rochelle's getting it from old Jim, blacker'n anybody, blacker'n me.
He turned the magazine a little, as if from a different angle he could see on down into her blouse, down past, between the big white balls of her high breasts to inspect her navel. He flopped sideways on the bed and reached down for the old pecker. It was ready, and he groaned when he touched it. He held the magazine out as far as he could, staring and stroking.
Oh Rochelle baby, baby, baby! All you need to do is meet me, just see me, baby, and you're all mine, I got what you need right here baby! God how I'd like to get these hands on those big round juicy floppy mothersand my mouth too, you ain't felt nothing till you've felt this mouth, Rochelle baby! Man!
He glanced from magazine to door, but quickly back to the magazine again. Stroking.
Man! What a ball that'd be! Wish she'd come right straight through that door, man, right on in here to me baby, with itchy nipples and a itchy cunt and just grin at me and start peeling it off, boy, all of it!
He squinted his eyes until they were almost shut; the photo seemed to come alive, she seemed to be moving. Like his hand.
Man, I'd just naturally....
His eyes snapped wide open, jerking from magazine to the opening door. "Ohmygodr
0927 hours:
Ole mother-loving Harry goes home
Now that, Harry thought, eyeballing it, is something! Now how old Harry could make that one sing! Baby baby let me light your fire! Oh boy oh boy, how I'd like to crawl into that!
The lights went out.
It was dark.
He was in a forest of some sort, tall, twisty trees, more like rushes, really, because they were only about as big as his wrist and not as much taller than he as trees should be, and they didn't have any foliage at the tip. They were black, black, glossy black like that broad's hair.
Slim, and twisty, as if they were curly.
They looked like a whole damned jungle of hairs.
He wandered through them, seeing the cave up ahead. It was going to be tight, but he was going in.
He tried to peer in. He couldn't. It was very dark, and he glanced back. Nope. He was going in.
The walls were resilient, the entry like he was crawling into an inner tube of some kind of plasticwarm plastic-that was tight and tough to push through, but was elastic, and he could push it aside and squirm in. He did, noting the reddish stalactite just above his head.
He slipped and fell flat.
God, the floor was slippery! It was a damp eave; he could see something like sap on those weird dark pink walls, oozing. And the smell ... he inhaled, lifting his head from his hands-and-knees position, smelling it, sniffing it like a dog. God, the whole damned place smelled like sex!
He got up, carefully.
The walls were all funny. Looking as if lots of water had sluiced down them, leaving a sort of corrugated appearance in the pinkness. Ridges. He took two steps on the slippery floor and fell again.
It was soft, not hard like rock, like a real cave should have been. The floor felt like a damp sponge. Covered with silk, maybe, or something like that; smooth nylon. Damp. And sexy-smelling.
Intrigued, he stamped. Bent down and tried to taste it. Tried to clutch it with his hands.
He looked around. His eyes were seeing little, now; they'd become at least partially acclimated to the darkness. And the moistness, but it wasn't a cold dark, not a cold dampness, as he thought a cave should be-he'd never been in one. It was warm, very warm, warmer than his body temperature.
The cave went on, he saw, and over there against the back wall was a thing like some kind of funny stump. No, it had an opening in it. He started toward it, and when he at last reached it, having twice fallen, he saw that it was like everything else here, in this place: soft, plastic, resilient. Barely big enough to accommodate him.
He went in.
He crawled along those wet, sticky, resilient floors, along that passage, on an uphill grade, for many minutes. Once he'd got through the little canal or corridor the whole place broadened again, and there was plenty of room. But it was very, very dark now. He went along in darkness, wishing he had a match. He didn't. He almost wished he smoked.
He came to the end of the cavern and stopped with his hand against a damp, elastic wall. He turned around, facing the way he'd come, and leaned against the wall. He slid down it and sat there awhile, resting.
He went to sleep, and while he slept she stood up and walked up the steps and into the hall and up more steps and into her apartment, and if it hadn't been for the soft resiliency of the cave-walls Harry would have been killed. As it was he slid all over the place and bounced from wall to wall-yes, bounced; they gave a little as he struck them, then rebounded to send him sliding along the slick floor toward the opposite wall.
She went to the bathroom and sat down, and Harry decided to leave, since he was so hungry, and so he went down through the cervix again and crawled through the cervical canal. He had just reached the external os when Harry, who had achieved the ultimate Freudian return to the womb, heard the funny noises behind him. He struggled to move faster; something was sliding wetly into the passage behind him, something big, as big as he was.
No one will ever know if he might have succeeded in fertilizing the egg had he taken a right turn into one of the Fallopian tubes when he reached that back wall. Had he taken a left turn, what happened would in all likelihood have happened faster.
What happened next was that her period started while she was sitting on the toilet. Harry was drowned, screaming until the last, when he went under and died, and everyone wondered what had happened to old mother-loving Harry.
Ugh, Wert said to Werb, with feeling.
Whatta way to go, Werb returned, wagging his head. Whattaway to go, boy! That's the dream of half the men on Earth.
Not that last part, Wert pointed out.
Well no, but it does help the population problem a little. Just think what might have happened if he'd made a left turn in there and wound up jacking off all over an egg or just falling into it or something!
Was she a virgin?
No, but she might as well have been. She's twentytwo, and she was had once when she was thirteen by a high school basketball player. Never since.
And if he'd fertilized her-Jesus!
Well yes, Werb said, nodding, yes, that's what happened the last time.
0951 hours:
The marshmallow tiger
"Well, next time," John Quincy's big redheaded secretary said, and her eyes flashed, really flashed, "just try giving me a little more time, Mister Quincy!"
And she stalked out of his office, her stiffly straight back doing its best to offset the provocative wobble of her fanny within the green vinyl skirt that ended precisely midway between her knees and her pelvis.
John Quincy stared after her. She left the door open. After a minute or so he got up and walked over to it and, with a sigh, closed it. Quiedy. He went back to his desk.
She'd got the better of him again.
"What are you, Quincy, a man or a mouse," he asked, and he really wished he hadn't. It was a rhetorical question. He knew the answer. So did his wife, Lurleen, who put him through his paces like a trained Barnum-Ringling bear, and so did his secretary, who knocked down five-twenty-five a month and acted as if she were running this P&G District Office, not him. (He?)
How, he wondered again, can a guy who's such a tiger be such a washout?
He'd been a section salesman for exactly thirteen months. He'd broken seven records, won two conteststhe only two to take place during that thirteen-month period-and laid more soap on old man Campbell at IGA headquarters than anyone else in history. Which was something; old man Campbell thought salesmen were the same thing as bondservants or dogs maybe, to be growled at, insulted, kept waiting, told to go to hell, and otherwise in every sense but literal: shat upon.
The prize he'd won for selling nine, carloads of soap in one month-which was exactly six cars more than his predecessors in this section had ever sold in any given month, and exactly three more than any other man in the Unit, including Ike who had the best accounts-was a bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon whisky. A pissant prize for a magnificent accomplishment, but come December he'd gotten the maximum raise of twenty-five bucks a month and his Unit Manager had let him get a new company car-no armrests, one sunvisor; a Corvair-two months early.
The prize he'd won for moving out six carloads of soap in one six-week period, by scheduling magnificent loss-leader sales and personally laying out ads and personally building displays, cutting open boxes and stacking box after box of soap (detergent, mostly, to be more precise), was a $20 briefcase-$12.95, wholesale. But he'd been promoted to Office Head Salesman in the Omaha District Office, and he'd sweated that one-nice raise, but no company car-for exactly nine months during which he'd impressed hell out of everyone, pacified the A&P District Manager after the P&G Unit Manager made him so mad he threatened to pull Tide out of all his stores, and ... assorted other magnificent accomplishments. It was tough; certainly a nice guy like John Quincy hadn't been bucking for anybody's job. It was just that he was a tiger, and he also knew how to be a pussycat at the right time.
He and the A&P District Manager became poker buddies, and the Unit Manager got transferred to Oshkosh where he was still Unit Manager, and John Quincy had been made manager, .Unit B, Omaha District.
That lasted three years. Then he was promoted to District Manager, the best damned job in the company, and sent out here to the Coast.
He was still breaking records. His men loved him; he was a fire-breathing dragon, a superman who'd been supersalesman and supermanager and was now superD.M. of a super-District.
His men broke records with fine consistency, and he'd never failed to get that nice little bonus at the end of the year: two months' salary. They'd been close one year, but he had personally sworn to give up lunch, and all his men had risen and noisily sworn to do the same. That enabled them to get in just under the wire, expenses-wise, and John Quincy and all the others had thus got that extra weeks' pay of a bonus.
Meanwhile Lurleen slept down the hall and chose the house and the car and the other car and the furniture and the last time she had the painters in he hadn't even known about it till he couldn't get into the driveway one night because of the painters' truck. He got up every morning and shaved and dressed quietly and left the house as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Lurleen. He had breakfast at the drugstore around the corner from the office, and lunch at the Pendennis, and twice a week he ate out because of Lurleen's clubs, and once a week, on Fridays, he took her out to eat.
He was forty. He was far from sexual retirement age, but he was lucky to get himself into Lurleen once-a month.
He'd wound up with a mistress of sorts, Anne who used to work in the office, and within three months Anne also was telling him what to do, and he didn't get out of that one until she got married, thank god.
And for the past two years Miss Wallace had been switching her tight-clad ass in and out of his office, doing sloppy work and getting away with it because John Quincy was a tiger only so far as men and business were concerned. Sure, he also knew how to be a pussycat.
But with women he was a pussycat all the time (a pussycat, not a pussy-cat). A marshmallow.
He banged a fist down on his desk.
"Damnit, why? Why the hell can't I handle them the same way?"
He thought about it, studying the wall opposite his desk. It held his degree, seventeen recognition plaques and papers, and assorted letters of congratulation from assorted Company officers, arranged in ascending order. He'd hit the top, too; the last one was from the Chairman. He had another one in his desk from the same man; the Chairman was giving him hell for refusing the Division Manager's job.
Uh-uh. That's where the sweat and the travel and the politics started. John Quincy was quite happy precisely where he was.
Except with regard to the two women in his life.
Both were good-looking women. Lurleen was thirtyseven, svelte, tight, magnificent in clothes. Miss Wallace-Louise-was twenty-five, a divorcee, voluptuous, magnificent (he assumed) out of clothes, and a lot to look at in them. She knew precisely how to wrap her handsome package.
Why the hell, he thought, can't I treat them the same way I did Jerry, yesterday?
"Jerry, here's how it is. You aren't doing the job. You are Office Head Salesman because we needed an Office Head Salesman and you were the best man in the District. If some real hotshot had come along, you'd never have made it. You're a good man, and you better believe you're a lucky man, too. Now then. There's no such thing as permanent Office Head Salesman, Jerry. Either you move up to Unit Manager, or go back to Section Salesman, or-you Leave The Company. That's what the job is: It's to give us a chance to decide if you should go on up, and for you to decide if you want to.
"Jerry, have you decided you'd rather be Section Salesman?"
"No sir."
"Have you decided you want to Leave The Company?"
The adam's apple bobbed. "No sir! Being with Procter and Gamble's like being part of a family, Mister Quincy."
John Quincy nodded. "It is, it is exactly that, and we'd like to have you in the family, Jerry. But Jerry, I've got to tell you: if you intend to be a part of this family, this, happy P&G family, you've got to hold up your end of the duties. And Jerry, you aren't. Now ... Jerry, would you kindly get your ass on the stick?"
"Yes sir. I will, Mister Quincy. I'll work my-fanny off."
"I'd really prefer that you worked your ass off, Jerry, but that's your business. Oh-and get rid of that damned key chain. P&G men don't wear key chains."
Jerry would shape up. John Quincy was as sure of that as he was of his name. He didn't want to can Jerry. He'd never canned anyone. Jerry would make it. He'd just been sliding a little. But once they got called in to the Old Man's office-sure, he knew they called him that, and he didn't mind; they thought of him as their General-they new it was on the line, and they'd shape up.
John Quincy picked up the poopsheet on next month's Ivory promotion. Buy four, get one for halfprice. Quota-damn! Nothing! They cut him to nothing on promos, then demanded a million cases the following month. He glanced at the phone, at the letter on the opposite wall, printed with John Clarkson Division Manager and sighed simply "Jack." He'd call Jack, damn it, and raise hell. They could afford to send him another 500 cases of the Ivory Deal-pack. He'd promise triple quota next month, and he'd call a meeting and jolly damn well see that the boys sold triple!
With his hand on the phone he glanced at the door.
She should be in here. I should have my secretary in my office. Said my telephone-talk and dictating bothered her, distracted her from her typing. Damn her! I wish to hell that just once I could handle her-and Lurleen, too-the way I handle these troops of mine!
Precisely two minutes later he stabbed the button, said, "Miss Wallace: come," and let the key spring back up. He picked up the Ivory promo sheet and waited. And waited. Two minutes. Three. Then he heard her high-heeled step outside the door, saw the knob turn.
He devoted his utter and complete attention to the promotion details. The door opened. She came inleaving it open.
Without looking up, John Quincy said, "Close the door, Miss Wallace. This is a private office, and just as important as the rest room. You do close the restroom door, don't you?"
Without looking up, he heard her gasp, felt her blazing gaze. He kept his eyes fixed on the page he held. He'd propped his hand on the desk at first, afraid it would tremble and rattle the paper. Then he'd noticed he was just as calm as he always was when he had to do something; as calm as he'd been yesterday when he called Jerry in.
Suddenly he looked up. "I said close that door!"
"Were you talking to me, Mister Quincy? I thought there was a dog under the desk or something, that I couldn't see."
He leaned back in the chair. "If you want the door open, Miss Wallace, that's your own damned business," he said loudly. "I'd as soon everyone in the office outside didn't hear you getting your ass chewed, but if you...."
She spun and closed the door. She didn't slam it.
"In case you've forgotten, Miss Wallace, my name is John Quincy. I was one of the hottest-shot salesmen .this Company ever had, and I'm one of the best damned District Managers in-hell with that, I'm the best, and you yourself typed the letter-badly-when I said no thanks, I don't want to be Division Manager, and suggested Bob Norman, who is now Division Manager."
She stared at him. "I haven't forgotten, Mister Quincy," she said, rather quietly. Then her eyes started to flash and up came her chin, back went her shoulders, out came her not inconsiderable chest. "But I won't allow myself to be...."
"Don't stand in my office, Miss Wallace, and tell me what you won't allow." His voice slashed out like a sarcasm-sharp epee. "I assume there are other girls capable of typing in this city of god only knows how many millions of starving young ladies wishing to be the next Rochelle Walsh. I really believe, Miss Wallace, that I could have one of them in here in about twentyfour hours. Possibly three. And at about four hundred a month, too. A tidy saving to the Company-and I daresay I'd get better cooperation and better letters to boot!"
She stared at him. Her mouth worked.
Then her head dropped. A little of her really fine sorrel-colored hair trickled forward over her shoulder. Her shoulders sagged. Her breasts sagged-a little. Hei hands slid out of fists and twitched at her hips.
"Mister Quincy...." her lip quivered.
"I want you to move your desk and chair and butt back in here, Miss Wallace. I really think my personal secretary should be in my office. And I want every letter perfectly typed or prettied up with correction tape or something so that it looks perfect."
"But...."
"And furthermore the first time you hand me a letter that isn't perfect or start a sentence with but-it's your own butt that's going to suffer, Miss Wallace, right across this desk." He slapped a palm down on it, just as if it were coming down, fingers splayed, onto Miss Wallace's ripe and very possibly overripe rump. "Now that's my sjde of the bargain. Your side is to get to stay, Miss Wallace. Otherwise-kindly start getting your lipstick and Puffs and other junk out of your desk."
"Yessir."
"Well?"
"I-I want to stay, Mister Quincy. I'm sorry. I thought-I mean-well it's just-it's been...."
"Different," he said. "As of today." He swung his chair and stood and walked around his long desk to her. Eye to eye, he asked again, "Well?"
"I'll start moving in right now, Mister Quincy."
And when she turned he landed one hell of a good, swat, precisely onto the roundest portion of her left buttock. She skipped a step, opened the door, and hurried out into a silent office. He stepped into the doorway.
"Don't tell me we're caught up!"
Comptometers and adding machines and typewriters commenced clucking, immediately.
Errol Flynn, John Quincy thought, and Marquis de Sade-along with John Quincy, best dam' manager in the country. That's all I want!
Somewhere, a grumlin was listening.
Within an hour Miss Wallace was moved in. Within an hour and fifteen minutes, Miss Wallace had handed him three letters. Within an hour and a half Miss Wallace was being ordered to get up and come over here and plunk yourself down on this desk, backside up, because this has got to be the lousiest letter typed within this entire city within the last fiscal year.
Miss Wallace complied. Standing behind her and looking down at that temptingly upturned tail, John Quincy felt himself getting up, too.
She hadn't walked out. She hadn't said "But...." She hadn't flashed her eyes. She hadn't done one damned thing but push back her chair, stand up, turn around, walk to the corner of the desk, and bend. Her cheek was on the blotter, one hand on either side of it.
Her superb mane of sorrel-colored hair-he thought of things in terms of sorrel and roan and bay and so on, since he'd-rather since Lurleen had-got the horsesflowering out over his desk calendar.
He raised his right hand, glanced again at the door to make certain, again, that it was securely closed. Then he brought his arm whizzing down to slap her rump, with force.
She jerked and made a mouse's squeaky noise. Her fingers clutched.
Otherwise, she never moved or opened her mouth.
He slapped the other cheek, and then again, and then back to the first, and again.
"Straighten up, Miss Wallace," he said, aware that he was sporting an erection up to here. "And understand me: the next time it will be on your britches or your bare fanny. Your skirts are entirely too tight'-that hurt my hand."
She straightened, and turned to face him, and he saw the flash in her eyes.
"You might as well do it now, Boss, because I had to screw up that letter to see if you'd really do it, and I'm going to have to screw up another one to see if you'll do it on my bare tail."
He stared at her. And suddenly, the whole world changed.
1000 hours:
Freedom of the press
"I really think, gentlemen," the governor said, with Winning Smile #2-a (not too ingratiating), "that I have covered that matter in previous discussions, and adequately at that. It is one of the reasons I am sitting in this chair. Yes, I full remember where Pat Brown was, and what he was doing, and what he said after the Watts matter of a few years past. He couldn't understand it, he said, and Newsweek quoted him exactly; you can look it up." He grinned: little-boy smile #l-a. "He and everybody else had always got along fine with the Negroes, and he just couldn't understand the whole Watts thing. And no, I do not believe in spontaneous combustion, gentlemen. And yes, I am aware of the laws of Cause and Effect. And yes, Mister Engelhart, I am cognizant, too, of Aristotle's preachments concerning contradiction and non-contradiction."
Yes, Barry Engelhart thought, but you didn't say anything, damnit! You and your mincing walk and your variety of Smiles for Every Occasion and your damned sports coats and those flashy two-tone shoes.
"Governor," another reporter was beginning, and the governor turned an attentive face and a half-smile (3-c; I'm here; neutrally waiting to see if you're hostile or not, Charley).
I'd like to cornhole you, you grinning silly-shoed bastard, Barry Engelhart thought, and of course he wound up remaining after the conference, and as he slipped his prick straight in between the governor's hairy cheeks the thought hit him:
What the hell am I doing? I'm about as heterosexual as Adam!
But it was all part of the Twenty-four hour Thing, and we cannot be sure if either the governor or the reporter enjoyed the experience. It was never written up in the newspaper, certainly. Nor was it in Newsweek.
1015 hours:
Charles Allison at the office
Charles Allison's scanning of the Walton report was interrupted by the sight of Miss Kleinstein's legs.
Charles Allison sat in a glass cubicle one might call an office if one were of the opinion that offices were not private matters. His desk faced the large outer office, a medieval common-room or sweatshop in which sat various females of his species, variously "engaged in various activities, most of which involved esoteric machinery with esoteric names: IBM Selectric, Underwood-Olivetti (or perhaps it was Olivetti-Underwood; it is not an easy name to remember), Praxis 48 and Editor II (there was only one of those, and today it had developed a new trick: when Miss Carr hit the Return key she never knew if the carriage would return to the left-hand margin, dutifully spacing and standing by for the next line of type-or if it would merely space up, in place, as if it expected her to begin typing anew at the end of the rjght-hand margin). There were also comptometers and dictation transcribers with footpedals and earphones, and a couple of other machines that did things men could not do, when they weren't in need of repair.
Directly across from the glass cubicle ensconcing Charles Allison sat Miss Kleinstein, Miss Rosalie Kleinstein, truth to tell, for her parents were woefully unaware of the intricacies of-in-groups, minority groups, and the avoidance of cliches in nomenclature in a Judeo-Christian (mostly Christian) society. Miss Kleinstein faced Mister Allison, with only the front edge of his desk and the front edge of her typewriter-surmounted desk and about twelve feet of rubber tile separating them. Her desk was not closed in front, nor, at the moment, were her legs.
Indeed, they seldom were. She wore them rather like parentheses, most of the time. When she was sitting down, that is; seldom when she stood did her legs take on this appearance: (). No indeed. They far more nearly resembled this: X. Or something to that effect, at any rate. Perhaps we should be less esoteric and say simply that her legs resembled most other legs, although a bit more so. Certainly they did not take on this appearance: II; they were far too shapely. But it would hardly be fair to Miss Kleinstein or to her shapely thighs and calves to say they looked more like this: (X). Somewhere betwixt the two extremes, perhaps.
Or just forget all that and visualize a pair of delightfully shapely legs, each carrying perhaps three pounds too many in the area between the hip and the knee.
At any rate, they were presently well apart, those legs, while Miss Kleinstein typed blithely on. And their apartheid was not having a salutary effect on the concentration of Charles Allison.
Far more interesting, he thought, than all those damned splitbeaver mailers I've been receiving lately along with the bills and the Wall Street Journal. I can damn near see right up to her beaver; wonder if it's split? Glossily black, I daresay, and sheeny, outrounded, pursed of lip like a Dickens character, florid face, beard, and all. I wonder if that wench has any idea of her effect on my work?
I'll bet she has. I'll bet she knows damn well what she's doing. And what I'm doing. Probably feels my eyes, trying to probe a tunnel right up those chubby thighs of hers.
He sighed and shook hjs papers-the Walton report.
Just once, he thought, just once, damnii, I wish I could see all the way up, and the chubby little bitch had forgot and left her panties at ho....
... ho-holy mackerel! Smile, pussycat, smile!
Although he was not at that moment thinking of Miss Kleinstein's physiognomy, smiling or otherwise, Miss Kleinstein looked up to see Mister Allison eyeballing her mons Veneris. Feeling her eyes on him, he looked. Their gazes met.
Miss Kleinstein smiled.
That, Wert said to Werb, is the fourth time since seven o'clock that Steve Leibowitz has banged his bride!
Yes, Werb said, isn't it lovely? I mean wow baby, there are a couple of ecstatically happy kids, you know?
Yes, yes, of course ... but do you think there's any danger of their starving to death?
That, Werb said with superlative indifference, is of no concern to me. He made his wish, and he got it, boy!
I, Wert said, am bored with watching them. They seem incapable of experimentation and originality. Just on and in and off again.
On again, in again, off again, up again?
Finnegan! Yes well, but I'm bored with that.
Well, Werb said, pointing, concentrate your jaded gaze on Mister Charles Allison, then, humping Miss Rosalie Kleinstein in the stockroom.
His legs are shaking with the strain, Wert pointed out, and so are hers, and the mailing scales and postage machine are gouging into her back and fanny respectively. Furthermore she is very nearly unable to breathe, and Allison's heart is racing something awful.
Wert shrugged-or rather glerfed, grumlins being quite incapable of shrugging, inasmuch as they lack the required equipment to an astonishing and rather nose-wrinkling degree. You said,Ahe pointed out with asperity, that you wanted to see originality and inventiveness in action. Ole Charlie Allison is presently the personification of both, among other things.
Yeah well, to vagel with ole Charlie. What else is going on?
Listen baby, Werb said, dropping his coolly calm and collected guru pose, you wanna see something interesting and different, lock the old glims on Bill Gurney, Society Photographer for the Times.
When in the slerthy croll has there ever been anything inventive, imaginative, interesting, and/or different about society photographs, Wert demanded. Or about high sassiety itself, for the matter of that.
Since the advent of the great twenty-four hour Thing, Werb said.
1017 hours:
Bringing society to its knees
Society, Bill Gurney snorted mentally (it can be done, with practice), for perhaps the forty-one thousandth time. Society! Six years I spend on the Mohead News, taking sports pix. And then three more on the Courier-Journal: same thing. Sports, good ole U of L Cardinals and Kentucky Wildcats. I was the only man in the country to get a different picture of Rupp, that day I ran into him in the Coliseum restroom. And the Times brings me out here at two hundred bills a month more than the C-J-and what do I do. Society photographs!
He had begged-begged, yes; last time it was on bended knee, and next time it was his intention to try it on both knees, banging his head on the floor or perhaps on the Boss' highly-polished French-Shriners-to be al lowed to cover a sports event. Any sports event. Even the jumpfrog contest in Calaveras County. The Woodrow Wilson Memorial High School Marbles Championship-hell, even the intramurals! Anything but this-housabout I go down to Haight-Ashbury and get you some real, some different, some believable and human pictures of those kids?
Nope. He was a damn good Society Photographer.
All these broads're interested in, he thought, swinging his Mercedes down Elmhurst-he had to keep the damned job; he was damned if he'd go back to a Chevy again, after driving a car-is getting their pictures in the paper. Under the right circ'msfnces, of course. And do be certain to get in my good side, and do see that I get a copy, won't you Mister Gurney? Talking to me, at me, as if I were the banana peel collector from Haight-Ashbury. And get a list of their activities in, all their civic activities, to show what good citiezens they are, despite their money-one must appear Democratic, a decent sort, despite having money-and please spell it right, and oh yes maybe you should mention that Mister-is chairman of the United Fund; mention of that is so good for his practice, you know.
This morning it was Mrs. T. Willis Garver III, daughter-in-law of T. Willis Garver, and everybody knew who Tom W. Garver was: he'd trundled a wheelbarrow all over town, sixty or seventy years ago, collecting rags and bottles and nails and whatever else there was to collect in those days, and he'd worn the same clothes for weeks at a time, right up to the day he died and left four and three-quarters millions of dollars.
His son not only changed his suits daily, he had them cleaned after each wearing and every year at Christmas he gave that year's wardrobe to the Less Fortunate. And married someone from Boston whose daddy had sold pins and needles and thread and thimbles and things and whose son now stood behind a chain of forty-three tencent stores, not to mention the radio stations.
And their son had graduated from Harvard Law and married a girl he'd met in New York: a tall, slim, rather ethereal Grace Kelly type whose perfect blonde hair looked as if she shampooed it thrice daily and dropped in on her head from a distance of six inches; it lay there in a cloud resembling Christmas Angel-hair. She would have worn a size 9 dress at five feet seven inches, had she not made her annual pilgrimage to Paris to inspect the collections of assorted Frenchmen and-women who thought a plain pipe rack was a smoking accessory.
She was now cochairman-chairwoman, and let's be sure not to leave out the i, boys-of the Greater CityCounty Fund for a Home for Unfortunate Unwed Mothers and Their Offspring. And Bill Gurney, of course, had to take her picture. At her home, number Seven Elderberry Lane amid the famed Garver gardens.
She herself met him at the door, wearing a simple little nineteen-fifty frock (no decimal point) that caressed her small, aristocratic breasts lovingly if not graspingly and smoothed itself over her hips with each of her finishing-school steps and caressed her slender thighs as if perfectly aware of its enviable position and task.
Bill Gurney inspected her fanny as she led him through the house, which resembled pictures he had seen of the Smithsonian Museum, except for the seven fullcolor posters-six zodiac and one of Allan Ginsburgon the north wall of the parlor: pahlah. She had a few strange ideas, did Joceline Garver, and liked to appear encouraging to the young aspirants to art. She would, Bill Gurney thought, make a hell of a First Lady.
He tried to imagine a dinner party in the East Room or someplace for the members of the staff of the Los Angeles Free Press. That was a society function he'd like to photograph; jreep peeps at Veep in White House, maybe. (Freep Takes Treep? No-the Times might do that; the L.A. Freep was too seriousconstructive. Sercon.)
But meanwhile he watched the machine-grooved shift and sway of Joceline Garver's trim and aristocratic derriere-surely no Garver had an ass!-as she preceded him through the house and into the (famed) gardens.
How lovely it would be, Bill Gurney thought, just once maybe, to have one of these rich-bitches towseled, legs wide open, with the Look of Lust in her eyes! It would damn well become those green eyes of Josie's ... gawd! Josie! Surely that was no less serious a crime than-than-cornholing the governor, or something!
She paused by the sundial: Italian out of early Roman-stolen from Greece. She turned, one hand touching, just touching the handsome old structure. She turned those green eyes on Bill Gurney and raised one eyebrow.
She appeared infinitely more cool than any model he'd ever seen in amenthol-cigarette ad.
"I thought perhaps the sundial...."
Bill nodded. "Nice, I think, yes." He moved leftward, barked his shin on a very old concrete bench, and swallowed his curse. "Just wait a moment if you will, Mrs. Garver-I think we can capture the dappling effect of the sun coming through that big tree...."
She pivoted slowly, with seeming effortlessness, keeping her eyes on him as he circled.
"Yes," ha said, "yes." He peered at her through the little window of his camera. "Oh lovely, that's just about perfect, Mrs. Garver."
"Just about, Mister Gurney?" Each word, each syllable, indeed each vowel and consonant was a caress, a throatily vocal caress.
God, he thought. God, that voice! Makes my groin ache-and the eyes! Umm ... that wide mouth's going to come across beautifully, if I can hunker down a little, just here ... god, what a mouth! Ah-knows I'm looking at it-tongue slips out like a little pink serpent to moisten the lips. That's right-I'd forgot. She was a fashion model. Never would have made it, poor babysite's slim, but she looks very much like a girl!
God that mouth! Whatjhe hell, what the holy burning hell would that feel like clasped around a man's tool? And those green green eyes looking up at me as she flickered her tongue ... I wish....
Bill Gurney shivered.
"Mistah Guliney?"
"Mrs. Garver?" Ifs. just that I wish I were here to get myself sucked by you, lady, rather than to snap a few pictures and vamoose with your carefully-typed list of instructions in my hand. That's all-man would you ever blow your sweet green-eyed wide-mouthed welltailored cool if I told you I was squatting here busily wishing you'd just come suck me off!
"Mistah Guliney-I was wondahing-the sun will be around in a bettah position in about a half hour. Perhaps we should wait? Would that be possible?"
Mrs. Garver, dear, I could spend the day-oops, nope, got to be at the Sheraton-Crume at high noon!
"If you like, Mrs. Garver," he said, straightening and lowering the camera. "No wait-I'll let you see this one," he said, and in that moment of, less-posed almost repose, he snapped her and lowered his camera, smiling. "I promise."
"I believe you implicitly, Mister Gurney. And do please call me Josie. Come along into the house, won't you, and we'll just have a coffee. May I call you Bill?"
"Of course, Mrs. Garver, but it's going to be damned hard for me to call you Josie, I'll admit that."
"Just sit down here, Bill." He sat in the kitchen chair-yes, there were kitchen chairs; the kitchen was perhaps just a shade larger than Bill's four room apartment. She bent over him, her hand taking the camera and setting it on the breakfast-bar beside him.
"But I do wish you would call me Josie," she said, reaching behind her with a rather concentrated look, and he heard the little sssiiiiinggg of her zipper going down. "It's so esthetically lacking if you continue to call me 'Mrs. Garver,' for heaven's sake, while I'm fellating you."
It took him longer than a moment to remember the word "fellatio" and change it into verb form: fellate. It meant sucking off, but it was Latin, and so was as far superior to its Amerenglish equivalent as the Latin paenis was to cock, and cunnus to box or pussy, and so on.
But by that time she was kneeling before him, on the tiled kitchen floor, with her dress gaping open, bagging down her arms to show him her nothing-bra'd breasts, exquisite cones shapely as new apples, and no less firm. And her hands were busying themselves at his fly, and he jerked and gasped when several fingers slipped in and enwrapped the suddenly-burgeoning shaft of his sex.
She looked up at him. The green eyes were a caress; they glowed with an inner heat composed of pure lust.
The wide mouth lengthened, turning up a little at the corners in a lazy, aristocratic smile.
Then' it bent over his liberated ... paenis.
Her tongue shot out to touch, to tap and curl, and he gasped again. She cupped a cool, long-fingered hand under his scrotum as she licked down the long shaft. Her other hand rose, groped its way upward, found his own hand. Carried it to her bosom. She hunched her shoulders. The dress slid down to bunch in the hollows of her elbows, held up only by them. He caressed her breasts through the thin, boneless, see-through bra that did no more than cradle them and that only enhanced the feel and the loveliness of them; not even flesh is so soft as man-made fabrics.
She was nibbling, licking chewing at him, as if she were hungry and intent on gobbling it down, all of it, but deliberately postponing her own pleasure, the assuagement of her own hunger. Now and again sTie clamped her lips and teeth rather tightly, and he shivered in that old, strange admixture of pain and pleasure.
She drew back her head and ran her tongue out and out, quivering. Its moisture touched the pearl of moisture at the tip, the very tip, of his glans. Just that touch removed the droplet, transferring her oral juices to his penis and his pre-seminal juices to her mouth. Then she pushed, the tip of her tongue striving-to enter the pinprick hole piercing the end of his eminently agitated penis.
Her face tilted upward and her eyes rolled up to meet his, to watch him watch her. Her mouth opened, and opened. She moved it forward, guiding him forward with an enwrapping hand. The thick length of him throbbed forward, touched her lips, slipped between their soft moistness into the tender shelter of her mouth. Her lips caressed him as he glided in, titillating him with their silken texture.
He was unable to remain passive. He reached out and clasped his hands firmly behind her neck, his fingers in the softness of her hair; fluff; Angel-hair. Then he dragged her face forward to envelop him. She took it, her head moving forward and her neck bowing until her forehead and eyes and nose were nestled in curly fur. Her tongue continued to move, hampered, now, by its lack of room; her mouth was crammed very full.
He sat comfortably in the straight-backed kitchen chair, with his feet on the floor. It was easy to pump slowly in and out of her mouth, easing forward and then back, watching it emerge sparkling and glistening with her saliva. He wanted very desperately to shove it far into the depths of her throat, as if he were raping her face, rather than being willingly and beautifully and expertly fellated by a woman whose entire body and bearing and demeanor spelled Class with a capital C five feet, seven inches tall.
She had fondled it, she had licked and nibbled and squeezed and pulled it, she had tasted it and found it to her liking.
Now she dedicated herself to the serious matter of sucking him off. She did.
Bill shuddered and groaned, pumping, arching his body and clutching her head and breasts by turns, driving deeply into the warm cavern of her face.
Her lips formed a close-pressing ring of sweet, delicate flesh that circled and clasped him. With his fingers splaying across her face he pressed her cheeks, thumbs under her chin. Slowly he pushed his hands together. Slowly he tightened her mouth around it himself.
Then he shuddered and stiffened, and her cheeks sank far in as she gripped him with her lips and sucked, and it came boiling up and out of him, jutting along the tight-clasped shaft and into her face with emphatic force. Her lips worried it wetly, her conical breasts shivering and rising with great intakes of breath as she concentrated on sucking him dry. His semen boiled from him and into the sweet shelter of her mouth, filling it and sluicing down her frantically working throat until he was sure he had gushed a gallon into her. She took it all.
Gasping, she knelt at his feet with her head on his knee. Bill sagged back in the chair.
.She looked up at him. "I'm terribly sorry about the coffee I promised you," she said, "but I think the sun might be about right by now, Bill."
The sun had never been more right
1100 hours:
The case of the sexy female prof term dementia praecox," Miss Terry said, "was used to describe this condition for the first time in 1860-which is not important. What is important is the condition itself. To begin with, though: praecox refers to adolescence, and dementia, while it may look like 'demented' to you, means deterioration. Thus-during adolescence a profound change begins to take place in the individual's behavioral patterns. It terminates, eventually, in utter deterioration: dementia."
She turned from the greenboard on which she had printed, in large letters, the Latin words-while the male members of Abnormal Psych 306 studied her legs. Miss Terry's were pretty good, although she did not wear miniskirts. At least not on campus. Nor did she rise on tiptoe or otherwise strain when she printed on the greenboard, so that her skirt hardly bothered to leave her kneetops. She returned to her lectern.
"Now, if you think yourselves sufficiently mature to discuss such a matter, we'll take a typical case. Ulithere's no one in here named Joe is there?"
Knowledge-seeking faces smiled; hairy heads wagged. No Joe, as she had fully well known.
"Good, then, we'll pick on Joe. Joe was ... oh, twelve when he experienced his first nocturnal emission. Oh stop! Try to rise above your parents, who couldn't even say that and certainly couldn't hear it without grinning. I was assured when I agreed to teach this class that there would be only human-type apes here, no baboons."
"Naked apes," Ted Fried grinned.
She gazed at him with raised eyebrows; they were dark, rather thick, and they arched, and they rose nicely. "Exacdy. Naked apes, as Mister Morris put it. All of us. And we naked apes are afflicted with more problems than the hairier ones, and we pay for them. As our hypothetical Joe did. At any rate, Joe's wet dream-aha, didn't think I knew that phrase, eh? Wellmaybe some of you grinning naked apes will explain it to some of the girls in class after the hour. It marked his emergence into puberty, into adolescence, into manhood-and he hadn't been prepared for it. The Christian ethic, you see. You all feel rather restless right now, a little prickly and uncomfortable, because of our subject matter. Perhaps your parents prepared you for the same experience all of you had-first menstruation, for you ladies-and perhaps they didn't. Then ... assuming that we are talking about dementia praecox, schizophrenia, can anyone tell me what probably took place in Joe's behavior?"
Hands; one faltered and rose, another faltered and dropped; three remained up. Miss Terry nodded at Paul Boling. Paul rose; heads turned to stare.
He's a handsome big so-and-so, Miss Terry thought.
She's a good-looken broad, Paul Boling thought. I may be twenty and she may be thirty or so, maybe less-but I'd sure like to get in her pants. Oopspsychology class, Paul, he reminded himself. Say it like it is. It is like I wish that Miss Terry would be so impressed with my responses in class and my pant-pant maleness that she'd just invite me down to the old office and open herself up for a nice screw.
"Joe probably became hyperactive," he said. "Jabbered a lot, if he'd been a quiet type. Bounced from topic to topic. Got so he couldn't sleep at night. Had a hard time holding still long enough to eat, much less sleep. And ... I'd think ... he started becoming ... ah, fearful?"
Miss Terry nodded encouragement, her face wide open, her gaze fixed on him. He was a remarkably good student. Came from nothing, she knew. Wanted to be a psychiatrist, and would never make it; the money would never be there unless he married it or a very hard-working girl. It was such a shame he had to go through medical school to realize his ambition; he was vitally interested in psychology, in people, and he seemed to have more natural ability than any six students she ever seen, including herself. Elizabeth Terry, MS, fifteen hours toward her Doctorate, aged twentyseven, twice engaged, unmarried, non-virgin.
"Yes," she said. "And what would have been done for him?"
Despite the fact that Paul Boling was still on his feet, another student, a girl with ironed blonde hair caressing her breast-tops, said, "Some idiot physician probably put him on sedatives."
"Not necessarily idiotic, Karen," Miss Terry said. "That would be the first step, certainly. Try to quiet Joe down, enable him to get some sleep. Prevent him from burning himself out."
"They would have little effect," Paul said, the fingers of his hairy right hand just touching the back of his chair. Miss Terry saw the girl across the aisle gazing up at him, her lips parted. She was nudging his calf with her knee.
"Thank you, Paul. That was on the nose. And now someone else ... Where is Joe very likely going next?"
"In hospital!" Ted Fried.
"Of course. But I meant mentally."
"Probably into the John Birch Society," someone said, and they laughed. Miss Terry noticed that Paul only smiled, his. eyes on her.
"He thinks," Paul Boling said, "that someone's out to get him. Probably an organization. Maybe the Mafia, maybe the Democrats or the Republicans, whichever he isn't. Maybe the FBI, or the Communists, or some other Bogey man."
Miss Terry nodded. "Exacdy, but you're going to have to give someone else in class a chance to answer, Paul."
"He thinks he's a psychiatrist," someone said: female.
"Fortunately," Miss Terry said, "the bell is going to cut off this nonsense-there. On. Thursday well consider what to do about our poor Joe. Please read through the chapter-and those of you who already have could benefit by reading it again. I'd like to see forty hands up Thursday, when I ask a question. Oh-Paul ... would you stay a moment?"
She could not understand the compulsion. She had no idea what had happened (Paul had made a wish; somewhere a grumlin was listening; today was Tuesday, the day of the great twenty-four hour Thing, and she was merely a pawn in a grumlin's mind). But Paul made his way slowly forward as the others left, babbling, and he was at the lectern by the time the last seven or eight were crowding through the door.
"I'm sorry, Miss Terry," he said. "I got carried away. I'll try not to say so darned much next...."
"Forget that, Paul. Is it your fault you're intelligent, quick, and more interested than anyone else in the class? That isn't why I asked you to stay. Do you have a class this period?"-He shook his head.
"Please come along with me to my office, will you?"
He nodded, reached easily over and picked up her stack of three books and two notebooks. He walked just beside her to the door; he was about two inches taller.
"It's been awhile since someone's carried my books," she said as they walked down the hall.
"Been awhile since I've carried any," he said. "I've got this thing I do-and I make notes. I only hold doors and lights and things like that for females that don't act like they expect it, and I check their reactions. Then I don't do any of that King Arthur stuff for those who act as if it's their just right under heaven-and I watch their reactions."
"And...."
He laughed. "The reactions of Group Two are fascinating," he said. "Far more interesting. You looked a little surprised, suffered momentary loss of equilibrium aplomb, then nodded inside and went along. But you had to say something."
"I should think," she said, unlocking her office door, "that any girl you date would be nervous as a cat."
He shrugged. "I don't date a hell of a lot. Oopsexcuse me. I...."
"Arthurian ethic?" she asked, smiling at him with lifted brows.
He laughed. "Right-don't excuse yourself for saying what comes naturally. If a woman thinks about it, a man who does is treating her as a non-equal, an inferior creature too weak and delicate to hear the words he uses with men. OK. Anyhow, I don't date a hell of a lot, and I don't tell 'em I'm observing."
"I'd think it would spoil some of the fun," she said. It was her office; he had her books; he let her hold the door and close it behind him.
"For me? Oh no." He set her books on her desk and waited.
"Paul ..
He gazed at her. She was about eight inches away. She'd locked the door. Those thick eyebrows and the promise of her thighs rounded tight against her skirt from underneath made his breath speed up.
"Paul, I think ... trying to be honest, remember ... that you are as impressed with me as I am with you."
"As a woman, as well as a bright human being and a teacher," he said, nodding.
"As a man, as well as a bright human being and a superb student," she said. "Yes. I want to share something with you then, and ask you to share something with me." , He pursed his lips. "A confidence? I'll swear-but I don't know if I have any to share."
"No. Each other."
He stared at her.
"Now. Here. Because both of us want to." He stared at her.
"Which of us undresses me, Paul, you or me?"
"You," he said, after awhile. "I'm a little bad about things like bra-hooks and zippers, other than mine."
"You need experience," she said, unzipping her skirt.
He nodded. "I'll try not to make notes," he said. "I really wish you would."
"You do?"
She nodded. "I think it can be of value to you. And to me too, if you ever publish, or if you ever decide to let me see them."
He glanced around. "Are you quite certain? Here? Maybe...." But he couldn't say it: maybe a date, and his place-ugh, that goddam room-or her apartment. But he couldn't; this was her show. Maybe she banged her best student every semester, he thought, right here. Once. Then cut him off and out. Wow-could be ticklish as all hell, later. Will be.
But that wouldn't deter him. It was the first time a wish had come true for him. So fast, at least, and without his own strong efforts in its behalf. Like all the years working, saving nickels and dimes, working, then getting in here on a scholarship, even if he wasn't worth a damn on a football field or a basketball court or other gladiatorial arenas.
But she was undressing, and she didn't wear a slip, just a halfslip, and her panties were not sensible as he'd supposed, but brief and black and yet not so black that he couldn't see the deeper black behind them, of her pubic fur. Her bra was a bit more sensible; she had a bit more tit than he'd thought, and they were very lovely, almost jumping out of her bra like fat white puppies with little red noses....
"I hate to be naked alone," she said.
It was the hardest thing he could remember having done in his life, but he stripped. He was still far from comfortable and certain. On one foot. Did they kiss, play love, or just....
She came to him, about three inches shorter now, and slid both arms around his neck at the same time as her breasts touched, then nosed, then ground into his hairless chest. Her belly was soft against the tall pole of his sex. Her lips were warm, soft, the teeth behind them hard-and in a moment he learned that her lips could be hard, too. She kissed hell out of him.
Instinct seemed to take over. He merely turned around, still with his hands on her waist, just above the hips. Thus she was backed up against the leading edge of her desk. He tightened his hands to lift her; she tightened her arms around his neck, still kissing like a kid with the last all-day sucker in town and no more tomorrow, and her rump lifted easily and plopped softly down on her desk.
He moved forward between her thighs. It was a nice high desk, and even though he was three inches taller than she, she was about five-five. He moved between her thighs as she sat on the desk, and his throbbing penis was directly in line-had it been straight out, that is, which of course it wasn't. It was high, standing before him no more than an inch away at the head, curved out and back like a longbow.
Her hand left his neck. Without even looking she slipped it down between them. Found his penis, pulled it down. Her other hand pressured. He moved forward. The supersensitive head of his penis nuzzled soft, curling tendrils of hair like nylon thread. Her hand tight ened, moved just a little. He gasped as the supersensitive head vanished, slipping between the softest of soft lips. They seemed to clasp it.
He slipped on in, easily. She was snug inside, older than the few (two) others he had entered or not, she was extravagandy, unequivocally, gloriously wet.
"I have fantastic powers of self-lubricadon," she murmured into his mouth.
"You ... act ... very experienced," he said.
He shook his head. Hers moved with it; her teeth were set, gently in his tongue. "No. I haven't thought much about marriage, but I think I've pretty much assumed I wouldn't marry a virgin. I hope not."
"Uh-you're rather large, Paul Boling! Was that a proposal?"
He chuckled, despite the distracting influences of other activities. He was enjoying his delightful experiences with both her soft moist mouths.
"We must think about that," she said. "Oh I was kidding, being silly, of course. But with a campus this size we'd have no trouble if we wanted to meet, to sit and talk, to repeat this under ... well, with me sitting on something softer, at least. Wouldn't it be lovely if we found out we were crazy about each other? I could teach while you went through medical school and then into psychiatry. Finally-when you're about eighty, as long as it takes-I'd retire when you started scheduling fifty-minute hours."
He was silent. Then, "You are making me uncomfortable."
She squeezed his neck. "Oh Paul I'm sorry. I'm being female, not a psychology teacher or any kind of teacher at all. Just-just let's hush, and screw me properly, will you?"
He did, quite properly, gliding easily in and out of her very moist interior and stroking her flanks. When he came he nearly sagged and fell, so much did it weaken his legs. They clung to each other, crooning.
"I'll say thank you if you will," she said, and he was grateful that she'd eased them over that.
"Thank you," he said. "How does a kid student go about asking his psych professor for a date?"
"He says something like meet me at so-and-so's for a few beers and some talk before you take me home to inspect your bedroom, Betty."
"Betty!"
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't jcall me Miss Terry, yes," she said, chuckling so that her naked breasts wandered about against his chest.
"Only off campus," he said. "Betty off-campus. Meet me at Sherman's for a few beers and some talk, Betty, and after we've solved the world's problems I'll just ask you to take me home to inspect your bedroom."
"Tell me," she said. Tell-what?"
"Tell me, not ask me."
Silence, then: "Oh. I'll tell you to take me home and etcetera, then."
"Tonight?"
"Uh-uh. Tomorrow night. I've got a test in Biochemistry tomorrow."
She pulled her face back from his neck. "I'll be darned!"
He smiled. "Me too-if I goof up on that biochem test."
She stared at him for perhaps a minute, a long one, and then smiled. Then she chuckled. He liked the way she chuckled, from the throat. And he liked the way it made her breasts move, particularly when they were against him.
"I'm going to like this," she said. "You're going to treat me like a girl!"
He nodded. "Just any girl," he said. "Except that I'm going to like you too. No-I'm going to love you, sure as helL"
He did, and so did she, and she taught several years thereafter, while he sweated through the tribal rite of passage called medical school and then the fraternity initiation called internship and all the rest of it, and when he had all the initials after his name he was a psychiatrist, and she was two months pregnant, and she managed to have another one, too, before she went through menopause. They became quietly happy and quietly rich together, because of the great twenty-four hour Thing, and because Paul had wished and a grumlin had been listening.
Equal time for the male prof
On that same campus, Full Professor Byron Wesley was gazing across his desk at bright-eyed, bushytailed, long-black-haired, dangerous-eyed student Myrna Bennis. He knew what she was saying, without listening; she was either incredibly stupid or too busy screwing around to study, and she was on her way to an ugly little E in his 19th Century American Writers course. As sexily as possible, she was telling her tale of woe, while laying it thickly on him with the extraordinarily knowledgeable dark eyes and the wicked little mouth and her very pointed breasts, taut and straining against a white sweater a size or two too small. They sort of lay on his desk.
He was feeling sorry for himself, not her.
He was forty. He'd been married since he was thirty; he'd waited a long time, somehow, all tied up with assistantships and getting his doctorate and getting himself ensconced where he wanted to be, on a huge campus on which he could become pleasantly lost.
His wife Sandra-soft feminine name for a hard unfeminine woman who had started gaining something like a pound a month the day after their marriage and hadn't stopped yet-was gone again. Visiting her mother. For a month. For the third time in the last thirteen months.
And when she came back damnit, he'd be so horny he'd fawn and' crawl all over her, because she was female and his wife, and somewhere in all that fat she had a snug little nook in which he could tuck away about half of his penis and jid himself of a month's frustration and tension.
Which meant she won again; she seemed to consider herself still desirable if he still wanted her. That she set up these enforced abstinences of a month's duration either did not enter into her thinking or did-very much so-but, unfortunately for him, fortunately for her, at the subconscious level.
One word on his part, one word, one allusion, however oblique-even unintentional-about her grossness, and he'd receive the now-standard:
"Huh! You obviously didn't think I was too plump last Wednesday or whichever night it had been when you found me sufficiently attractive to make me a vessel for your lust and about a gallon of wet, sticky, cold semen!"
She'd been gone three weeks, and Myrna What'sername was across his desk pouring out her problems, seeking to get her deserved E hoisted to a D or maybe a C on the basis of sympathy, and he was seriously considering trying to pick up some creature at a bar, just so he could empty himself and refrain from laying a hand and even more importandy a penis on/in Sandra when she returned. (She'd been Sandy. She was far too avoirdupoisy to be called anything so young and cute-sounding, now.)
"I-I'd do anything, Doctor Wesley, to get a passing grade," Myrna What'sername was saying. "Anything," she added, and she breathed it out, like a female Robert Stack. "Really," she added, in case he hadn't got the message. "Anything."
He looked her squarely in her extraordinarily knowing, dark and very lovely eyes. "Miss, ah, Bennis, I've been teaching now for eleven years. I really don't think you would believe just how many times I have heard that same line from some handsome and sexy little coed who figures her body is worth a C when her mind and work entitle her to an E, or even a G, if we went that low:"
She stared. And stared. He had hit her right where it hurt, in the femininity, and she had no idea what to do about it. After all, a girl had a right to expect that biology and the old bod would get her anything she wanted, used properly, in this age of Cigarettes for the Two of You and of Rochelle Walsh and that mostlynaked French actress who's built like a giraffe but grows increasingly wealthier.
"We will have two more exams before the end of the semester, Miss Bennis. Try something new. Study. Study very hard. I will give you every benefit of any doubt on both exams, I assure you. I do not enjoy seeing people fail, particularly when I have to set down the letter on paper that relieves them of the responsibility. I promise you this: I won't fail you. But I cannot stop you from failing if you're determined to do so."
"You-Doctor Wesleyl You haven't heard a word I've said."
He nodded. "Every word, Miss Bennis."
"Doctor Wesley, I want that grade," she said, and her eyes became mean. She was very intent. Too intent on what she was saying, on looking dangerously at him, to notice his finger depressing the intercom key. "I've told you I will do anything to get it."
"Yes. I have told you that you need do only one thing: come to class, take notes, and study."
"Doctor Wesley, if you're too-too-if you won't pay any attention at all-if you're unable to pay any attention to what I'm offering, I'm afraid I'm going to have to. get you into trouble."
"Fascinating," he said, leaning forward. "Tell me how."
"First I'm going to stand up," she said, "then I'm going to tear my sweater...."...." orlon doesn't tear easily," he pointed out helpfully...." and make a great big fingermark on my-my bosom, and then I am going to scream like crazy and guess what I'm going to accuse you of?"
"Aaah ... surely not being unable to pay any attention to your so obvious charms?"
"Attempted rape!" she exploded, thrusting herself to her feet.
"Miss Maddox, did you hear what Miss Bennis just said to me?" he asked, and let the intercom key up.
"Yes sir," Miss Maddox said, a little tinny from the intercom connected to hers in her little office next door. "She is going to do her dardnest to tear that extremely tight orlon sweater she's wearing, and then put a big fineerprint on her ti-bosom, and then she's going to holler that Doctor Byron Wesley tried to rape her."
I
"Just after she intimated that I was unable to," Doctor Wesley prompted.
Miss Bennis was cowering against the door, staring with eyes the size of teacups or perhaps even of saucers.
"Yes, Doctor Wesley, just after she intimated that you are unable to," Miss Maddox said dutifully.
"What do you think we should do about this, Miss Maddox?"
"Uh-sir, should I call Dean Saki?"
Regarding Myrna, whose aplomb and cool and even studied sensuality had flown the coop, Doctor Wesley considered. "No, I don't think so. Come in, please." He rose and faced his student across the desk until he heard the connecting door open behind him. He watched the girl's eyes, now totally devoid-for the first time since the day she'd first walked into his class-of all sultriness, shift past him, staring, huge.
He went around his desk and laid a hand on her shoulder. She was quite short, and he looked down at her across several vertical inches.
"I won't tell if you won't, Myrna," he said quietly. "But ... please. Study hard, will you? I know you don't want to be in my class again next semester anymore than I want you there."
She stared at him in speechless silence. He gazed back, concentrating on looking kindly, fatherly, old.
"Bye," Miss Maddox said from behind him, and Myrna jerked her head to stare at her again, then turned and struggled with the knob and got the door open and fled.
Byron Wesley closed the door and turned to his student assistant.
Now there, he thought, is a nice sweet intelligent helpful girl I wish would make me the same offer.
She shook her head. "Gosh, you know I really had no idea, Doctor Wesley. Honestly! That's the second one since September."
He shrugged. "Well ... two in five months ... not so terrible."
She shook her head. "It's just fantastic. How could they-how could anyone have so little pride as to-and first she questioned your...."
He nodded. "She did indeed."
"Doctor Wesley, I am proud of my boss, and like all secretaries I am crazy about him. Are you considering firing me?"
"Good god no. I'd like to keep you here for the next twenty-five years. The last girl went into hysterics when I tuned her in to a Myrna Bennis."
"Yes, well ... do you owe me any money? Do you know any classes I'm not getting A's in?"
"I don't owe you any money, you're paid by the State, and I have no idea what classes you're in, much less your grades."
She nodded. "Good, then. There's nothing you owe me, and nothing I could want from you, is that right?"
He leaned on his desk, his face pulling itself into that little expression that is half-smile and half-frown and is called Quizzical.
"That seems a fair statement of the facts as I see them, yes," he said. "Do you plan on getting to the point any time this semester?"
She nodded her blonde head: close cropped, like Mary Martin playing Peter Pan. "I do. Would you mind doing me a favor?"
He laughed. "First we establish that I owe you nothing, and that you don't want anything from me, and then you...."
"Would you mind screwing your devoted and loving secretary, Doctor Wesley?"
He stopped talking, but his mouth forgot to close. Somebody with electric feet was dancing around in the general region of his groin. Specifically: in his balls. They tightened up like a coiled ratder, ready to jump. Hejeaned more heavily on the hand he had planted on his desk.
"God bless you, Mary, I'm probably the only man on Earth who could say no to you, and that's the only request I would. To which I would, I mean. Why I lust after you, girl, because you are real and lovely andwell. But I have a wife, and...."
"Doctor Wesley," she said in a very small voice, "please don't lie to me. You don't have a wife. Not even when she's home. But I'm crazy about you, and I want you in me. I want you in me so much I may even tear my blouse and put a big inky fingerprint on my left, ah, Shakespeareanly: bub, and yell that you tried to rape me. If you don't, I mean."
He stared at her, his face trying not to relax into a smile.
"Right now?"
"Right now. The floor, the rug, your desk, mine, the couch in my office-...."
And they started laughing, both of them, and while they were laughing she hurried across the little office to him and hugged him, and he laughed and while he was laughing he put his arms around her, and pretty soon they were kissing, with her nipples" erected against his coat and his penis erected against her stomach, and pretty soon after that she was trying to undress them both at once, and naked, she took time merely to pounce to her door and lock it and then to make certain the hall door was locked. Then, before he could reconsider, she grabbed him and pulled him down onto the floor, still wearing his shirt and socks and shoes, with her bra and blouse and skirt and pantyhose and shoes strewn here and there about the office.
It was overkill, of course. Mary Maddox was precisely five feet nine, and she weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, and about all there was of her breasts were two swollen aureoles and a pair of overdeveloped nipples, and her buttocks were tiny, very poor padding, and he lay almost within her pelvic girdle because she had no stomach whatsoever. She did however possess a most illustriously prominent and protruding mount of Venus, and within less than a minute after she dragged him down onto the floor he was buried within it, the dark red hair of his groin mingling with her sparse, soft blonde ones.
She locked her heels together behind his knees, forcing him deep into the moist, hairnested crevice. She ground her hips up against him, writhing them in a savage caress. The rampant masculinity of his penis probed deep, exploring the soft moistness of her.
Digging in his toes, he pushed it into the globes. It was the first time in years he had utterly buried himself in the place a man likes to bury himself. It was glorious. Both their bodies lurched and slid and pounded, vibrant, humming with sexual tension and need. Her long legs and slender arms enwrapped him like a pythoness.
It was glorious. And it had been a long time, and in far too short a time he was groaning and thrusting and filling her to overflowing. Then they lay still on the floor. He had noted her extraordinary ability; she had had at least two orgasms.
"Just for the record," she said, after a few minutes; her hand was fondling the back of his head, "I love you. I also respect, admire, and revere you."
"We have a problem."
"No we haven't. We're going to work late. Not too often, but we will. It won't be enough. Not for meand I'm damn well going to try to see that it isn't enough for you. Because...."
"It already isn't," he said.
"Good."
"Does it occur to you that I am certainly old enough to be your father?"
"Oh wow," she said, "we'd certainly have to criticize that line if we found it in a book, wouldn't we. Besides ... who knows? Maybe I lust after my father. An awful lot of girls do."
"Not American girls," he said, eager to talk about anything. All other thoughts were too unpleasant.
"That's because too many American men aren't like you," she said. "Anyhow, just so you'll know: no, I wasn't a virgin, and yes, I love you."
Oh god, he thought, and his mind was on sex, sex and happiness, which are of course rather tightly entangled, if not inextricably. Oh god. Ifs the first time I've ever had the thought ... but I-I wish that fat hog Sandra would just write me from dear mother's and tell me she's tired of being married.
And that, because of the circumstances, was a sexual wish, you see, and it was wished at something like 11:40 on Tuesday, the day of the great twenty-four hour Thing, and somewhere a helplessly committed grumlin was listening.
I wish my wife would just divorce me, Byron Wesley thought, thereby solving both his and Miss Mary Maddox's problem, for she was indeed in love with her boss.
And so Werb and Wert had once again goofed up and done good, and it was a black mark against them too, you can bet on that
1145 hours:
Man on the street
David Fischer had sat behind the big desk in his street-level office for fifteen years. Watching the passersby. Oh, it wasn't that he just sat there all the time. He dictated letters, worked out mutual fund proposals, used the calculator, and thought a lot. He was also out of the office a good deal. People don't walk in off the street to buy mutual funds any more than they do life insurance. David Fischer knew that damned well; he was one of the country's millions-honest-of ex-life insurance salesmen.
He had done a lot of dreaming, sitting in the swivel chair behind that six by four foot slab of walnut-top desk he'd got for a song, when someone in Mississippi went out of business and David had bought all the office furniture, sight unseen, for peanuts. (Not then.
He had known then that the price was good-but he'd paid a month's income.)
He'd done a lot of dreaming, a lot of thinking, a lot of watching.
He'd watched hair get longer on the males. And longer. David Fischer had grown sideburns. They felt good. He felt good with his face bracketed by their pale hair-paler than that on his head. And there was more of it, too; his head was getting tired, and refused to push hair up in a ever-larger area, up front. And moving back.
He'd watched female hair get longer, and straighter, less bouncy. He'd watched it go from the plastered look to the fluffy look to the stiff look; somebody oughtta take all those damned stinky cans of liquid plastic-pluslanolin and drop them on Hanoi. Or Washington, maybe. As an American and an independent businessman, he had lots of enemies in both places.
He'd watched breasts get less stiff and more bouncy, if not larger-in general. He'd watched skirts get shorter and shorter, and boots higher and higher, and leotards/ tights/pantyhose get wilder and wilder and more and more prevalent, widespread. Even the older women were wearing boots and encasing the rest of their shanks in electric blue and white-most of them shouldn't have-and forest green and calf-puke tan and bright red and purple.
He preferred black and electric blue. They did nice things for legs. Nice legs looked even nicer, with the calves making shiny places at the backs of the hose, particularly the black and electric-blue ones. Black was still the sexiest color, anyhow. The color of bedroom clothes, of female underwear, of lingerie and seduction.
He sat there, then, for fifteen years and watched tits get bouncier and bounder and skirts get shorter and shorter and taHs get waggier and waggier. And the eyes-bigger and bigger, as lips went into a decline and eyes moved to the fore in the complicated logistics of female seductive-attractive mechanisms.
And for the past several years, the Sexy Sixties years-they were over now, but the sexiness continued, and to hell with Pastoralization processes-he had had dream phantasies. He watched more carefully.
For years he'd been wishing that one or maybe two or five that would be nice of those sa-a-a-axy li'l gals would turn right, walk up the short sidewalk, open the outer door, enter the hall and close the outer door, knock and open his door and walk in and close it and push the button in the knob and pull the drapes across the big street-level window and without a word peel and sprawl right across his big long desk.
He was thinking about it today, watching a passing trio bf student-types switching their young tails past. A yellow mini and bare legs and white boots; long black hair so straight it looked as if it had been run over by a steamroller, while she lay in the street on her back, maybe. A green-and-yellow-and-purple-and-redhorizontally-striped knit blouse like a T-shirt, tucked so snugly into white hip-huggers he wondered if she had it pinned. To her youthful crotch, maybe. And a widecollared, long-collared white blouse with three buttons at the cuff, under a leather (probably that plastic stuff; what was its name?) vest, along with a leather miniskirt (probably the same stuff) and leather boots almost to the knee-Christ, that was sex!
They went on by. Watching, thinking, David Fischer's right hand moved out as if of its own accord and moved the paper-spike and Aztec four-ninety-eight-inMexico-City ashtray on his desk.
Couldn't have those things endangering her silken back when she came in and flopped on his desk!
That one, he thought. He was thirty-nine, of the Monroe-Mansfield-Taylor-Loren generation, and therefore a titman, a second-hand story man as he and Bob put it, hoho. But-that one. Bod like Nancy Sinatra, and she on television and Henry Fonda's daughter whersername in Barbarella had proven most effectively and graphically to David Fischer that thin, unbosomy girls could be as sexy as hell.
Closer to the bone the sweeter the meat, his buddy Strube had always said-and had married a body instead.
That one, David Fischer thought. Lots of blackencased leg, swinging easily out of her orange mini-a daring thing with zipper all the way down the front, its top decorated high on her chest by a drape-cord pull. It should have been labeled: For the Daring. Or, like Alice in Wonderland, Pull Me.
Her feet repped along in soft-looking, heeled suede boots, and her wavy brown hair swung and bounced and frothed about her shoulders and past them.
She had a face, too, and she carried a purse with a lot of hardware-very popular now; David Fischer had even bought a pair of Florsheims with straps and brass buckles, nonfunctional.
That one. You, you sweet-looking honey, he thought, and went through the wish routine.
She turned right. He heard the front door open. Heard booted heels in the hall. Heard his door open. Saw her. She stepped in and looked at him, deviating a bit from the old phantasy.
"Are you the Mister Fischer whose name is on the sign?"
He nodded. He was so caught up in the dream that he failed to think about business. He didn't stand up. "I sure am."
"Mister Fischer, are you busy right now? Could I talk with you?"
"Of course." And he remembered to stand up.
She glanced at the window, at the sunlight blazing on the chair beside his desk. Squinted at the window again.
"Mind if I draw that drape?"
"No no," he said, "here, let me . .
But she was already doing it, and her skirt hiked itself even higher on the backs of her thighs, gleaming through the black nylon they strained and strained against. The drapes hissed shut.
She turned and came over and sat down in the chair beside his desk.
"What," she asked, swinging one leg across the other with the complete self-possessed abandon of a girl, born to the mini, "are mutual funds?"
He stared at her. Was she serious? "Are-are you serious?"
She gazed at him. Lovely eyes: dark brown, long lashes, black, and the low-standard heavy mascara. Her lips were palely rouged, if at all. She had eyes and legs, and a butt that looked like two cantaloupes, in and on intimately cozy circumstances.
"Well, yes, I don't know what mutual funds are, really, and well no, I'm not really serious. I mean I don't care. Oh hell. The thing is Mister Fischer you see I was just walking along and I had this wild compulsion and I couldn't seem to pass your office. I mean what it is is I want to get laid."
That statement not only blew David Fischer's cool, it somehow affected his swivel chair so that the damned thing swung back and tipped and tilted too far and he went over backward in a wild flurry of waving arms and over-the-calf-socked legs.
"My god," she said, pouncing from the chair and squatting beside him, "are you all right?"
He looked straight along the left thigh, whose calf was doubled beneath it and whose toes were supporting her weight. He looked straight along and up it, shinyblack-smooth under the pantyhose, and he saw that they were the damnedst pantyhose he'd ever seen.
Her crotch, furred rather more lightly-brown than her head, seemed to peer at him. Wink. It beckoned. It looked very soft.
"I-I think so." He improvised as best he could: "I've been meaning to get that damned chair fixed."
She rose. "Oh don't be silly. It wasn't the chair. How often does a girl come in and tell you she wants to get laid?"
She dropped a hand to the big desk, ran her fingers over its smooth, brushed-walnut surface. She leaned her palm on it, pushed. The desk was a totally immovable object.
"Oh boy," she said, and crooked a long forefinger in the drape-cord pull. She pulled. The zipper zinged. All the way down. All the way. The dress fell open, as if it had suddenly become two separate but equal halves. She put back her arms and shrugged, and the two separate but equal halves of her chest appeared. They were unbrassiered. They didn't need a bra. They looked like two ice cream cones. It would be nice to say they were like two vanilla ice cream cones garnished with cherries, but that wouldn't be true. David really couldn't think of a cherry-sized fruit that was as sweetly, delicately pale pink as those garnishing her ice cream cones.
What they looked like, rather than cherries or even ice cream cones (you can't find the old pointed kind that you bit the ends out of anymore, anyhow) was: two stiff, erect, cone-shaped breasts, set well apart with a broad shiny valley between them. And tipped with delicate little pink nipples that looked as if they had been polished.
The pantyhose were very wicked. They were pantyhose, actually, but-they were cut out in front. In a v-shape, at the crotch. Which he'd already seen, shinyfurred, but he looked again just the same.
He'd seen pantyhose like that in old Charles Allison's secretary's Frederick's catalog, he remembered.
She kept them on. Also the boots. She just sort of shrugged, and the dress dropped. He nearly blew his cool again when she bent for it. Her breasts didn't even swing down, or ripple more than a very, very little. They just stayed there, pointing with devil-may-care lack of politeness.
She picked up the little dress, drape-cord swinging, and placed it carefully on his desk. She turned, put her hands behind her on the desk, and lifted herself easily. Her hips flowered outward as her pert fanny plumped on the desk. She looked down at him, her eyebrows up. She still wore the shameless pantyhose and the softlooking suede boots-with back zippers.
"You are all right? I mean-can you get up and all?"
He nodded, snapped the strings connecting his eyeballs to her, and disentangled himself from the chair. He got up, lifting the treacherous chair onto its rollers.
"Uh-I trunk I ought to tell you-I'm Jewish," he said.
She shrugged; her breasts merely rode up with the smooth, jersey-like skin, then rode down again with hardly a quiver. "Probably married too, and that's probably what you started to say. Well, I'm Catholic. But we took that part about Perfidious Jews out of the mass, you know. Are you going to keep all your clothes on?"
"Uh...." He pulled his tie loose and, helplessly, not knowing what the hell else to do, started unbuttoning his shirt. He wore an undershirt only on real hot days, to catch the sweat.
"Oooh, nice," she said, swinging her legs a litfle. "I love hair on a man's chest, Mister Fischer."
"Uh...." He pulled back the shirt, pulling out its tails. He took a deep breath and unbuckled his belt. "Uh-my name's David."
"Well, I'm Mary Agnes Fisher, without the c in it, but I think I'd better just call you Mister Fischer. I mean-we shouldn't get involved, or anything."
"Uh...." His trousers slipped out of his fingers and dropped. She looked down. His white Haynes briefs held his erection high and snugly, a fat-looking lump pushing out the fly pocket.
"Ummm," she murmured, and she reached for him, thereby saving him some more very embarrassing moments.
Lying on her was nice, and so was sliding into the damp heat of her satiny interior. But the desk wasn't too nice under his knees, and her movements were quite restricted. But it was nice.
She had to dress and leave pretty quickly, because she was on an 11:30 to 12:30 lunch hour and she was "starved." Starved, "I mean starving!"
She left, and it was maybe fifteen minutes before he got around to noticing that the zippers up the backs of her suede boots had scratched hell out of the brushedwalnut surface of his desk.
He dreamed about it all afternoon, and the rest of his life, truth to tell.
But he left his drapes closed, always.
1230 hours:
Ole Charles Allison at lunch
The first thing Charles Allison did was meet Madelyn Maslow for lunch at the Golden Horse, and the next thing was he got a very good little table over in the corner against the wall where it was pretty dark and intimate and they could talk about her apartment building. He would handle the rentals, and the ad was due to go into the papers Thursday.
The next thing he did was decide to have tomato juice as a cocktail, when she did, and the next thing he did was to order two enormous chefs salads with ham and hard-boiled egg and so on. Then the next thing was he went ahead and bounced the six questions and suggestions off her, and she nodded six times.
Which meant that business was over, and he was shocked.
"That's all fine," she said. "You get such good ideas, Mister Allison. You just go ahead and write the ads and everything, and I'm sure we'll have it all rented in no time."
She is a very handsome, plump widow, he thought, who takes care of her face and her hair and everything, whether she's thirty-three or not. I'll bet she hates like hell to wear a girdle, and I bet she could get by without it, too. I wish ... I really wish we could get just a little more intimate. She looks like she knows how to ... to....
The next thing that happened was that her knees contacted his, and rubbed and stayed, and then after that her hand went down and played with his knee and then his thigh, and it stayed there while the girl brought the plates with the big bowls of salad and crackers and left them and switched off to her next chore.
Charles did his level best to keep eating, while Mrs. Maslow-Madelyn-picked at hers, left-handedly. Her right arm first drew down his zipper, then slipped easily, coolly inside. Her fingers managed to wriggle into his briefs, although it was getting a little tight in there. And hot, too. He appreciated the coolness of her fingers.
Then she caressed and rubbed and squeezed and wanked him up and down while he essayed desperately to finish his lunch.
"I think I've changed my mind, Mister Allison," she said. "I think maybe we ought to go over that ad together, and I don't have my reading glasses. Could you come by the house tonight sometime?"
Damn!
I'm afraid-damnit, I can't. What about tomorrow night, Mrs. Mas-low!" He gasped out the final syllable as she squeezed and caressed the tip of the head of his indecorously inflated sex with her thumbnail.
She sighed. "I suppose tomorrow night will just have to do, then," she said. "But call me Madelyn."
"I'm Charles, Madelyn."
She smiled at him. Nice teeth, too, and he knew her breath was pleasant. "It's a shame, I guess, but I suppose I'd better stop. It would make a frightful mess if I just went on, wouldn't it."
"Uh-um-yes, I guess it would." He tried to smile.
She patted it, tried hard to tuck it back into his shorts, and he flinched as she tried to bend the unbendable.
"Oh dear. You'd better do it. But-save it for me, won't you, Charles?" He promised.
Fortunately the damned thing subsided by the time he'd finished eating, and he was able to get it back into his briefs and zip up. He sighed in relief and glanced around.
The woman at the table with the fat woman winked at him.
Sitting on a cloud looking down and watching Men and stuff, Wert sighed.
Boy that Charles Allison character, he said to Werb, has about as much imagination as David Eisenhower!
Yeah baby, Werb said to Wert, squinting, but ... watch ole Bill Gurney!
1250 hours:
Texas, deep in the heart of society
Bill Gurney sighed and closed his eyes.
M ... and Do Something about the Poor Unfortunate Disadvantaged Children in the Glenmore area," Mrs. C. Maxwell Bettelheim said, and said, and said, pronouncing the world "^4-reea."
Bill rolled his eyes and sighed.
A Junior League Luncheon! Man, this was the life. Just him and all this female flesh. Gusseted, corseted, tight-bra'ed, pile-haired (and probably pile-bottomed, too), square-toed, block-heeled, buckle-shoed, kneeskirted....Oh god. What was the use. Society dames, and pronounce that to rhyme with bombs.
First they were society damsels, ("demoiselles," the society page said, always), and they had their Coming Outs ("Here they are boys, the best money in town, and their mother and I have reared em for years and if yon can stand these cold fish come on to the feed; it's costing me a goddam fortune, and why don't you do me a favor and elope with that brace-toothed bitch I've been raising, to save me the price of the dental bills and the wedding"). The School (Mrs. So-and-so's first, then Vassah or one of those places); they were all Vassah, to Bill Gurney, who pronounced his r's, but never in Vassah or Hahvahd. Then, finally, they got themselves married-to money, keep it in the peer-group, dear; preserve the wealth and vote Republican. And then they left the Cotillion Club and joined The Junior League-after a little felinistic blackball session or three of their cautious peers.
And then these double-god-double-damned luncheons.
Never a lunch. Never a supper.
Luncheons. And an occasional Tea. Careful how you pronounce that; the British way is best if you don't mind. It isn't easy; maybe a week's worth of Finishing School will teach you how to pronounce it properly. Propahly.
Bill heard the roar of laughter and the Whooooopeeeeee from the hotel's adjoining ballroom. He wished to hell he were in there. All those guys in ten-gallon hats and tooled boots-mostly blond leather, with their big round Longhorn Breeders Journal recognition buttons: L.B.J. and a picture of a steerhead, horns curving up and around to frame the man's name, typed big with one of those special IBM typewriters.
Bill nearly dropped his spoon into the melting greenyellow-pink-white-(tastefully pale) purple of his frozen parfait.
Jesus H. God! In tennis shoes! Man, what a thought!
What a thought!
And what an absolute, consummate, unconditional, indecorous and downright delicious B-a-I-I!
It was a helluva thought: Would I ever like to see these prissy rich bitches get into a real wingding lollapalooza party with all those Texicanst
Somewhere, a grumlin was listening.
It began with the entry into Ballroom A of the barrel-bellied, florid-faced man in the brass-buttoned, yoke-shouldered shirt and the white hat that must have been made by Stetson and surely was capacious enough for twenty rather than ten gallons.
He popped through the door up near the head of the room, looked beaming out over the assembled society ladies, and mounted the platform.
Clump-thump, clump-thump, went the high heels of those hand-tooled blond-leather boots as he strode along the platform, heels coming down first, then the incredibly long pointed toes.
He strode straight to the side of Mrs. C. Maxwell Bettelheim, who paused in midsentence, still standing beside rather than behind the lectern. Thus there was no missing, for anyone in the big room, the sight of the misplaced cowpoke's big red-backed hand descending upon her corseted rump with a resounding thwack.
She jerked and shot out a foot to catch herself; his hand bounced. He shook it, rubbing the palm with his fingers.
"Yew ladies have been here for nigh onto an air now, ever since twelve, and yew are disturben us gentle menfolk in the next room!"
"Ya-a-a-a-ahoooooooo!" Someone yahooed for the adjoining room.
"Hooooooooopee!" Someone else replied with equal exuberance.
"Well just what do you handsome big fellers from the lone stah state aim to dew about it?" Mrs. C. Maxwell Bettelheim demanded, and Bill Gurney nearly fell out of his chair. The accent! It was gone! Sure, she had one now; fake Texican. But her cultured sassiety bettedavis accent ... it had dropped from her like Lord Greystoke's clothes once he hit the trees and went native as Tarzan.
"Well I sure ain't gonna slap your delectablblble rump, again, yew soul-stirren filly."
Mare, Bill Gurney thought.
"Cain't see why a gal as handsome and full-fleshed as yoreself straps herself in with that awful lastic saddle, anyhow," the florid-faced man bawled, still speaking right up into the microphone.
Mrs. C. Maxwell etcetera simpered. Honestly. She did.
"Saddle! Saddle! Why that ain't no saddle, pard, that's a...." she paused. Even in her Debbie Reynolds idea of a Texican accent, even under the spell of the Great Twenty-Four Hour Thing, she could not say "girdle." (Or maybe it would have been "corset.") "That's a-a saddler
And Bill Gurney dropped his surreptitiously lifted camera as Mrs. C. etcetera etcetera slapped ole Tex on the back and hit all fours in the twinkle of a fat-roll. She wagged her broad beam.
"Yaaaaahooooooo!" the Texican hollered, and he plumped himself astride the filly-mare-'s-broad flanks so that her belly sagged low before she humped her back again. He yanked off his hat and dusted her tail with it. "Yahooooo! C'mon in boys-they're 'menable!"
They flooded in from the other room with an earthshaking clump-thump of boots, tall ones and short ones and fat ones and skinny ones, hairy ones and bald ones, young ones and old ones, genyoowine bona fidee Texans from Missouri and California and Kansas and Kentucky and Tinnysee and Georgia and Alabama and Loosyana and even Teyuxas.
Mrs. Bettelheim's delighted and really quite creditable whinnies were lost in the general melee.
"Lord god, honey, you must have the biggest tits in the 'tire state of California!"
"They are," Mrs. J. Roderick van Nuys said, "in a state of intense heat and mortification, strapped in like this, I tell yew!"
"Lord god, little girl, you are an absolute dee-light for sore eyes and make em even sorer! My name is Larson B. Johnson from Larson City and who the hell are you?" The big sagfaced man's hand slapped a plump haunch. "Hot damn! You're wearen a-a...."' .. saddle," she told him, slapping at his handwithout enthusiasm. "I'm Mrs. T. Huntington-I mean I'm Sally, ah, Schmaltz, handsome, and are you really named Larson, from Larson City too? in Texas?"
"Gawd no, Sally-honey! Pardon me!" He hoisted her skirt and devoted big hands to the not inconsiderable task of dragging down her girdle-make that corset. "Larson City, Loosyana, honey, where the men are men and the wimmen damwell know it! God, I was beginning to think there wasn't nothen but slcinny fillies in this state! Umm my-look at that! Sally honey-you ever bin laid on a table before?"
"Watch the forks!" the tall lanky man nearby called, extricating the left hand of a very skinny dishwater blonde-father: railroads; husband: star's-psychiatrist's son-from the fly of his whipcords. He slapped her one in the face and she fell into his arms, clutching.
"Look here damnit, I just naturally don't go for gals with laigs like fence-slats and chests like mine! Herelet me find ole Bill Clarkson of Clarkson, Texas-man he's got a 400-pound wife and a eighty-pound mistress, and he's gonna go wild over you!"
"Will he slap me?"
Ole Bill Clarkson of Clarkson, Texas was pinned down by a woman at least a hundred pounds lighter than his wife and maybe one-ten. She was assiduously endeavoring to smother him between and within and under the great snow-white balloons of her bosom, liberated by the Levi-jacketed man behind her who'd been distracted by the attack of the Littie League Food Chairman. She went at him hungrily.
"Yaaaahoooooooooooooooor The first man into the room: Tex, a bug-eyed Gill Gurney thought, what else?-was still riding madame Chairman, who was huffing along the platform. At the end, a few feet away, was a man who looked maybe ten feet tall and who wore a bright red shirt with a bright yellow scarf knotted around his neck and hanging down to his belly-buttonwhich was being unbuttoned, along with his shirt and whipcords, by one of the few true beauties in the room. He was waving one long arm in the air. At its end, waving like a muliebritous standard in a high wind, was a lovely white-lace C-cup brassiere.
"It came from Nieman-Marcus!" he yelled. "It came from Nieman-Marcus down home!"
The tall lanky man (there were several; the one heretofore mentioned, with the skinny blonde in tow rather firmly anchored to his bod) found Bill Clarkson.
"Bill! Hey Bill! Looka this one. Look at-for god's sake, woman, get the hell off of him!"
He thrust the skinny blonde aside and wrapped five long fingers in the hair of the 300-pounder (maybe it was 290) whose breasts were covering Bill Clarkson's nose and mouth; Clarkson's eyes were bugging in a creditable imitation of Jerry Colonna. The big woman's bun blew up, and the tall lanky man set his foot against Bill's hip and dragged. "Yeeeeowww!"
"You mean Yowhoooo, honey," the tall lanky man said, getting her off Bill. "Now don't you go awayman, do I like them tits!" He swung around, dodged the skinny blonde's pounce, and caught her around the waist as she plunged by. He swung her into the air, spun around, and dropped her flush onto Bill Clarkson.
"This girl is absolutely pinen for you, Bill!"
"Gwow, you are the slimmest! I can't even feel yayou sure all of you's on me, little girl?"
"Do you slap?"
"Slap! Honey I have never mistreated a gentle wo . .
"She wants to be slapped around a little, Bill," the tall lanky man yelled; then yelled again and flailed his arms as the woman with the incredibly pillowy bosom dragged him down and began arranging him into position.
Crack!
"Ohhh baby!" the skinny blonde sighed, her face glowing with the four long marks of Bill Clarkson's hand. "Ohhh baby!" And she grasped his head in both hands, lying full length on him, and kissed him with all her strength. Her body writhed and twisted and wriggled on him, skirt sliding up and hose rumpling, and by the time the tall lanky man was gurgling and flailing, trying to avoid being smothered in thirty or forty pounds of unmistakably mammalian flesh, the blonde's fanny pads were flying through the air. Bill Clarkson's hands clamped into place where the foam demi-globes had been.
One of them dropped directly onto the face of Mrs..that is Sally Schmaltz-who lay groaning across a table, her plump thighs and chubby calves dangling, one shoe off and toes curling. Larson B. Johnson stared down at her strangly obscured face, but did not move his hands from the table on either side of her quivering shoulders. Nor did he interrupt the 4-4 tempo of his hunching.
The other pad skittered across the adjacent table, overturning a parfait glass, which rolled and dropped. It shattered. A tiny piece of flying glass shot through the air to bounce off the naked, quivering bosom of the short-haired brunette pinned to the floor by the long-haired brunette who still wore all his clothes.
He jerked his head up from the nipple he was lingually laving, and he frowned.
She winced and raised a hand to the side of her breast. Raising it, she looked at the red smear. "Oh darling," she told him, "honey don't biter
The room, to coin a cliche, became a shambles.
It resembled a scene out of Dante illustrated by Dore. Naked and stocking-encased limbs waved everywhere. Bodies roiled and groaned.
Whoooppeeeeees bounced off the ceiling and ricocheted from the walls. Bras and panties and tengallon hats filled the air like white caps at an Annapolis graduation. So did squeals, howls, yells, moans, groans, whimpers, juicy fleshy squishy slappy sounds, and good honest grunts.
Bill Gurney, somehow unaffected and left out of the marvelous orgy, could not believe it. Again and again he closed and opened his eyes, shaking his head and squinting to see if that changed matters. It didn't.
Not six feet away Joceline (Mrs. T. Willis, III) Garver knelt, her face burrowing into the opened and very tight black-and-white-vertically-striped trousers of a man who looked seven feet tall and probably weighed one-sixty. Her hands kneaded and clutched at the cherubic cheeks of his bottom, holding his groin fast against her face. Then he jerked, and she was forced to withdraw to shake her head no-no, let-mommy-handle gesture, when her eyes rolled to Bill.
"Bill! I certainly hope you aren't the jealous sort!"
Bill shook his head, his glazed eyes rolling like marbles. Wish I were next, baby, green-eyed baby doll Joceline with the educated mouth!
The big Kentuckian laboring over the bosomless but lovely-fannied woman beside Bill gave a powerful lunge at that moment.
"Uh! Mister Kaintuck, you must be ten inches."
"Circumference, ma'am," he said, and the chair broke, and a booted foot flailed for balance and kicked the table, and Bill Gurney's camera jumped off, and the same booted foot came directly down onto it. Totally by accident.
Bill groaned and looked for Melissa Richards, who'd come along to write the story.
Bill's eyebrows did their best to clutch his hairline.
Melissa had told him very positively nothing doing, not seven nights ago, and had insisted that she was a virgin, and she was staying that way. She'd then asked if he had any other ideas, and had acted a little odd when he put her hand on his upstraining penis and sank a finger into her-carefully, so as not to break the membrane by which she judged her honor and society judged her market value.
Obviously Bill just hadn't thought big enough, which was why she'd given him the funny look before ihey pantingly mutual-masturbated each other.
She was bent forward across a table, the plates and china and parfait glasses having been cleared, and she was wearing her skirt-hem around her waist and her panties around her ankles. The pantsless but booted man-how had they done that?-behind her held a butter dish in one hand and her bottom in the other. He seemed to have lost a finger, the middle one. Even as Bill looked the finger appeared, glistening, swung to the butter dish, plunged in. The hand went back to her upturned cheeks and the finger vanished again.
Bill squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head. Blinked three times.
Then he looked back.
The butter dish was on the floor. Each of the man's hands was on one of Melissa's really delectable and burgeoning buttocks. He stood very close to them. Very close. She was groaning and wiggling; he was jerking back and forth, the flesh of his groin slapping her bottom.
Bill was just starting to curse when he felt the hand on his fly and looked down at a bent head topped by a pile of Christmas angel-hair.
Suddenly he knew that the story would be neither photographed nor written nor even discussed. There were enough Caesar's wives present to buy the hotel and its management and the whole damned police department.
Then he groaned and sighed.
1340 hours:
The honeymooners revisited
Steve Leibowitz regarded his worm-like penis with bright-eyed interest.
Sally Leibowitz, rosy-cheeked and breathing through her mouth, watched his wristwatch with bright-eyed interest. She held it in her hand. The wristwatch.
"Nine minutes," she said.
Steve's stomach responded with a lion-like rumble. "I think I'll call down for breakfast," he said. "It must be nine or ten o'clock by now."
Sally glanced secretly up at him, smiled secretly, and said, "Getting a little late, sweetheart, yes. But I'm not hungry."
"You're about the hungriest woman I ever...."
"Ever what?"
"...saw. Ever saw."
"I should hope so. And you've got to be the most virile man in the world!" She cupped his stubbly cheek with her hand. "Oh Steve! I'll be sore for a month."
"God, me too. Let's just phone down for...."
"Ten minutes," she announced.
The worm stirred, twitched, flinched a little, lengthened. It squared its shoulders and started rising. Up, and up, until it trembled high and hard and redheaded. It quivered like a thoroughbred at the starting gate.
"Ooooh darling!" Sally scrambled quickly, crawling up his legs.
"Oooh god." Steve sank back onto the bed, watching helplessly as she impaled herself and began another ride to the end of the world.
1300 hours:
Swiftly on his appointed rounds x
I goofed, Joe Petro thought, shrugging the mailsack over closer to his neck. I goofed, damnit. Here I've been crazy about Miz Borstelman all this time, and I had to go and knock on Miss Norman's with that danged big envelope that wouldn't fit the box, and she hadda be showering, and came to the door in her robe, and I hadda look at that pretty V and wish some of that book stuff would happen and she'd invite me in.
And look what happened! Dang! If my wishes are that potent, I wish I'd saved up for Miz Borstelmann. Stella. Pretty name, dangit. Good-looken woman. Bet she doesn't even know I've been a widower longefn she's been a widder-woman. Well, almost like a widower-god he missed his mother! But-oh boy, Joe Petro thought, listen to ya!
Knock on an absolute doll's door, see her in that black robe with her breast-tops peeking out like two little warm white pups, and right away wish that were yours for about twenty minutes, and-what happens? Now you wish it hadn't happened.
"Oh thanks," Miss Norman had said, taking the big envelope.
"Wouldn't fit in the box," Joe Petro said, dragging his gaze out of that V that plunged down between her breasts.
She didn't clutch her robe. "I was taking a shower-golly, it's hot this afternoon, isn't it? You look a little red, Mister Petro. Why don't you come in for a glass of water or something?"
Getting even redder and sweatier, Joe Petro followed her into the air-conditioned apartment. She brought him a glass of water, tinkly with ice, and as she handed it to him her robe dropped open. He goggled.
She held his hand when he accepted the glass. "Oh, Mister Petro! Take-me-I'm-yours."
And she was, for about twenty minutes.
He just stepped right into the robe and kissed her, her bare breasts mashing against his chest. She winced when the forgotten glass he held touched her back, and she lurched forward. Her bare crotch slammed into his trousered one, and she groaned.
"Oh ... god ... that bulge ... Mister Petro ... please...."
Joe set the glass down on the table beside the couch, beside his mailbag and his cap. He started for the couch.
"In here," she said, tugging his hand, and he followed her into the bedroom where she turned around and came against him, kissing him with her hands between them. They unzipped his pants.
The bedroom was dark. The blinds were pulled, and they glowed a funny sort of greenish-yellow where the sun ate at them, trying to get in.
"I suppose you don't have much time ... maybe I shouldn't undress you...." And, after pulling him free of his shorts-apparently not noticing that they were nylon tricot; he galled so danged easily-she sat on the bed, then fell back.
It was true, he didn't have much time. So he kept his clothes on. He stepped in between her thighs, swinging off the edge of the bed, and squatted a little. His painfully swollen shaft slipped through the tight ring of her vaginal muscle, and she groaned despite being very wet inside. She clamped down, and it was Joe's turn to moan. The long hot probe rammed forward in one desperate lunge, deep into her quaking belly. She twisted beneath him, convulsively, her face set in intense concentration and effort. Her teeth sank into her lip. Her eyes searched his face for signs that he felt it: the strong muscular action that sucked him deeper into her. He had to press the bed with both hands to withdraw, almost all the way, and she moaned and wiggled, undulating her hungry hips in an effort to coax him back into her.
He didn't need coaxing. He took his weight off his hands and put it on her, buttons and all, as he slid back into the humid mouth. He could feel the constant contracting and relaxing of her interior, could feel her hands on his shoulders, trying to pierce the cloth. And he could feel his rapid glides in and out, in and out, until she seemed to crumple up like wadded paper and then he couldn't help yelling as he blew up, way inside her. He jerked and stiffened all over, then sagged weakly upon her as he filled her to overflowing. "That ... was ... very nice, Mister Petro," she said.
"I'm ... getting married tomorrow, and I just suddenly wanted ... you know. One last time. I'm going to be the most faithful wife who ever lived."
I'll bet you will, he thought, as he walked on down the sidewalk, after visiting her bathroom and zipping up and shouldering the bag again. I'll just bet you'll be faithful. Huh. I hope your postman's a hunchback with warts out to here and snaggle teeth and lord knows what else, and I hope you're the most faithful wife in the whole damned state!
Which was how he did his second good deed for the day; third, if you count the envelope.
But dangit, if today's my day for making wishes, I wish I'd wished ifd be Miz Borstelmann who invited me in! I'd wish for more with her....
He closed his eyes and nearly ran into the telephone pole; he jerked away, glancing around. And looked straight into Mrs. Borstelmann's face.
She came rushing across her porch and down the steps and out the sidewalk to him, her marvelous motherly bosom jumping all over itself within her wrapped housedress size fourteen maybe sixteen. She came straight to him and grasped his arm.
"Mister Petro! Oh, lord save us, Mister Petro, you nearly ran into that post and bashed all your brains out! Here-you're overheated! Give me that."
While he was still blinking, wondering, she slipped the mailbag off his shoulder and slung it over her own softly-padded one, then grasped his hand with hers. It was soft. It reminded him of his (poor dead these three years) mother's.
Silly. His mother had been sixty-seven when she died, and he was forty now, and Mrs. Borstelmann was about his age.
"You just come along into the house and sit down and drink some iced tea-not too much, mind youand maybe have a piece of cake, Mister Petro." And she started up the walk, carrying his sack over her shoulder, pulling him along after her. Up the walk and up the three steps and across the porch and into the house and the living room that looked homey and smelled homey and made his eyes get wet and his throat knot
She unshouldered the mailsack and turned, still clinging to his hand. "Here now you poor overworked man, you sit down here on the couch and I'll fix you a big glass of iced tea and a piece of cake. You need to cool off, anybody can see that. And you need nourishment too. I'll bet you don't eat enough lunch, do you. Here now, you're in my house you big rascal you, and you take off your hat and mind your manners. Now you stop looking at my bosom like that, you big scamp, I'm a respectable widow and you're a-what are you, Mister Petro?"
"A bachelor. I lived with my mother, and she died three years ago...."
"Oh poor soul! And bless you for being a dedicated son. I lost my husband Otto two years ago and-oh I'd better get that iced tea for you Mister Petro before you just pass out right there on my couch! Here, I'll tell you what, you probably shouldn't sit down anyhow, it'll make your back and bottom all hot you just come into the kitchen and I'll get you a nice cold glass of iced tea and a piece of-my god, Mister Petro, ain't it lonely?"
He nodded, and there were tears in both their eyes, and so Joe Petro's wish came true and they lived happily ever after, him and his mother-wife Stella, and once again Werb and Wert had goofed and done good and they got one helluva black mark, you can believe that.
1340 hours:
Baby baby light my flyah!
Man, that chick's got a-s-sf Lord god baby would I like to get me some of that good stuff! Bet she can twist a man's die thing off thout even tryen! Hot damn man, looka that muthah walk! She switches that ole thing all over the sidewalk man, I mean she has got it and don't I wish I had it! Man don't I wish I had me about the biggest mouthful of them old tiddies I ever had in my life, with some Old Yellowst-now man, make it Maker's Mark! A great big mouthfulla them tiddies, just chockfull of Maker's Mark with maybe a little Bud in the other one, man, so's I could just have me a beer chaser like a boilermaker man, and by the holy lord god Jee-ho-vuh-uh-uh! Lookit her switch an sway a boilermaker man, (And he laughed aloud, thrusting himself out from the wall into the center of the sidewalk white hat creased down the middle chalk-striped bellbottoms with a creased cut you open like a knife in the guts boots with rings on the sides man, got pulls for a man to lay hold of em and pull em on the old feet and a yellow shirt that was silk baby with the longest collar-points in town and that old purple and yellow and white and red scarf knotted up there just right, boy, with a buffalohead ring on it, with horns man, and a jacket with fringes oh it that looked like something, ole Buffalo Bill woulda given his left nut to have and hair natural baby, natural, ain't no mistaken this cat for no honk er no muthafucken uncle torn boy) a Boilermaker, Maker's Mark in the left and Bud in the right, boy, and juicy thing down there with enough black hair on it to make an alpaca coat and enough juice inside to grease a Cadillac! Just suck them old things and fill that old hole all night, boy, all night, and never take it out till morning, let er know what a real man is baby and then just whack her on her black ass in the morning and tell her go your way, girl, go your way and do your thing, because I am a busy man with places to go and things to do, man, and got no time messen with no switch-tailed female during the daytime! Like....
She stopped.
"Hey baby you're blocking the sidewalk."
"Honey you not going to believe this, but let me lay it on you straight: honey, I own this motherin sidewalk!"
She looked at him. "I believe it boy. You buy it or fight for it?"
"Buy it? Honey I don't buy anything ... that turn you off?"
She shook her head, old natural hair wagging and like gleaming in the light from the streetlamp half a block down, little gold circles going right through them ears swinging and twinkling.
"Naw it don't turn me off none, big man, because this cat ain't selling!"
He grinned. "You got a light, little girl?"
"Man, that's gotta be the first time any man called me little girl since I was six."
"You look pretty little to me, little girl. I asked you, you got a light. Fire, like."
"That's because you're such a big cat, huh! Light ... what've you got to light, big man?"
"Got me a pack of Benson and Hedges in this pocket, and got me a little imported stuff from deep in the heart of Mexico right over here, baby, that's what I got, and you ain't answered me yet."
She turned her head a little on one side. She was a good-looking girl, all the way down. Kind of a funny look in her eyes, unnatural hardness there, little of it natural, a little of it feigned, and about half of it put there, put right there by the Man. But the soul was there. The Man tries hard, but he can't, cannot get to the soul and take that out, because the Man he does not know where it is at.
She looked at him, her head a little on one side. "I share a light, big man, what you sharen?"
Chest out head back pelvis out shoulders backlegs straight boots turned a little out, "What I got. A pack of Benson & Hedges, a little short green from down Mexico way, a pad with a steereeo, a little soul, that kind of stuff."
"Huh-you ain't mentioned nothen a girl can drink."
He nodded with a little grin. "I'll give you a little of what I'm gonna be drinken, babee." An arm lifted, a hand went out, a finger pointed, pushed. She didn't budge, just stared at him. He pushed right where the nipple should be in the right one, she didn't move. Didn't turn a hair. "Little Maker's Mark in this one right here, little Bud in this one right here. You lucky I let you have some."
She laughed. "Man, you got to be the wildest kookoo cat I've run up on in about eighty years. What kind of name you using this week."
"This week I am James Green."
"What was your name last week, man, that ain't asken too much?"
He shook his head. "Last week, little girl, I was James Brown, but some singen cat made me change it cause I was embarrassing him I sing so beautiful and he so ugly."
She laughed. Her hand came up and wrapped around the wrist of the hand still trying to punch its way into her lung the long way. "You get the light when I get something to light."
"Baby, I can light your fire right?"
"Man, I believe you."
"Baby, I light no fires on the street?
"You been braggen about haven a pad an steereeo, best I remember."
"You walken the wrong way."
She took a step forward, a step left to bring herself up beside him, and she turned around. She looked at him.
He started walking.
Within ten minutes he had her in there and the door locked and the drapes shut up tight and Aretha telling it like it is from the old stereo, and that little light on top of the stereo doing good things to the room. He walked straight back from the stereo and circled her with his arms and gave her a kiss that damn near lost him a perfectly good tongue and got him a mouthful in return.
"Listen, I still want that light, little girl, but I think I ought to get your fire lit first"
"You a strong man, big man?"
"Strong. Who's gonna get you natural, me or you?"
She did it and he watched. Blouse. White brassiere, lacy, big brown neeples playing hide-and-seek right through the cloth, big jugs swelling right up out of it looked like a bowl of chocolate pudding. Two bowls. Splat that bra hit the floor, and the nipples went down about an inch and swung, and they were pointing at his abdomen as if nobody ever taught them what manners was. Skirt dropped like a forgetful parachutist hit the floor skimpy white panties reinforced crotch showed nothing but they went down too; slow-like with her eyes on him and her breasts swinging like they were caught in a high wind. Black hair, shiny, curling, doing its best to sneak up and take her navel by surprise; big navel, looked like a container for eyewash.
"You," she said, "are slow." And he stripped it off, all of it and put it to her hard and long and hot, standing up, and she knew how to tiptoe and drop, tiptoe and drop, her breasts dancing the damnedest jigs, tightening all up on him insidejuicy like enough to grease a Cadillac two Saturdays running. Then he went off like the U.S. Marine Corps Band cannon playing that wild thing with the cannon at the end, and she let out a whoop and sank her nails about six inches into his left shoulder and right back. He sank his into her butt to the same depth, and stood there filling her up like rationing started tomorrow.
Then they sat down and he got the grass out of the fringed jacket, and she about blasted his eyes out by standing up and turning from him and then bending over to pick up her purse, small and shiny and red. She was too far to swat, and he let it go so that she gave him an odd little look when she turned around. She sat on the little rug facing him, folding her legs too. He lit it carefully, sucking deep and holding it tight while he swallowed with elaborate care and skill. Passing the joint to her. She tried to inhale the whole damned thing, her eyes straight on his, and he didn't let that smoke out till she did.
"Man, you got control," she said, leaning forward to hand it back breasts swinging forward stomach creasing thighs and calves tensing with the light beautiful on them.
"Wanted me to swim the Channel," he told her, "but I didn't have a bathing suit"
She laughed. He laughed. He took another hit she did, and she reached around for her purse again. She grinned at him, flourishing the bobby pin.
They smoked it right down to the prongs on the bobby pin and he tried to swallow the rest. Then he reached out and grabbed a handful of good firm soft finger-licking good tit and pulled. She came with it without a sound or a flinch.
"Which one's that?" she asked, and he told her that was the one with the beer. She fell against him, and he kissed her, eyes tight-closed now while the stuff played around in his belly and groin and way up in his head saying go. baby go you are a neon light.
She twisted around. "Beer second," she said. "What's thisun?"
"Maker's Mark," he told her, and he bent his head, wrapping the soft hunk of flesh with his hand-which would not circle it, not quite-and slipped his lips over the tip. He tongued it that way for about a minute with his eyes closed, his head taking off and all that peace and calm and goodstuff feeling coming over him, and then he put his tongue out of the way and sucked.
It squirted straight up his tongue and into the back of his throat. He coughed and swallowed and swallowed again. It went down, fire over the throat, burning in the belly.
"Jesus Christ!"
"What's your problem?" she asked, frowning a little, like what the hell was wrong with that breast.
"I just got a mouthful of straight whiskey, baby, I mean not just whiskey-whiskey, but Maker's Mark all the way."
She laughed and proffered the other breast. "Better have your chaser then," she said, going along with the gag.
He tried it, got a mouthful of beer, which went down a lot easier, and pulled some more. He gulped it down. Good.
"Beer?" she said.
"Beer," he said.
"Bud?"
"Oh sure."
She laughed delightedly, shaking and putting fingers into his hair to pull, wagging his head.
"I don't know if you are the wildest, the most dynamic, or if you just hit like World War Two, man!"
He stared at her. Then he shook his head and bent it. He slipped his lips straight in over the right nipplelong, now, and stiff and hard and thick, a big pencil eraser in his mouth. He sucked, carefully, so it didn't burn him so much this time. Then he filled his mouth.
He straightened up, grabbed her by both ears, and brought their mouths together. She sighed and opened wide, flowering to him, and he shot it between her teeth, filling her mouth with her own nectar.
She coughed for about two minutes, till tears ran down her cheeks.
"Man, what in the hell did you...." She stared at him. Then she started laughing. "Baby, I've heard this about acid, but never grass!"
"What? Titful of booze?"
"No man. I'm on your trip. I mean-that was booze!"
It was his turn to laugh, and he did, and they did, and they spent a lot of time sucking tiddy and transferring from one mouth to another, and they both passed out on the rug and woke up with headaches that wouldn't quit. Then they tried to figure out what the holy mothering hell had happened.
1420 hours (2:20 PM, for nonveterans)
Bill Gurney dopes it out
Sitting at the desk trying very hard to look as if he knew what he was doing, Bill Gurney watched Morey's face as he took the phone call and started scribbling.
Oh Christ. Someone's calling from the hotel! Look at him. Look at him, for godsake; looks like he's getting the story straight from Mrs. C. Maxwell Bettelheim!
Morey set the phone down; it rattied as his shaking hand cradled it. He glanced around, saw Bill looking at him. He came over.
"Horned toads, Bill, horned toads! Help me to the nearest coffee, will you?"
Bill got up and walked with him. "What-what was it, Morey?"
Morey shook his head. Drew a deep breath. Sighed it out, shaking his head again. Sucked in more breath.
"Bill ... let me just tell it fast, without details, and then I think maybe I might be able to talk about it. A very large-bosomed woman sitting next to a man on a bus was just strangled-by her own breasts. There were witnesses. She...."
"Huh? How? What the hey are you ..
"There were witnesses, Bill. She was sitting there, and then she slapped the man beside her, and by the time they'd reached the next stop she screamed and the man jumped up. That attracted everybody's attention; there were twenty or thirty people on the bus. Her own big bazoos came up out of her dress, rose straight up and wrapped around her neck and squeezed. Nobody could get them loose. She's dead."
"Morey, hell! It was a gag call. Good grief, you can't possibly...."
"The guy sitting next to her broke up. He hit both knees right there on the bus. Said he'd done it. Seems he just couldn't resist those big jugs of hers, and he copped himself a little feel. That's when she belted him. Don't ask me why he stayed there, or why she did. Anyhow, then he said he wished those damned things she was so stingy with would just up and strangle her to death. They did."
"Morey," Bill Gurney said, and then his eyes snapped wide and the light-bulb flashed over his head.
God that mouth! What the hell, what the holy burning hell would that feel like clasped around a man's tool? And those green green eyes looking up at me as she flickered her tongue ... I wish....
Would I ever like to see these prissy rich bitches get into a real wingding lollapalooza party with all those Texicans!
Wish I were next baby, green-eyed baby doll Joceline with the educated mouth!
"Bill...." Morey stared after the other man as he turned and rushed back to his desk.
Bill plumped down and grabbed the phone. Nine for Outside-hell, he didn't know the number. He grabbed the book and dug and went right over it and then found it and kept a finger on it while he dialled.
"City Newsstand."
"Joe, this is Bill Gurney at the Times."
"Kee-riste, Bill, I've told the story to a million people awready! Just lemme sell papers, huh?"
"Joe, I know the story. I've got one question. And this is in absolute confidence. I swear. Listen Joeabout that gal. The one whose clothes flew off and started playing kite...."
"Lord, Bill, I know which girl. Think I'll ever forget?"
"I guess not. Well, one question. In strictest confidence, Joe. Joe, I know she came in every morning for a paper, and she was about as sociable as a ratdesnake."
"Aw Bill, it wasn't like that. Not like thaaat-I mean she just didn't speak or nothen."
"Right, Joe," Bill said, with a little sigh. "What I meant. Okay Joe, here's what old Bill wants to know, and not for the paper or anything else, just for a theory I'm working on. I swear: strictest confidence. Joe: did you wish her clothes would fly off?"
Silence. The silence answered him. His palm sweated around the phone. His armpits prickled. His eyes narrowed. The silence lengthened. It was loud, loud in his ear.
Then Joe Gonzaga said, "Aw come on, Bill, you know me! Think something like that?"
"Right Joe. Bye." And Bill cradled the phone. Joe had wished it, just that.
And he, Bill Gurney Times photographer-sassietyhad wished Joceline Garver would fellate him, and he'd wished the Texans and the Junior League would somehow get together for an orgy, and later he'd seen Joceline on her knees before that hunching skinny guy, and he'd wished she'd come to him next.
And Joe Gonzaga had wished the highnosed broad's clothes would fly off and fluff her highnosed aplomb.
And some poor guy had got mad at a dame for slapping his chops when he couldn't keep his hands off her jugs, and he'd wished they'd strangled her.
And all of it had happened.
What the hell?
It wasn't possible. It just wasn't possible. Fairy tales. Fairy godmothers and magic wands and rings and magic lamps complete with Jeanie-genies, and....
But the brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen and the nuts who wrote the Thousand-and-One Nights and even Sir Richard Burton were dead.
Bushes didn't burn and Hercules didn't strangle a snake in his crib. Sea-waters didn't roll back and Clark Kent wasn't on any paper Bill knew about, and there wasn't any Daily Planet, either.
Wishes. Wishes. Wishes....
Three? All the stories have three wishes. You draw the pentagram and summon the demon, or you rub the ring, or you uncork the lamp and look up at the mighty genie-djinn-or you sign the pact with Satan or Beelzebub or Mephistopheles or Vincent Price, and ... you get three wishes.
Bill groaned.
How to prove it?
Ji the wish-thing were (impossibly, ridiculously, mind-blowingly) true, he'd already had his three wishes. How could he prove it?
He looked around. Well, maybe the two with Josie Garver had been one; both were the same wish, really. Maybe....
Hilda Hackenbush. He stared at her.
Hilda Hackenbush had been with the Times since Gutenberg. She had sat behind that desk and that ancient Underwood since Moses led her out of Egypt. And she had been born surly. Her vagina was a Sahara, a dust-mote, and there were cobwebs between her thighs. She'd been weaned on a green persimmon. She was without doubt the unfriendliest....
I wish dear old Hilda Hackenbush would come over here and give me a big wet kiss on the mou-cheek.
Hilda Hackenbush looked up. Her pruney face tilted a little as her beady eyes regarded Bill Gurney from behind steel-rimmed glasses that preceded the Jefferson Airplane and World War JJ movies and Eric von Stroheim and maybe even Ben Franklin, who had probably made them for her, come to think.
She got up. Bill quivered.
She walked around her desk. Bill's hand left wet prints on the desk-blotter before him. The stains spread.
She came across the room, directly toward him. Their eyes remained locked all the way. It took hours.
She stopped in front of the desk.
"Gurney?" She cocked her head.
"Yes, Miss Hackenbush. Bill Gurney."
"Bill Gurney. You take pictures."
He nodded, staring at her. His armpits overran and it tickled as it ran down his sides.
She came around his desk to stand beside him. She smelled like powder and sachet: lavender. She smelled like 1910. Maybe 1810.
"You take good pictures, Bill Gurney. You're a nice man."
And Hilda Hackenbush bent and planted a big wet kiss on Bill Gurney's cheek, Then she straightened up, gave him an odd look, and went straight back to her desk.
(Would it be cheating to say she never spoke to him again?)
Bill sagged in the chair. He looked around.
Something's happened. Aristotle's law have gone to hell. The good fairy reigns. Wishes come true. Whatever I wish ... good Fairy? What about the lady with the tits twisted around her neck?
Forget good and evil. All that Persian stuff Paul soaked up and put in his pastoral letters, piecing together a religion. Forget dualism.
Hell, forget fairies.
Today, wishes come true.
Maybe they did yesterday.
He thought, pushing his mind, closing his eyes to concentrate. Did I wish anything yesterday? Surely to heaven I did-it's the most normal thing in the world. Everybody in the world wishes. Sears Roebuck and lord knows who else-Detroit and Lyndon Johnsonhave known about it and used it for years. So ... what did I wish yesterday? Huh ... maybe it came true and I didn't notice, lfs just that today I got a little more spectacular about the whole thing.
Well, so what. Maybe it was around yesterday, maybe it wasn't. What's the difference? Today ... well, there wasn't any other explanation, That is maybe there were, but he had hold of a theory, a wild and unsane theory, and he couldn't let go.
The tail of the tiger. He hung on.
Maybe I can wag it some more.
And ... what about tomorrow? What if today's all there is? Something's happened, a comet went by or something, or some of us have suddenly developed the Power ... oh Lord!
On the way back from the hotel, he and Melissa, girl reporter from Sodom, had agreed: they'd write no story, they'd say nothing.
Now he thought: I wish that had been me ... no, that's silly. I wish she'd ask me/tell me to do that same thing.
His phone rang.
"Bill? Missy. Still no talkee?"
"Never. We swore. Never a word."
"And you're a gentleman," she said quietly. "You saw me, didn't you? But you didn't say a word."
He still didn't.
"Would you believe I was wishing it were you, Bill Gurney?"
He still didn't say a word.
"Well ... now you know what I meant the other night," she said.
"Yes. Now I know."
"Look ... uh, I don't often ask guys for dates. But ... how about coming over tonight? Give you a little wine, a little Chicken Cacciatore."
"A little what?"
She breathed heavily. "A little butter?"
"Five o'clock after work meet you at the street door for a drink first?"
"Right."
They hung up, breathing heavily. After about five elated minutes, Bill remembered, and he wished that the old man would come out of his office and clamp old Bill Gurney on the shoulder and tell him what an asset to the paper and the business he was and transfer him to Sports and give him-keep it sensible, he told himself-a hundred bucks a month raise.
He waited ten minutes.
A small raise and a shift to sports?
He waited ten more minutes, watching his watch.
Sports and no raise? And later
Tiny raise, period? And later
Nice pat on the back and....
Nothing. He blew forty minutes, then an hour, and then he sighed and got up and went out to get a new camera. Thank god he'd made that Melissa wish first!
Hey baby no fair, Wert said to Werb.
Cool the lip, Werb said to Wert. That guy's dangerous! Or would've been, anyhow.
Yeah doll, but you interferred with a Thing!
Permissible. He represented a danger. God knows what he might have wished for.
Name-dropper! What now?
Now, Werb said to Wert, Bill Gurney starts to forget.
1510 hours:
Iggy & Sam
Ignace Rinfrep had figured it out, too, in his own way. But he did not represent a danger, and he would not forget until he went to sleep; Werb had him marked.
Meanwhile, he wasn't dangerous.
He had sort of figured it out, though. He didn't think too fast, and he had about as much imagination as a high school principal. And less of everything else involving the area between his eyes and his cowlick.
But he didn't do too badly.
Reading-or rather looking at-the current issue of Escapade, he'd wished that doll would show up and bed down.
The doll showed, plopped the jugs into his hands, and crawled in. He'd spent so much time in her that he'd damn near forgot to go down and get the relief check. He inundated her interior, then slapped her tail and told her to blow. Then, starting to get up and go down to the mailbox, he'd looked at the magazine again.
Dumbass! That one's got a better set of jugs and butt too! You should wished she were here! Huh! I wish this Miss Browneyes right here would show up about now, ready to bed down with ole Iggy-ha! And with my relief check; who the hell wantsa go downstairs?
"Hi! Listen, I brought you your mail-okay if I just crawl in with you doll? I haven't had any cock all month!"
"Just put the mail there on the table," Iggy said, eyeing her jugs and trying to see her fanny when she started stripping. (So howcum she'd showed up in clothes? She was nekkid in all these pictures-what kind of crazy bit was this, she showed up and he had to wait while she stripped?)
She slipped into bed, and after about five minutes he thought Damnit, I wish the little bastard would just hurry up and get upl
Whereupon, of course, it popped happily erect and he grinned and flopped over and he and Miss Browneyes guided it into Miss Browneyes' well-greased love nook.
After she'd left, walking tight-legged, he checked the mail. Yeah, it was there. The good old check. Abie's Irish Rose wine tonight, boy! Till it came out his ears!
Huh-this Chinese chick. Cute, lotsa black hair, looked pretty on that funny yellow skin. Eyes not too bad; wasn't like she was real Jappy looking. Real cute breasts. And a round, soft-looking gut; bet the next little mountain they'd covered up with her thighs was fat and soft, too.
He yawned. Oh well.
I wish she'd show up and ask me for it, real nice.
"Iggy, sweetheart darling pussycat lover you doll strong man-please, pussyplease, let me have a few inches of your sweet manthing in me, huh baby?"
Iggy yawned. "Lick it first," he said, and when she'd slobbered over it for about ten minutes without results, moaning and whining and wagging her hips, he thought Damn the damn thing, I wish it would just come up and stay up. Nice to have a good hard-on all the time, always ready.
Thereafter Ignace Rinfrep led one hell of a complicated life.
Sam Harris sort of figured it out, too, but after he'd laid his landlady and then her two daughters and the leggy girl in the room down the hall and the Avon Lady he got up and shaved and dressed and went out and started walking around.
Hey, now there's a good piece a tail, hooka that thing go. I wish-nah, hell, man's gotta save himself. Be better stuff around the corner.
There was, very fine stuff indeed, gloriously, vehemently, and flagrantly fine stuff. But just as he decided that was ok and he'd just take her home with him, he looked up at the big billboard. It had been there-god, forever. Years and years.
Cleopatra
Elizabeth Taylor Richard Burton Rex Harrison and a lot of other stuff
Hey man, Liz Taylor! Sure-there was a bod he'd been thinking about for years and years! Wow, yeah, Liz Taylor! Man, that would be strictly ok!
He turned around and hurried home, almost running.
He rounded a corner and met the mailman coming down the street-good! The brown government envelope with its stiff check-was here! He hurried on.
Liz Taylor and the good ole gummint check, boy. Gin tonight!
He trotted panting up the steps and opened the door and the guy with his hand in Sam's mailbox looked up and his eyes stared and widened and glittered.
"Hey whatta hell you doen in my mailbox you goddam nig...."
Then the hand that wasn't in Sam's mailbox jerked and leaped out and the shiv went into Sam Harris' gut and he went down like an empty feedsack.
Thus was Dick preserved from Eddie's fate.
1550 hours:
Steve and Sally still sacked
"My god, honey." Steve Leibowitz said, "I'm starving to death. What time is it?"
Sally bounced up and down, up and down, her breasts jumping and swinging and hobbling and jouncing, her eyes bright and rolling. She planted her hands firmly on his chest, squeezing her breasts between her upper arms, and raised herself five or six inches off him, then dropped back.
Both of them groaned.
"Remember when I dropped your watch, honey?"
"Yeah ... "
"Well ... uhuhuhuhuhuhuh oh Steve.'" She collapsed on him, and he wearily grasped her sweaty cheeks and hunched hard and fast. It exhausted him, but he made it again.
About five minutes later he asked, "What about the watch?"
"It-it broke," she said, her lips moving against his neck.
"Oh Sally! Well-what time did it say then?"
"Uh ... well ... three o'clock?"
"Three! God no wonder I'm hungry!"
She sniffled. "You act like I'm a-a-I mean ... you keep getting ready and all."
He patted her sweatslick back. "I'm sorry, darling. Daddy's sweet girl ok? There ... but I've got to eat, sweetheart. Lord, I hope it doesn't come up again! I wish we'd at least have time to eat."
It was a fortuitous wish.
1625 hours
God damn, Ike Masewski thought, looka that! The way they swing em these days, and all of em wearing nothing moren tennis skirts ... boy! Wish I had me about a two-foot dick, boy, I'd Poor baby, Wert said, to no one in particular.
Yeah well, that's what he gets for being a sillyass hog, Werb said to Wert. Anyhow, there's always Fertile Acres Stud Farm, or Reagan's ranch maybe.
1702 hours:
John Quincy, after hours
Exactly two minutes after quitting time, the office was empty. The machines were covered, quiescent. Typewriters mounted on the drop-leafs of metal desks were folded away for a good night's rest. Files were closed; stacks of paper were at least stacked. The office door was locked. The lights were off.
But not in John Quincy's office. It was not unusual for him to remain at the office after others had left, or to leave it carrying a fat briefcase, or to return later in the evening, when an office was a lonely place of absolute silence, like a strangely-furnished barn.
It was not totally unusual for his secretary to remain late, either. Somedmes it just worked out that way. All details, all mailers on colored paper with red and yellow banner tops had to be prepared, collated, stuffed, and sent out to the Men for simultaneous arrival. That was essential. Everyone got the Word on the new promotions and on contests at the same time. And ever man was called by his Unit Manager on the same nigh (Sunday, usually) no matter what he was looking a on TV, no matter if he had bedded his wife early
So everyone else left, and John Quincy and his secretary Miss Louise Wallace with the red hair, remained Exactly two minutes after quitting time the office was empty, except for them.
Exactly four minutes after quitting time John Quincy was sitting in the visitors' chair in his office-the Hot Seat-a straightbacked, armless, no-nonsense chair that stood primly and utilitarianly against the wall, waiting to impart all possible discomfort to the salesman, Unit Manager, or office employee called in. John Quincy had never sat in it before.
But it was, on this afternoon of the day of the great 24-hour Thing, most admirably suited to his purpose.
Across his knees-and to hell with the creases he was so careful of-lay the overripe body of Miss Louise Wallace. Her red hair trickled down toward the floor. In a thousand little creases and folds, her skirt was rumpled well above her rump, which was not at all rumpled. It was a superb rump, a largeish sphere neatly divided in twain by the deep, knifeedge crease that plunged down its center.
John Quincy gazed down at that slender crease.
He was enabled to do so with ease and equanimity because Miss Wallace's pale pink panties edged with elastic and modicum of lace were wadded just below the upturned demiglobes at the tops of her shiny white thighs.
John Quincy raised a hand, and Miss Wallace felt the movement, and he watched the bounteous buttocks tighten, pressing and squeezing tightly against each other for warmth and comfort in the coming distress.
He did not begin scientifically. He brought his right hand whooshing down to impact her left cheek, which tautened all possible just before the hand landed with a loud and resounding smack.
God! What a feeling! What a tightening in his groin, a lurching in his belly, a spasm of pleasure-flash in his brain!
He raised the hand from incredibly taut smoothness. Smooth as silk, or velvet-no, that was furry, and her fur was pressed against his thigh on the opposite side from that he contemplated-or satin perhaps, or nylon tricot, or....
His hand rose on high, hesitated, shifted a little as he eyed the target area, then came rushing down in an intricate little curving slap. His palm and splayed fingers smacked both Miss Wallace's estimable bottomcheeks at their rounded bases, just above the point at which they joined her thighs.
Miss Wallace's cheeks jiggled with the blow, in unison, and tensed. She made a small noise and wiggled a little.
Watching carefully, watching the movement of her thighs and the tensing and flexing of her stockinged calves and the tensing and then loosening of her buttocks and the sway of her back, John Quincy shot his hand up and brought it rushing down again and again.
He slapped the right cheek five times running, watching it flinch and quiver. Its color heightened, pinkening prettily, then darkening. Then he slapped the left, just at its outermost curve, at the very summit of the emphatically steep hill. That brought an "uh!" and a eroan from her; his repeated slapping of her right hindcheek had insured its tightening to its ultimate ability, while the left relaxed and forgot its own danger. He slapped the left again, then again, then slapped the wriggly-curvy-shivery right demiglobe another five times, and then again, to heighten the shock as before when he landed the seventh swat on the other one.
By this time she was squeezing her buttocks together, convulsively, with all her might. They were lovely bunched mounds, looking almost globular, firm and yet eminently resilient, considerably less white than before so that the darker little line separating them was not so pronounced. Her body snapped and jerked with each blow. Her body quaked, and she sobbed, streaking her face with tears till it glistened. She groaned, she sobbed, she wriggled and winced and writhed, she lost control and went into a strange and intoxicatingly sensuous dance. A prone dance, across his legs.
The rough fabric of his trousers abraded the open lips of her vulva, pushed and rolled against her throbbing clitoris.
Fully clothed-although most definitely bare-assedand lying across her boss' knees in his office, Miss Wallace sobbed and wiggled and moaned and pleadedand came.
She screamed.
John Quincy's eyebrows shot up in overturned parentheses. His hand, upraised for another blow, quivered and remained on high. He watched the undulant quiver and sway of the naked bottom before him; the deeply-pink naked bottom.
And he felt the moisture through the left leg of his trousers.
The erection that had throbbed aloft as he whipped now lost whatever modicum of cool it had maintained. It went ape. It thrust viciously, painfully at his fly. It pulsed and throbbed as if it had taken the punishment he had lavished on Louise Wallace's backside. It screamed for relief.
His movement was swift and automatic. He was never quite certain how he had engineered it so swiftly, so unerringly.
Miss Wallace was on her feet and leaning far across his desk, plump, naked, reddened bottom upturned in the epitome of libidinous provocation and invitation. And he stood behind her, zipper down and great redheaded shaft out and straining forward like a heatseeking missile attracted by the warmth of her halfhidden missile repository.
It shot straight to the mark, encountered an instant of resistance during which they both groaned, then plunged inside until his belt buckle rammed against her chastised cheeks and his thighs crushed their bases.
Seemingly unsatisfied with the placement, he jerked back and struck again like an unerring serpent, straight back into the humid shelter her body afforded. She moaned and tightened on him. But failed to hold him; again he withdrew, and again he plunged back, seeking a deeper cranny within her.
He found a deeper one, and then a deeper one still, and he drew slowly and plunged back fast and hard. Each shock brought a groan from her, buffeting her forward and driving the fronts of her calves into the edge of his desk. Then she caught the rhythm, and she began wiggling; no, wagging, swinging her hips and rump to and fro. At the same time she pushed herself back as he lunged and relaxed, easing forward, when he made his partial withdrawal before the nest violent lunge.
His hands swung down to slap onto each of her white flanks with a slap that was all the louder for being twinned. She lurched. But his fingers were dig ging in, his groin was digging into her back, he was stiffening, groaning, spasming, jerking, filling her.
She remained there, bent over his desk gasping, as he eased himself away from her and began to put himself away. He restored order to his clothing. Symbolic; he had restored order to his office. She stood there quietly, still bent to show him the great peeled-egg ovals of her backside. Her thighs remained wide apart. A little trickle glistened on the inside of the right one.
"All right, Miss Wallace, get your pants up and get your ass out of here and let's have a better day tomorrow."
She straightened, turning to shoot him a strange look. "Better-yessir. Yessir, Mister Quincy. Thank you Mister Quincy."
"Thank you, Miss Wallace."
Twenty minutes later he was getting into the car, wondering.
Can I do it again? Is it possible? Assuming that I can establish control-re-establish control, rather-at home as I have at the office ... can I do it again with Lurleen? Hmmm ... Lurleen. Well, we'll see. I'm a tiger, and she just doesn't know what's going to happen to her! Let's see ... I wish....
1800 hours (which is like six P.M.)
'Wow you are my slaver the tall, long-haired, lusciously-shaped girl in the skintight black leather said to Ollie, and Lenny Zarenga's hands twitched so hard he could barely read the book.
"Get down on your...."
Lenny Zarenga turned the page...." knees."
Having established that with a little shudder and a stiflEer stiffening in his crotch, Lenny Zarenga studied the picture on the page opposite the copy.
The book was thirty pages long, with a full-color cover. It had cost four bucks. It had fifteen-and-a-half pages of copy, consisting of photographicallyreproduced pica type on rather stiffish paper. (Lenny had counted, lovingly, the words in the last one he'd bought. There were four thousand, three hundred, sixty-nine.) There were also eight pages devoted to pictures, aside from the full-color cover. The pen-and-inkand-wash-technique drawings were by Stanton, one of the best, maybe the best, in the business. He'd been around a long time, and he did them all:
Damsels in Distress: male domination over females.
Transvestitism; usually enforced on a man by a couple of big, enormously-boobed broads.
Female domination, often in accompaniment with and a prelude to the foregoing.
Fighting-wrestling: usually female versus female, but sometimes female versus male. The enormous-boobed, high-heeled, long-haired female always won.
In the books were long hair and leather clothing and leather boots-always with high heels-and superhigh-heeled shoes and short skirts and superbly long legs and paddles and whips and switches and leather belts and handcuffs and chains and collars of leather or iron. And things like corsets and other restraining devices and garments that Lenny Zarenga knew were too expensive even to think about
The lace-up-the-back black corset this girl in the book at hand-Chastisement of Oliver-for instance. It was black leather. It began under her breasts-which were bare, and Lenny liked that; in the old days they had to be covered, but now the artist showed the nipples, always huge-aureoled and erect, and everything. Well ... not quite everything. The artist did bare asses, too, but he never showed any genitals, male or female. And they were only hinted at in the copy.
Lenny didn't know why these books that enabled him to indulge in harmless phantasies at home, taking himself in hand, had to be so sexless. That is, there weren't any orgasms or talk about putting it in or anything like that. And no dildos, as there were in the books for sale at $I.75 or $I.95; the real books, with lots of words and no pictures. Or why the pictures in his books-he now had thirty-seven, and sevenhundred-thirty photographs-couldn't show as much as say all that icky split-beaver crap cluttering up the newsstands anymore.
But they were good stuff. Just what Lenny Zarenga wanted. Just what he needed.
He studied the picture.
The man, Ollie, slim with rather flared hips and prominent buttocks and smoothly-shaped legs, almost like a woman without tits and with less hair, was on his knees, bare ass poked up (genitalia invisible). He was kissing the gleaming toe of the black boot of his mistress, whose name was Dominetta. (The name appeared in seventeen of his thirty-seven books; also common was Sadie, from Sade, Marquis de; in Ollie's phantasies his dominatrix was named Barbaria, with an i, to make sure the name meant barbarian and not just Barbarawhich came from the same source anyhow, of course.)
Anyhow poor Ollie was on his knees kissing the toe of Dominetta's very shiny black patent leather boots, which laced all the way up the front to her knees. Above that there was a little snowy bare flesh, then the hem of her black leather miniskirt, looking very shiny because the artist was good. The miniskirt was skintight, despite its being slit on either side to the broad, big-buckled, leather belt she wore slung low on her hips. Just beneath the corset, or girdle, or corselet, or whatever you want to call it. It was black leather, too, of course. Better than a hundred bucks; Lenny had priced them. Even satin was more than half that.
You had to be rich to be able to really turn on the s/m scene, the b/d scene, which are abbreviations for sadism/masochism and bondage/discipline, for the uninitiated into esoterica. Otherwise ... you paid four dollars for books containing 16 pages of copy and eight or nine drawings, because that was the next best thing comma boy!
Ollie had had to lace those boots on her, and it had taken him a long time. She hadn't made it easy, either, because he'd been tied to a chair at the time and her foot had been planted on his thigh, suspiciously close to where it joined his other thigh. Then she'd said he'd got his dirty paw-prints all over her beautiful boots, and made him lick them clean.
Now his butt was whip-marked, and she held a short loop-handled whip that terminated in three tails on the end of each of which was a twisted, needly think like a slimmer version of the twisted barbs on barbed wire.
Wow, Lenny Zarenga thought, that thing would hurt! and he grabbed his crotch. But he pulled his hand away-not without a struggle. He wanted to read the copy first. This was the last picture. And this was the last page. Ollie had been conquered by the girl (Ollie was thirty-five and a bachelor, just like Lenny), who was extraordinarily full-busted and possessed extraordinarily lustrous, long, wavy hair of extraordinary length. She was maybe twenty-two or so; the book didn't say, but that's what Lenny thought, anyhow.
He stripped his eyes from the picture and returned to the book. The last page.
"Knees!"
"Trembling, Ollie bowed his head before his unquestionable, stern mistress, and sank slowly down onto his bare knees, which smarted where the floor struck their tender surfaces. As his legs bent, throwing his bottom out into bold relief, he winced a little as the stretching of the skin made his stripes hurt, where Dominetta had whipped him with her cruel leather lash.
"'Kiss my boots, slave!' Dominetta commanded sternly, swishing her whip, and Ollie bent at once to do so, smelling the soft oiled smell of the shiny leather and a little of her fragrant perfume as he bent to do the bidding of his cruel dominating mistress and kiss her sharp-toed, shiny boot. His trembling lips approached the smooth leather, his hand curving around her slim, leather-encased ankle just above the heel, and he planted a loving kiss on the booted toe of the sternly commanding girl.
"
"That's better,' she said. 'Much better. Now I think I shall just get you into the soft, black silk panties I brought with me in my bag, and see how your stupid butt likes that!'
"Ollie shivered and remained there on his knees at her feet with his head down, for he was truly her slave, and he would do what she said as she went for the bag, forbidding him to rise, and the enslavement and chastisement of Oliver was complete!"
With a last loving glance at the illustration, Lenny let the book close. He fell back on the bed with his eyes closed. His hand moved slowly up and down the shaft of his penis, as he thought.
Her name is Barbaria, and she's dressed just like Dominetta, and she just takes over and tells me everything to do and punishes me when I'm bad, and it hurts and hurts but I can take it, all of it, anything she does to me, because I would be her slave! But her hair is red. I like red hair best like that first-grade teacher Miss Harrington who used to paddle us, and I just wish she'd come in right now and....
The door flew open and slammed against the wall. As it bounced jerkily, she walked in. Lenny stared, stricken. He couldn't speak; his throat felt as if it had a baseball in it. He quivered, all over.
She was about six feet tall, and her red hair fell all the way down her back, almost onto her bottom. She wore a black leather vest with a wide-gaping opening down the front, and the black leather cross-laces definitely creased and sank into the enormous white globeshapes of her breasts. The nipples were visible through the leather, just like in the pictures; he'd wondered about that
She also wore a black leather garter-belt and black leather briefs, very brief, and dark hose with fancy tops that plunged shining down into black leather boots that laced all the way up the fronts. Their heels were about six inches high. She was probably six feet tall. And beautiful, with a scarlet mouth.
In her left hand she carried a mysterious bag of black leather, containing an endless supply of clothing and whips and restraints. In her right hand she held, coiled, a whip with a slender strap about three feet long.
She slammed the door behind her and stood there, tall and menacing, with her whip in her hand. She tossed the bag onto the chair by his closet door.
"Get your hand off that thing, Lenny Zarenga, and turn over! I've caught you, you little scamp, and now your fat butt's going to suffer for it!"
"Oh m-mistress ... yes ... anything ... who-who are you?"
"I said turn over!" she snarled, and the whip leaped out like a striking cobra to slap his left thigh. "My name isn't important, but for your information it's Barbaria, slave!"
Closing his eyes and moaning ecstatically, Lenny Zarenga turned over to give her free access to his poor naked bottom.
1930 hours:
John Quincy, tiger
"Oooh, Jack, Jack!" Lurleen Quincy sighed, wriggling as the ping-pong paddle came down for the third straight time on the smallish, bunched little mound of her left buttock. The right, hit twice running, glowed pinkly.
John Quincy brought one more down on the left, still not hurting her, wanting to make her like it rather than be afraid. Then he paddled the relaxed right one again, and she squealed.
He dropped the paddle and enveloped her in his arms, pulling her up from across his knees. She winced, just a little, as her paddled posterior came down on his legs. Then she returned his passionate kiss.
"That," he said, "was one hell of a lot of fun."
"Well...." her hand went back to her bottom. "What-whatever made you do it?"
"Lurleen, I rule my men and my office with an iron hand, and I'll be damned if you're going to play lazyass and tell me what to do and what you're not going to do around the house anymore."
She stared at him, "What?"
With his hand closed around her arm, he bent and picked up the paddle. "You heard me."
"What are you going to do about it?"
, "I will bang your cute little tail with my hand, with a ping-pong paddle, with a glove, with a belt or a switch. Something. And then I'll tell you to get down and suck it, sweetheart."
She stared at him.
"Don't look like that I mean it. But-I'll tell you this. Right now, after proving who's who, after walloping your pretty tail, I feel all strong and you seem small and sort of pitiful. I feel-I feel like ... How'd you like to be partaken of, Lurleen?"
She frowned a little. Her eyes were glowing, that was plain.
"Wha-what? Partaken of?"
"Eaten."
She shuddered violently. She scrooched closer to his body, slipping her hot and reddened cheeks along his legs. "Oh, my god, John, you haven't done that in ages! Oh god-just thinking about it makes me a lake."
He patted her long, slim back. "Well, ni tell you honey. You've been playing boss around the house, and ... well, I didn't feel like doing it. It seemed ... demeaning. But this way-funny." He smiled and gave his head one brief shake. "I want to."
She squirmed. "Oh god, darling. Don't-don't keep talking ... please...."
He swung her off his knees and onto the bed, flat on her back. Her slim legs fell wide apart. He bent to her, and in a moment the sweet contact of his tongue made her gasp and cry out far more loudly than the paddling had. It had, after all, been a mild one; this was exquisite.
"Oh-Jack-darling, darling ... let's-keep the paddle-right here by the ... bed...."
2000 hours:
Getting to the bottom of things
"Yes, Leo darling," Louise Wallace told her boyfriend, 'TU marry you," and Leo pulled her very dose and kissed her still again, caressing the big rounded backside he loved.
One thing led to another and soon he was softly stroking her bottom, her thighs, her red-furred mound, her lovely breasts, watching the nipples assert themselves and yearn outwards until he bent his head to them. He lapped and he suckled, gently, caressing her smooth haunch all the while. Her hand encircled his penis, moving slowly.
She sighed and thrust her breast upward, trying to strangle him with it. She wriggled her hips invitingly, and the yawning intersection between her smooth and snowy thighs was almost shocking in naked invitation.
He accepted, still gripping both her buttocks as he rolled and twisted into position, and then she spread her legs and he slid easily into their hollow. He ensheathed himself in the moist warmth of her, piercing her, caressing himself within her. Her belly was hot. It yearned up to him. The big cheeks of her rump were hot in his hands, trembly and wriggly. She drove herself up against him with quick, hammering blows.
But they had after all made it twice within the past hour and a half, and even Leo was not a superman. There seemed no danger of detumescence, but then they were squirmy panting sweaty huffing, he admitted to himself that it might be a hell of a long time coming
"Leo...."
"Sweetheart?"
"Leo ... we shouldn't have tried again, should we? Just be still ... I-I have to tell you something, daring."
Oh god!
"First ... if I go on working, I think I'd better go some place else. I am crazy about my boss."
"That old fire-breather Quincy? I thought you said he was a phony."
"If I did," she said, knowing full well she had, "I was wrong. He's a tiger of a sales manager, and a tiger of a man. I am nutty about him. I think that's pretty normal, and it doesn't have a thing to do with loving you, honestly."
"Okay," Leo breathed, remaining in her but relaxing a little, relieved. But ... wondering.
"And ... and darling ... when we're married ... don't-don't always be so gentle, you know? I mean ... well, there are things I like...."
"What?" he asked, resolving to play tit for tat and tell her there was something he wanted, too; he wanted to have her from behind, to be turned on by the sight and feel of those lovely big cheeks.
"Uh-well ... Leo, I hope this doesn't sound silly, but ... uh ... my fanny...."
His sex jerked in hers. Just the mention of it made the damned thing turn on and act as if it hadn't just let him down.
His hands kneaded it. "Your fanny? Don't tell me this bothers you?" Please, he added mentally.
"Oh god no, Leo," she said quickly, and even more rapidly, "oh no darling, I love your hands on me there, I know you like it and I just wish you'd put your hands on it a little harder."
"What?"
She hugged him, nakedness against nakedness; sweat evaporating save where their bodies were joined. "Oh darling-I like to be-spanked."
"Hell you do!" He jerked so violently he popped right out of her. He sat up on the bed beside her; it was her bed. He had a roommate, and she was temporarily without.
She lowered her lashes, avoiding his eyes that seemed trying to pierce her head through her pupils, "Um ... hmm ... does ... does that sound silly? Or-strange?"
He shook his head, Then, remembering that she couldn't see with her lashes lowered like that, said, "No. I just don't know if I can. They're so beautiful ... turn over."
Languidly, breasts jellyshaking legs flexing buttocks tightening, she turned over. "It's nice being told to do things," she said.
He caressed her backside. Stopped. Stared. Bent his head closer. j, "Hey. Hey! Louise? What are these marks?"
She jerked as if he'd stuck a pin in her. "Oh god."
"Louise?"
"Uh-what marks, sweetheart? Where?" He slapped her tail lightly, watching it tighten and twitch, heard her little sigh. His brows rose. "There."
"Oh," she said. "There."
"Right," he said. "There."
"Uh-well...."
He grasped her upper arm, flopped her back over to look up at him, rather fearfully. He ignored the shake and quiver of her breasts. They were nice. But he was a butt-man.
"Quincy!" he said, putting two and two together and coming up with little marks on his girl friend's (fiancee's, now) ass.
Her pacifying hand came up to his groin. "Oh darling ... he ... remember I told you he was a tiger with the men, but such a pussycat, such a marshmallow with me? I mean-I think it's the same with his wife. I got so I treated him awful. Then something happened. Today-today he ordered me to come back in, and to move into his office, and told me I'd be out on myfired if I didn't shape up, and then he-well he...."
"And so you like to be spanked!"
"umhm." Her voice was of a volume approaching that of a five-minute-old female pussycat.
Leo hurled her over onto her stomach. Crack! His big hand came down on her right buttock, hard, and she jerked and moaned and tightened her cheeks together in one taut sphere.
"And old Quincy spanked your ass and you found out you grooved to it, huh?" Crack! (Left cheek.) "And you tell me you want me to do it, too, huh?" Crack! (Right cheek.) "And you've been lying here with me, agreeing to be my wife, and by damn the whole time
(Crack! Left again) you've got the marks of his goddam hands (Crack. Right: the right again) on your beautiful butt! (Across the two, for a change. She wriggled and moaned and kept them tight, quivering.) Is that right?" (Ditto.)
"Y-yes-ow! Oh darling;.. sweetAearf aw!-babyLeo sweetheart uh! Yes, yes, yes, and I've got to get outowow! of there and you've just got to keep this up-my god Leo I'm co-o-o-o-om-m-m-innnnnng!"
Astounded, angered, excited, Leo slapped on. Right, then left, then right, alternating neatly, so that she always knew where the next big palm would fall. (Give him time. He'll learn.)
And she came. Then she started hurling herself about, because he didn't stop, and she whimpered and pleaded and then yelled.
He slapped the hand she put back, which hurt two of his fingers.
"Hush! That was for sex, wasn't it-you turn on to it, huh? Well now it's for punishment, and when I'm-through-you know what I'm going to do?" Each emphasized word was punctuated by another crack on her red cheeks. They quivered, they shook, they grabbed each other, they flinched and twitched and goosefleshed, hot redness to the contrary notwithstanding.
"Ow-ooh-uh-(she was sobbing)-no ... n-nono-wha-a-at?"
His hand was burning like hell.
"Well, I love this ass, and you know it. And now I know I also love to whop hell out of it, and yeah, woman, you can bet your bippy I'm going to whip your butt, before and after we're married, and maybe during, too. But right now I'm going to grab a handful of all this juice...."
She moaned and hunched her shoulders against the bed and sighed as his hand dipped two fingers into her still-contracting vagina...." and wipe it on you here...." his wet fingers traced down the shiny crease between her chastised cheeks, then dipped again into the well-spring for more, and then more, and then still more, which he transferred to his stormy erection. "And then I'm going to get you up on your knees and elbows," he did, "and you are going to get it in the ass, my love!"
Somehow, despite his excitement-the anger was dissipating; after all his subconscious was deciding and would soon report to his conscious to mollify him, old man Quincy was responsible for all this; maybe they owed the tiger a vote of thanks-somehow, despite his excitement, he remembered to go at it slowly, rather than try to ram himself into her which would have hurt excessively and wrenched a scream rather than sensuous little moans from her and in all likelihood turned her off to this for life. For the automatic response of the sphincter ani is to squeeze, close up tight, and although objects ranging from fingers to candles to the mouths and necks of soft drink bottles to the smooth handles of croquet mallets to fatter candles to penises can be forced in, the pain is extraordinary and suddenness is altogether the wrong way to go about the operation.
The thing was, Leo was in love with her backside, and he took plenty of time to caress and fondle and squeeze and gaze at it, so that she readied herself, partially automatically.
His finger, well-oiled with eau de Bartholin's gland, touched and then prodded at the tight elastic opening between the full white moons. She moaned and shivered and waved her proud rump in his face, so that his finffertio slipped into the tiny, puckered anus.'He wiggled it, just a little, then withdrew it while he pressed the cheeks well apart to inspect the cleverly concealed orifice. It tensed. He relaxed one cheek and pushed at it with a finger again. It did not open, but it loosened, and again he slipped inside.
Properly, he should have spent a great deal more time at it, but it must be remembered that he was also intent on punishing her a bit, and so he withdrew his finger and, on his knees, moved up closer. He lifted his eager erection with one hand, steadying himself with the other palm on her hip. He leaned forward.
The snug, warm glove of soft flesh slipped slowly, soothingly over his glans. She was very still, holding her breath. He Was still until she resumed breathing. He felt her loosening. He watched the pulpy white flesh of her lovely tail, waving high off the bed. White? Redand-white.
The pressure lessened as her rectum adjusted itself to the thick invader. Slowly, reluctantly, fearfully, it moistened and flowered open to accept, then welcome; like an opportunistic whore at the gates of a conquered city.
He slid in. His pelvis slapped her buttocks.
He was still for a long time, just feeling it, grinning above her back, looking down its long smooth slope to where her hair was spread around her on the bed. Then she amazed him still again: she wiggled.
He surged forward, upward into the tiny puckered channel. He felt himself slide deep into wetwarm flesh of incredible softness. Then she sighed and wiggled, and he grasped her hips and began to move. Mercilessly, with overwhelming excitement, he tunneled into the depths of her back.
She gasped, stiffened, then sighed and was open and receptive, and with a rising love in his heart for John Quincy, Leo began lunging, driving himself hard in and out of the charming channel he had widened.
II its ever been better, he thought, I'll be damned if I know when!
My god, she thought, if-if its ever been better I don't know when!
2130 hours:
Larry takes himself in hand
Wish the damned sexy little bitch would quit all I that teasen around and just take it all off right in front I of the damned window tonight, Larry Barr thought, I lying across the bed in his darkened apartment and I staring out the window. Across sixteen feet of space I was another high-rise building, another human zoo, and I directly across from his own two rooms and bath, separated only by space and the millions of miles between apartment-dwelling singles, was another window. Another two-rooms-plus-bath apartment, probably.
In it lived a golden-haired chick who got up very early to work somewhere and wished this and that would happen to her and got a little older each day and, when she prepared for bed very early every night, teased the window without even realizing she was doing it.
Here she came. She turned her back to the window. Direcdy opposite it was a mirror, and with binoculars Larry Barr could just see her front, in reflection. Parts of it, anyhow. He raised the glasses, zeroed in, and watched her unbutton her blouse. Underneath as it swung open was the little lacy white bra; good. He liked that one.
He had wondered, more than once, what would happen if he met her on the "treet or someplace, or went over there and knocked on her door, and told her how he loved the lacy little white bra best, and the pale blue minishp with the slit up the left side, and she shouldn't worry about that mole on her left-oops, mirror: right breast; it was lovely, at least from a distance.
What would happen, if he could and did do that?
He didn't know. He couldn't imagine. And unfortunately he didn't wish.
He merely watched her pull the blouse out of her skirt and keep it on, hanging around her like a Utile jacket with her brassiered breasts peeping curiously out its front, while she unzipped her skirt. She started to take it down, and he immediately shifted the binoculars: he liked to watch her bottom when she took off her skirt, particularly when she stepped out of it and her cute little buttocks clenched and pistoned up and down.
He watched that, with a little sigh. He had yet to see her bare bottom. She always went somewhere else when she got down to her pants.
He sure wished she'd take it all off in front of the window tonight.
She tossed the skirt to her left; that, he knew, was where her bed was. Then she shrugged out of the blouse, and he watched first the twisting of her breastsvery small, like the Laugh-In doll-and then the swerving, writhing of her pretty back. It was lovely, not very dark, so that the thin white band of her brassiere was hardly any contrast at all.
She tossed die blouse after the skirt
Larry watched, wondering about that big bastard Joe Allport upstairs. He bet that big bastard Joe Allport upstairs watched her, too, the big kike bastard. What the hell business did a kike bastard like that have watching a sweet little blonde girl take her clothes off?
Larry watched carefully, watching all the ripples and changes in her back as she put her hands back and plucked at the hook of her bra. As he saw it come loose, he immediately switched his gaze back to the mirror.
They looked like little white apples with little pink spots, pretty and tight as his scrotum and not swingy or wiggly or even ripply; they just stayed there, pointing at the mirror, pointing at him while she let the bra slide down her arms.
She raised a hand to touch the little spot, which he knew had to be a mole, because it was always there. It had been there all these months since he'd discovered her and started watching.
Six nights a week; Sundays he went to church and after Coke-time she was already in bed. He guessed she watched TV in bed on Sunday nights.
She touched the little dark spot with the nail of her left forefinger, wincing a little and looking-when he raised the binoculars momentarily-a little pained, and sad. She tossed the bra to the bed. Then she slid both hands right up underneath her breasts and right up over them and Larry's crotch did a curvet and he held the binoculars with one hand.
She massaged them for about two minutes, and he damn near went right out of his everloven skull.
Then-then-it was going to happen! She was going to do it! At long last after all this time finally she was going to.
She did. With her thumbs in the elastic on either side, she sort of shrugged her body, bending, lowering herself toward the floor, out of her panties. Larry couldn't take his eyes off that small, tight, so-round ass. If her bosom was like white apples, her tail was like white grapefruits. Very round and very firm-looking, without a hint of tremble or anything. Godohgodohboy and he held the binoculars with one shaky hand and stroked up up and down up and down with the other.
Then he remembered, and he moved the binoculars, and he got a shock.
Her snatch didn't match her hair. The bitch dyed her hair, or peroxided it or something! It was dark, a little dark triangle way down at the bottom of her almost nonexistent belly, so full that he couldn't see a damned thing but that dark, dark brown triangle.
But ... it was a triangle, it was her old snatch, boy, and at long last she'd taken it off, taken it all off, and Larry let go the binoculars and with naked eyes fastened to naked body he applied his right hand to himself, shoving aside the less-competent left, and he didn't stop pumping until he'd creamed the towel, although by that time her phone had rung and she'd jumped and glanced around as if she'd been caught by eyes rather than just a telephone, and then went to answer it.
By that time Larry Barr didn't give a damn. He was a satisfied man.
The poor dumb bastich, Wert said to Werb, lookit him! The poor dumb flake's limited only by his own minuscule imagination, and dam'fe isn't happy.
Shudup, Werb said to Wert, pointing. Not all of them down there have such teensy brains and imaginations!
Well I'll be-sunukabltch! Wert said, watching.
2209 hours:
Sara's mole
Sara had just got her clothes off and was taking a last look at her body-darnit, it wasn't any skinnier than Goldie Hawn's, so howcum she was twenty-five and a virgin, even after the hairjob and all the money and time and trouble it cost? She sighed, again raising a finger to touch the little reddish-brown mole on the inner curve of her left breast. It was a symbol of her lack of perfection; she hated it. The telephone rang.
She jumped, then glanced around, as people will do when the phone rings when they're in the tub or on the head or naked. Then she frowned at the phone, which responded by ringing again. She went over to it
"Hello?"
"Pardon me, madam, but we're checking the tele phone service, and could you tell me your full name please?"
"I-uh-why...." But she was a well-trained citizen of the age, not of deprivation, but of deprivacy. "SSara. Sara Kaye Losc-like."
"Thank you very much, madam. Oh-is that a Polish name?"
She frowned. "Uh-no. I mean maybe-I don't know. It's Jewish."
"Aha! I certainly was hoping so, Miss Losc-like, when I saw your lovely dark lovemound. I mean I've got this absolute thing about goyischer girls, you know? My mother, I guess, rest her soul. Miss Sara Kaye Losc-like, my name is Joseph Ira Allport, and I live in the apartment right across from yours."
Sara was standing there with her eyes and mouth gaping. "The-the apartment...."
"Across the way, I mean. The other building. Anyhow, I live over here, and I happened to glance out my window and-well, I just couldn't help seeing. And I do want you to know that that is the absolutely most lovely little mole on your sweet little left bosom I have ever seen in my life. I mean, it is the sort of thing that turns Joe Allport on until he can't see straight, Miss Losc-like."
Sara's mouth worked. Her eyes were getting sore, from being so wide, and she blinked. That helped a little; she blinked a couple times more. "I-you-I...." She just couldn't seem to get anything out.
"It is a huge city, Miss Losc-like, and you are the absolutely loveliest girl I have seen in it, and it is lonely, and I think you are lonely too, and my god you're even Jewish!"
"You-I-you...."
"I know this is just terrible of me, Miss Losc-like, I mean almost like a monster, but after all the window and all, and I just happened to glance out, and ... well, I really thought you should be told how absolutely lovely I think you are. And the mole, oh that sweet little mole!"
"You-you-but-I ..She had accomplished a little; the but was a new addition to her gape-mouthed, heart-pounding head-swimming breast-tightening litany.
Lord knows what she'd have said or done. Lord knows what might have happened, or how long she and Joe Allport might have been lonely in that huge city, neighbors without seeing or speaking or touching (well, without much seeing). But both of them were saved, because this was the day of the great 24-hour Thing, and Joe Allport succumbed to all of it and said, "Oh god Miss Losc-like I just wish you'd let me come right over there and show you how I do dearly love that sweet little mole on your sweet little bosom."
That time nothing at all escaped her throat; only a little air, and not much of that. Her flesh prickled all over, her armpits were wet and sticky, she was shivering, and she felt very, very hot. Oh what a lovely but uncomfortable thing is an all-over blush!
"Oh I'm sorry, Miss Losc-like, I will hang up now and I swear never to look out my window again, butoh god how I wish you would just say yes."
Wish, the man said.
Her throat freed up. A word came out. One, of course. It was all she was capable of, and it was all, after all, that he had requested. Lord knows what she might have said, for she was a gentle and shy girl, but she was after all not in control, he was, for he was a male and he had wished and this was the day of the great 24-hour Thing, friends, and Wert and Werb were not only listening, they were watching.
"Yes," she said.
"What? Wha-wha-what did you say Miss Losc-like?"
Tears rolled down her soft cheeks, glistening. "Oh yes," she said.
There was a sudden loud silence in her ear. It lasted. It stretched. It got even silenter. Then, "Do not move, Miss Losc-like. Do not move. The next knock you hear will be Joseph Ira Allport."
And he put down the phone, slung his binoculars onto the bed, and ran-did-not-walk to the door and out of his apartment and down the hall and onto the elevator and out the front door and down the sidewalk and into the building and onto the elevator, where he punched the button marked 14; he lived on 15. He shot up, his stomach lurching more from Miss Sara Kaye Losc-like than from the suddenly rising cage in this human zoo, and he fought the doors when the elevator stopped.
He ran about ten steps out into the hall and then stopped, dead still.
For starts, he was turned around. Also he had no notion which apartment was hers. He choked back a sob. Oh god! No, don't let this happen to me. What will she do if I don't come?
And he stood there in the hall, on the rug, in the light, and tilted back his head and cried:
"Sara-a-a-a-a!"
There was a moment of silence. Then a door opened. A head came out; a female head. The hair was red, the eyes darkly mascaraed, the mouth pale, the eyes angry.
"What the hell are you yelling at, Charley?"
I'm am very sorry," he said. "I am looking for someone."
She eyed him, up and down. Then she smiled. She leaned out a little farther into the hall. A rather large amount of lightly-sweatered breast peeped out at him. "Well-my name isn't Sara, lover, but the ice is cold and the glasses ready and-come on in."
Joe Allport drew himself up and stared at her.
"I," he said, "am true to Sara!"
"Jesus," the redhead snapped, "what a fucken kook." And she slammed her door.
The one immediately across the hall opened. "Joe!"
"Sara!"
During that long evening which was the occasion of his meeting his fiancee and future wife, Joseph Allport did his absolutely level best to suck from her soft and satiny flesh not only the little mole she grew to love, but the nipple to its left as well, and it was all performed with a great and a slow and a lamentably unskillful tenderness, and in the morning they woke up together and had to decide what to do about the problem of the blood-stained sheet.
When, within no less than a week, Joe Allport moved Sara Losc-like Allport out of her apartment and into his, a pair of queers moved in, and a week later Larry Barr gave notice, poor baby.
2300 hours:
Ole Charlie Allison, one more time
When Charles Allison had called home and got no answer, he thought to hell with it, to hell with it and you, you bitch, and he dialled again and after the office closed he went straight over to Madelyn Maslow's house. On the way he wished she'd just forget the real estate business they had to discuss, since it was a ruse anyhow. He wished she'd just meet him at the door with a drink and a smile, wearing something erotic as all hell.
She met him at the door with a smile on her face and a Martini in each hand. She wore a one-piece lilac thing that had very full sleeves and pants, slicky, clingy acetate or something, and a scooped-neck with elastic holding it snug to the tops of her breasts. It was also smooth over the roundness of her belly and snug in the crotch and, when he saw it from the back, over the oval swells of her buttocks, too.
"God," he said, "you look good enough to...."
"Aha! Caught you! My, look at the nice man turn red. Say it, you wicked man, you."
He accepted the Martini and, for the first time in his life, drained the glass at one tilt...." grab!" he said.
She rolled her eyes at him. "Chickennnn! That's not what you were going to say!"
"It's what I'm going to do," he said, very bravely.
She stood there and looked at him.
So he grabbed her. Her Martini sloshed over her hip and his leg and the floor and the rug. Some of it went into his shoe. He hardly felt the softness of the well-stuffed pillows of her bosom before they jerked apart with squeaks and groans and shivers as the cold liquid ruined the whole Errol Flynn bit.
"Oh my! I'm just not used to such big strong men coming in and-and coming on so strong," she said, using a phrase she had noted in a surreptitious reading of the Freep. "Let me run out to the kitchen and get a towel."
She did just that, and he watched with great interest the bouncing and wrestling, one with the other, of her buttocks as she trotted through her living room. He stood still, sort of holding his trouser-leg away from the skin.
She wiped at his leg, then went down on one knee, then both, to rub at the wetness, and he found himself looking straight down into a deep dark valley between Mt. Etna, twice. Then she looked straight up into his eyes, and she neither straightened nor leaned back nor raised a hand to her bosom.
For the first time in his life, Charles Allison made it on the floor.
For the first time in twelve years-not counting the mailroom-he made it with someone other than Mildred.
For the first time in his life he blew his balls like a goddam bull.
Afterward, as they say, they lit a cigarette and got around to the rest of the Martinis, although he drank only one more. He'd just dropped over, he said, to get that little business straightened out. He had to go home.
"Well," Madelyn said, "you certainly got my business straightened out, Chuck. But-I think you really should keep our date for tomorrow night anyhow." Her look could only be described as arch.
And she patted his butt when she let him out the front door. His clothes were rumpled.
On the way home, he indulged in a little triumphant-and rather astonished-gloating, and in some worrying about Mildred, and then in some little wish-things about Mildred, and him, and homelife, and lilac loungers with low "neck" lines and slinkyswishy legs and Martinis and-oops, and about how he wished he were as potent as a seventeen-year-old.
Chuck, she'd called him. Chuck!
He let himself into a darkened living room.
"Charles?"
She was calling from upstairs. "Yesss."
"Oh Charles I've been worried sick. Where have you been?"
"Clearing up that matter of the Ormsby Tower. The new apartment building." II you're worried sick, he thought, why don't you come down? I might be all over blood or dragging one leg.
"With that sexy widow?" she shouted down.
"With Mrs. Maslow, yes. You think she's sexy?"
"I certainly do! And predatory, too, you'd better watch her. Don't you think she's sexy?"
And then Charles Allison took heart and courage in hands and made a very daring statement:
"Yes."
"Whaat?"
"I said yes, Mildred, I do think she's sexy, and hot for a man too, and what's for supper?" He didn't like all this yelling; what the hell was she doing upstairs?
"Well, she mustn't be too sexy if you can still think about eating! There's a casserole on the range. Push the button, will you; I've had it on Warm since six-thirty."
He directed his steps kitchenward. "Aren't you coming down?"
"Not right now, Charles. I'm busy."
So he pushed the damned button, and the little red eye went out, and he carried the plate from the table to the stove and uncovered the casserole dish-nearly breaking the top, it was hot and he muttered-and spooned himself out a big gob of chicken and rice with pimentos. He had to duck the steam, and he carried it back to the table, muttering.
The damned stuff was so hot, he thought, ruminating about things like cold Martinis and hot pussies, that he'd have plenty of time to change into his sweater. He set the plate down and went back to the hall closet.
He very nearly missed it. The red tie on the hanger, under his sweater. He stared at it. He cocked his head and stared at it some more. He glanced at the steps, into them. Only a dim glow emerged from the bed room. What the hell was she so busy with and only the nightlight on?
He took the tie off the hanger and examined it It was silk, and very wide. There was a big CD on it, near the bottom, and his brows rose. Count Draco! My god she'd gone and spent about ten bucks for this red necktie!
But he went over to hold it up in front of the tie he wore, looking into the mirror. After a while he grinned'.
Then he hung up his coat, loosened his tie, and put on his sweater. He carried the red necktie back to the kitchen with him. He kept looking at it as he ate. The chicken-rice casserole was superb; she'd put in some cheese and the sauce was really good. He was surprised still again.
He ain't seen nothing yet, of course.
After he'd eaten, he picked up the plate, looked at it, and put it back down.
She can't even come down and sit here while I eat, pour me a glass of water or something, he thought to hell with me putting the dish in the sink.
Then he looked at the red tie.
He put the dish in the sink. Looked at the red tie. Ran water over the plate, and his fingers. He wiped them carefully.
And then he took off his tie and went back into the living room and put on the red silk Count Draco tie. He went upstairs.
"That's a lovely tie, dear," she said, and he goggled.
She was propped up in bed, reading. She wasn't wearing the chenille robe, but she wasn't wearing a lilac lounger, either. (After all, she didn't have time for that; the stores were closed when he was driving home from Madelyn's.)
What she had on was a black sheer thing that held her breasts gingerly, wispily, letting him see them and the dark nipples right through the cloth. And very brief matching briefs. And over them, a shorty coat of the same black net.
Her hair was done, too. And when she moved her hand he caught a glimpse of the new paperback she was reading.
Seduction of a housewife, it said, by Dick Guys. She smiled at him. "Very becoming," she said. "Ah-uh-ummm ... that's a handsome outfit too, Mildred."
"Just call me Stefanie," she said. "Stefanier
She waved the book. "That's the name of the girl-I-mean-woman in this book. It's a pretty name, don't you think?"
Leaning-to keep from falling down-against the doorjamb, he nodded.
"You think it's too late for you to get used to another name, darling? There's a man in this book named Chuck, and I think that's a nice, masculine, sexy name, don't you?"
He nodded.
She sighed. "Well, which will it be first, Chuck?" She lowered the book over the side of the bed and came up with the water pitcher with some half-melted ice cubes floating tinkily around in it. He stared at it.
She shook it. "Martinis," she said. "Should have had one before supper, of course, but-well...."
Then she set it down and swung out of the bed and came to him, very rapidly. Her breasts bounced and hobbled and jounced and swung and did their rounded best to jump out of the sheer halter. The little coadet blew out behind her in the breeze of her own passage. Her white thighs flashed and trembled, and her belly button winked at him. And he stared: the briefs didn't have any crotch!
She pushed herself against him, circling his neck with her arms.
"I sat around all morning and thought about what you said. The red tie, and the other...."
"Mildred, I didn't...."
"You said," she said positively, "that you felt it was highly possible my-my sexual organs had atrophied."
"I was mad. It was the oatmeal. I...."
"You said you wished my-my damned unused c-ccu-sexual organs would just dry up and blow away, so I'd know it wasn't there, and wouldn't have to wonder about it. That's what you said."
"I-it was the oatmeal, Mildred, and I didn't sleep too well last night. Actually I...."
"Actually you were right, and after I got over thinking about divorce and murder and all that I started thinking about it. I came up to the bathroom and had a look. Then I took off the robe and had another look, a long one. You know what I decided?"
He shook his head mutely. Her breasts were denting hell out of his shirt. It seemed highly possible that he might soon have two little holes in the shirt, one on either side of the wide red tie.
"I decided I looked pretty damned good, for a bitch of thirty-four, so I cried. Then I went out and bought some clothes-I'm sorry, Char-Chuck darling, really, but I think you'll like them-and then I really lost my head and bought that tie, but you don't have to wear it unless you want to but I wish you'd wear it around the house some, for me, so I could lust after you like you said. Besides, you did say buy me a red tie then."
Had she had a recorder going this morning? He'd about forgotten the dumb, Virginia Woolf conversation.
"And I bought four of these books, too, and I've been reading since six o'clock. I finished one. It's called Captive of the White Slavers and you'll love it. But this one's even better, to me, anyhow, and ... oh." She squeezed him and flopped her head against his chest. His arms had long since gone around her, automatically.
She felt great.
And he was getting even for the hard thrusts of her turned-on nipples. He was jabbing her right back, in the region of her lower belly. Thing felt big and virile as a seventeen-year-old's.
"Darling ... Chuck ... do you want a Martini?"
He nodded in silence. He was staring at the opposite wall, his hands feeling the softness of her through the slicky softness of the net. He still leaned against the doorjamb, with Mildred (Stefanie?) leaning against him. Thank god for doorjambs.
She squeezed him again, kissed his shirt, and went wobbling back to the bed. She produced two glasses from beneath it and poured, carefully, two Martinis.
"To us," she said a couple of minutes later, and carefully, they clinked glasses.
He contrived to spill a little down his right trousers leg, just in case the smell lingered.
As he drank, he remembered, and he asked, "What did you say? Which will it be first? What?"
She lowered her head and looked up at him with a little smile. It wasn't too original, but her experience at being a seductress was limited.
"The Martinis," she said, lifting hers a little and carrying it toward her lips, "or me."
And she drank. All of it. Then she looked at him with bright eyes. "After two of those books-almost two-and thinking about us, and the bath-oil I poured in the tub, and the Martini I sneaked before you got here-well, it had better be me pretty quick. I mean otherwise I'm going to have to run out in the street and start flagging cars, Chuck."
"You wouldn't have to," he said, setting his glass down and reaching for the fat knot in the red necktie. "Just run out there, and there'll be cars climbing the telephone poles."
She smiled widely. "Umm! Really? I mean-do you really like this? I feel ... a little ... embarrassed...."
"Let's just make it bare-assed," he said with a return of his daring, and his clothes started hitting the floor.
It was lovely, he thought a couple of minutes later, to slip into a woman this way with a light on, and her with clothes on. Better than naked or in pajamas, and in the dark. Particularly when the "clothes" she wore were crotchless.
It worked out very well, for both of them. Her legs swept wide, splaying out on either side of his in-sliding body. Then they rose and swung inward to lock over his calves, pulling him into her with all her strength. It felt marvelous, all of it; her slickly-clad, slickly-oiled body beneath his, her soft breasts rolling around beneath his chest, the left one out of the halter where he'd pulled it to mouth the nipple, her legs on his, tugging him in, the soft wet sticky chamber of her belly, open and warm and welcoming him. He began to move, and his strokes brought groans and shudders and little mewls of ecstatic pleasure from her. Her legs left his to kick hard against the air, striving to impale herself to the limit of her body's capacity.
She began to wriggle and hunch and clutch him, with hands and vagina. Her piteous little pleas of passion became almost desperate, as if pained, as she strove with nymphomaniacal zeal to anchor him ever deeper within her. Her eyes glazed, looking almost as if she were in deep hypnosis. But she obviously was not. He knew she was concentrating with all her mind and body on trying to swallow his thick hardness into her farthest depths. Again and again he plunged into the warmth of her; again and again she groaned and jerked and bucked, seeking more.
It was probably more psychological than physical: they came together. That was a first, on a day and a night of firsts.
God, he thought, I wish it could be this way all the time! I wish she'd be like this, a wife, instead of ... an enemy. And I sure wish and hope I can keep up with her; seventeen-year-old cocksman all the way!
Somehow it happened that way, and he was even more astonished than she that he didn't go to sleep, that he soon came up again as they lay kissing after the heated exchange of climax. She was surprised; he was more than surprised, because he knew what she didn't: this was his third time, not the second.
Which made him think, as Charles-Chuck eased himself again into the warm wet glove of MildredStefanie's belly, of Madelyn Maslow.
If this continues, he thought hopefully (without realizing he had already seen to that, without so much as a fairy godmother or a ring or a lamp), I certainly not only Can't service Madelyn, I won't want to. Hmmm....
Slipping in to his full length and sinking upon her to hold her tight against him, already turning, pulling her, to be a little different and thrust at each other while lying on their sides.
Hmmm ... could be ticklish! Wish Madelyn would find herself a good stud to keep up with her, marry him maybe, whatever her bag is. That would solve that, and help her hot pants, too.
God! I hope he isn't a realtor, thought As it turned out, Madelyn Maslow's stud was a forty-year-old sex researcher for the Sex Research Institute, and he had read about fifty million books and conducted about fifty million interviews and he cured hell out of her hot pants and married her too and lived happily ever after on her apartment income, which also did quite well for the Charles Allisons, and so once again those damned grumlins had screwed up.
Wednesday, 0631 hours
Well, Werb said to Wert, that's that.
That, Wert said, was one helluva lot of fun, boy. I mean wow. It beats screwen up Washington, you know?
Well Werb said, whaddaya wanna do now?
Return to base at once, the Big Voice said. You two have brought unheralded and unconscionable amounts of good down there. You asses are about to get one vagel of a chewing outl
One day two grumlennes sat on a cloud, watching Men, and Women, and things.
What shall we do today. Twee says, twirling her curl.
Gee I dunno, Bwee said, curling her twirl. What you wanna do today. Twee?
Keep a stiff upper imagination baby ... today may be the day!
