If you are one of those people who is always in a hurry . . . if you are one of those people who prefers comic books to War & Peace . . . if you are one of those people who doesn't read except when the "boob tube" is broken . . . if you are one of those people who only reads in the John, on the subway, ferry boat to Victoria, stagecoach to Yuma . . . if you are one of those people . . . THIS IS THE BOOK FOR YOU! This is a book of quickies. That is, short stories. Not just story stories. ADULT SHORT STORIES for all those "special" people.
* * *
Though the late show had been a good one, Wallace had fallen asleep on the couch before its exciting conclusion. Yawning, scratching himself, he led the way to the bed as he questioned Sylvia about what he'd missed. She turned off at the bathroom and for a moment he considered joining her at the twin sinks to brush the cocktail-food-wine taste out of his mouth, but then he plodded on, shedding his clothes along the way. His pajamas were on the pillow, and he picked them up and put them on. At bedside he paused and issued forth a long, muffled belch, then proceeded to get in under the covers.
Sylvia came in wearing only panties and bra, and these were on the way off. She still had good tits, he said to himself as she took off the bra, even after seven years of marriage and two kids. Nice little body all over, he decided, as she got her panties off and smiled at him from the chest of drawers. Holding her arms up to let the diaphanous white baby-doll slide down over her accentuated the slimness of her waist and simultaneously thrust out her fetchingly protruding buttocks. When she put her hands behind her neck to fix a little white ribbon about her dark hair, her posture pushed her breasts out more effectively than any uplift bra. She smiled at him again as she put a dab of perfume behind each ear and between her breasts, then turned off the overhead light and moved toward the bed.
She looked exceedingly lovely in the glow of the bedside light. She was one hell of a lot of woman, and Wallace was proud of the way she hadn't let herself go to hell like so many other women did after they had kids and security. Closing his eyes, he grinned as he reflected on what a good choice of mates he'd found, lovely to look at and still practical as she could be.
Sylvia snuggled against his back and he turned his head and kissed her over his shoulder, murmuring his goodnight.
"Going right to sleep?" she asked him.
He yawned mightily, then interrupted it with another muffled belch, and said, "Sure am, if this indigestion lets me. No more second desserts during the late show, no matter what I say tomorrow night. Okay?"
"Okay, darling," she said, and patted his recently developing belly. "Want me to get up and get you an Alka-Seltzer? "
"I'll be all right. And I don't need you to bring me my medicine yet," he laughed.
"I do want to be sure you'll sleep well, honey."
"Don't worry 'bout . . . " He stopped to yawn and fell asleep before he could finish the sentence.
Some hours later he partially awakened with a grunt. He did not grunt the second time Sylvia's elbow dug sharply into his ribs, but shifted about and looked at his wife. The moment he saw her he was fully awake, sitting up to see more of what she was doing in her sleep, kicking her knees out, thrusting her hips up off the mattress, squeezing her breasts with both hands and moaning ecstatically.
"Stop. Wait," he thought he heard her whisper, and with what seemed like a great deal of difficulty she got her legs together and turned on her side to face him. Her breathing seemed a little fast and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she said, "Can't sleep, Wally?"
"No, I . . . Hey, you must have been having one hell of a nightmare."
"Was I? I guess so. But let's go back to sleep now."
"Now that we're both awake," he said with a yawn, settling down beside her, touching her shoulder, "you feel like a little?"
"I'm a little tired. You are too, probably."
"Yeah. Wait till Saturday night, eh? G'night."
He was almost back to sleep when he heard her whisper, "Come to me, Lou. Come back to me."
He opened one eye and saw her push back the covers and hold out her arms. He could see her smile in the faint light as her mouth opened and her tongue went out and moved in lazy circles, her arms now coming down to form a large circle over her breasts. For several minutes she lay thus, sighing and moving her arms and her mouth, clutching at the empty space above her with her fingers. He'd never heard of women having wet dreams, but now he was seeing it happen, and it was exciting him.
She laughed very softly and murmured something he couldn't hear, then lifted her little nightie up to bare her lovely body. Her two fine breasts were hard-crested, and she cupped them in her hands and grinned and cooed as first one, then the other was thrust upward with alternating movements of her shoulders. She kicked the covers down farther and brought her knees up, then moved her thighs as far apart as they would go and ground her pelvis about. By then he was fully erect and wanting her badly, but too fascinated by what he saw to take her.
"Ooooh," she sighed, and held her trembling hands eight inches apart over her breasts. Her hands moved downward, inches from her writhing body, moving in a pattern that zigged and zagged but continued down until they were both directly over her gaping loins. It was all he could do to hold still as she sighed and cooed and clutched at imaginary hair. With her hands she pushed her loins up so far that her flat belly became hollowed.
"Oh, baby," she moaned, and her feet lifted off the mattress. Her hands moved up to her breasts, squeezing and kneading them, while her legs slowly went straight up in the air. Now she reached down and caught the backs of her thighs and pulled her legs down so that her breasts were being mashed flat by her knees, and she made a low sound in her throat, half laugh and half growl, that stirred him to the marrow.
"Lou, now," she whispered urgently, and reached down with both hands to grasp empty air and pull it up over her body to her face. She winced, then giggled as she waggled her hips about, then emitted a long sigh of deep contentment. She lay still then, panting a little, giggling and whispering things he couldn't understand. Her body started moving, slowly and rhythmically, her hips humping upward while she clutched harder still with her arms and hands. Now was the time to wake her and take her, but still Wallace watched on, completely absorbed by her totally uninhibited exhibition.
For several minutes she humped and panted and cooed, stopping every now and then to whisper and giggle. But the stops were becoming less frequent, the humping faster and more frantic. Then, before his rapt gaze, without a soul touching her, Sylvia orgasmed. It was a full-bodied climax, one that made her shudder and moan and sigh. Her face turned toward him and there was a look of complete ecstasy on it as she gnawed at her knuckles and slowly, slowly her contortions dwindled to little twitching thrusts that rippled through her. She held her dream lover's face between her hands again, facing him, pecking kisses at empty air. She hugged him again and whispered something more, then shuddered and sighed and arched up off the bed. With a very satisfied sigh, she rolled over with her back to Wallace, pulled up the covers, and resumed her sleep.
He moved up right behind her pressing his hard organ against her soft, warm bottom. He shook her shoulder and said, "Sylvia! Wake up, honey."
"Hmm?"
He moved his hand around her and fondled her breasts, saying, "Honey, I'm really in the mood for a little loving. How about you?"
"Mmmmm. Too tired."
"But, honey," he pleaded.
Already she was asleep, lightly snoring this time, and he rolled over on his back, feeling entirely too frustrated to even hope to get to sleep for hours to come.
Wallace had to be shaken awake by Sylvia. He felt very weary, and even more so when he saw how fresh and pretty she looked in a brightly flowered housecoat. "Breakfast will be ready by the time you shower and shave, dear," she said, and pecked him on the lips and was gone.
Dressed, yawning and stretching, he followed his nose to the kitchen, sniffing and sniffing, and his mouth watered when he saw the meal she'd prepared. "Orange juice, ham and eggs, coffee, and you even made biscuits! Hey, what a treat."
"I felt energetic," she smiled. "Sit down and let's eat. I'm famished."
It was while she was putting another piece of ham in her mouth that he noticed the ring. It was on the third finger of her right hand, and looked like a cheap little wedding band. When he asked her about it through a mouthful of egg, she appeared flustered. She put her right hand out of sight below the table and replied it was an old ring of her mother's she'd found lying about.
"You shouldn't be wearing it if it's an hair-loom. You might lose it."
"You're right. I won't wear it any more," she said, and immediately changed the subject.
She seemed more anxious than usual to see that he got off on time, and when he kissed her goodbye at the door he noticed that she wasn't wearing a stitch under her housecoat.
That day at the office his thoughts turned again and again to his wife and her wet dream of the night before. He wondered if it happened to her often. He remembered when he used to have them, and afterward how he'd masturbate regularly for a few days, stirred to excitement each time he remembered the erotic visions he'd had in the dream that led to his nocturnal emission.
More in the mood for sex than he had been for several months, he returned home early that night and found Sylvia looking quite flushed and radiant when she met him at the door. He felt like taking her right then and there, the way he used to do years before, but the children were about outside and might come bursting in at any moment. He kissed her very warmly, though, and as he kissed her he became aware that she was working her hands behind his neck.
Curious, he took her by the wrists and looked at her hands, frowned and said, "I thought you weren't going to wear that ring any more."
"I forgot to take it off till just now," she said, reddening. She took it off then and held it tightly in her hand as she went toward the kitchen.
The pitcher of martinis he made that night was superlative. Sylvia's dinner was excellent. The television was interesting enough to keep him awake past ten o'clock. At around midnight he staggered along to bed, all thoughts of matters sexual gently washed away during the course of another pleasant evening. He slept well until the heavings of the mattress and the soft cries of his wife awakened him.
She was having another wet dream, and he sat bolt upright, prepared to shake her out of this one and have her for himself. It was just at the climax of it and she was heaving and thrashing in orgasm, her hips bucking wildly upward as she squealed and grunted like an animal. Furious, he shook her very hard, calling her name loudly.
Surprisingly, she answered him right away, her voice distorted with her passion, but showing no signs of sleepiness. "Wally, please! Wait just another minute. Just another second. Stay with me, Lou. Oh, stay with me now!"
Moments more and she was sighing and wilting, smiling. Then she blew out her breath and sat up in bed, pulling her nightie down, reaching for the covers.
He flicked on the bedside light behind him and said, "You've been having some pretty wild dreams. I guess I've been neglecting you."
"Oh, no," she said, and brushed the hair from her eyes. "Whatever gave you the idea you were neglecting me? Let's go back to sleep. I guess I did have a nightm. . . "
"What the hell are you wearing this ring again for?" he sharply queried. "I thought you decided not to."
"I just . . . I just put it on so I wouldn't lose it. I.. . I guess I forgot about it."
"Sylvia, you are lying to me."
"But I'm not," she said, her eyes very wide, but very furtive.
"Honey, after seven years I can tell when you're lying. Sylvia, is there some connection between that damned ring and those wild dreams you've been having?"
"But, how could you think such a thing? It's just a little ring and I . . . Wally, don't! You're hurting me."
"I'm taking that damned ring off. Right now!"
"No! No, Wally. Please! God, please don't do that."
"Tell me then! What about these dreams and what about that ring! And have you been masturbating during the day when you're alone? Tell me, dammit!"
She began to cry and he had to ease the pressure on her hand, though he still kept her fist in his grip. "All right," she sobbed. "All right. You have the right to know, but I know if I tell you, you'll hate me."
"Just tell me," he said grimly.
She began, falteringly, to tell of how she and her girl friend Eunice had been downtown, rummaging through the antique shops, and had come across the ring. It had been in the possession of a little old man who'd chuckled about it having mystical properties of special interest to young matrons such as they. It had been in an attractive little box, together with a scrap of folded parchment. Partly as a lark, partly because the box was so pretty, Sylvia had bought it. It had sat on her bureau for a few days, forgotten, and then one boring afternoon she'd sat down with it in the living room when the children were still away at school. She'd found that the parchment had a few words on it in English and some foreign words as well, and she'd said the words aloud while she was twisting the ring idly on her finger.
At once she'd felt a presence on the couch with her, and it had frightened her, but only for a moment, as she had the definite feeling that the presence was benign. Warm lips on hers had startled her, then lulled her so that the presence of unseen hands under her clothing had been quite welcome. She'd pulled off her clothes and lay down, with the hands and the lips and the limbs of a strong and tender masculine body administering to her every rising need. For the next half hour she'd writhed and moaned under the sweetest caresses, her every nerve ending sensitized, her every passion requited. She orgasmed so hard she fell asleep afterwards and had barely been able to scurry to the bedroom at the sound of the children approaching.
Aghast, Wallace said, "And now you do it in bed at night? With me lying right beside you?"
"By now I . . . I need it," she meekly answered.
"You can't even wait and do it during the day?"
A tear rolled down her cheek and she said, "I do it then, too."
"Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed, smiting his head with his palm. "I don't believe this! What is it you have to say to him to get him to come?"
She opened her mouth to speak and he said, "Wait! You take that damned ring off before you say it."
"You . . . won't take it away from me?"
"I should. God knows I should. But I still just can't believe all this. Just take it off, keep it in your hand, and tell me what it is you say. I promise I won't try to take it away from you."
She twisted it off and held it tightly in her fist, the one at her side away from him. Then she said, "I need you. My body craves your body. Come worship at the shrine of my womanhood. Come to me, Hop Sing Loo."
"A Chinaman! A God damned Chinaman screwing my wife! Give me that ring!"
"Wally, you promised," she cried, trying to twist away from him. "I need it. I really need it by now."
"I'll show you what you need," he said, and gave off his struggle for the ring to throw the covers down from them.
He fell on her, kissing her wildly, tearing open his pajamas and squirming his loins against hers. In just a few moments he was hard, and just a moment after that he'd fitted himself into her and was thrusting deeply and satisfyingly within.
"No little squirt of a Chinaman's going to outdo me," he panted, "especially with my own wife."
Long and hard he stroked, kneading her flesh with his big hands as he did, and feeling entirely certain that she was being as deeply stirred by his huge masculinity as was he by her softness and pliability. When he came, he drove so deeply that he all but pinioned her to the bed. Then, sweating and panting, he looked down at her with a confident grin.
"That's what you need," he said. "A real man, and not some imaginary Chinaman with a pecker no bigger than my little finger. Was it good? Eh?"
"It was fine, Wally," she said. "Really it was."
He rolled off her and turned off the light, then settled down with his belly against her back, his arms about her. "You won't be using that thing any more, will you? "
There was a long pause before she said in a small voice, "You said I could keep it."
"But, honey," he pleaded. "Why do you need that when you have me?"
"I'll never use it when you're around. I won't even wear it when you're around."
"Dammit, I don't want you using it at all. You give it to me now."
"But you promised!"
"I don't care what I promised! Hand it over or, so help me, I'll break your neck."
When he got it from her at last, he got up and stormed to his attache case, locked it inside, and returned to bed, only to find her weeping quietly. Feeling very helpless, he tried to comfort her, but she apparently did not hear his tender words or feel his gentle touches.
He took the ring out at work the next day and studied it. He slipped it on his little finger and thought about the incantation she'd told him about. He started to say it as it came back to him, then stopped, horrified, looking at the ring. It seemed as if he could already feel the knob of a yellow penis pressing at his anus, and he leaped out of the chair, tearing the ring from his hand, and hurried to the rest room where he flushed it down the toilet.
Sylvia greeted him glumly at the door that night, lackadaisically thanking him for the dozen red roses he brought her. When he told her he was taking her out to dinner and that she should get a baby-sitter, she only said, "That's nice."
He strove to keep a conversation going through the intimate little meal they shared, watching his drinks very closely so that his mind would be sharp and he'd be able to come up with something that would make her laugh, or even smile. Over coffee he edged very close to her, squeezing her hand and caressing her thighs under the tablecloth, succeeding in getting himself excited, but getting little or no reaction from her.
He drove toward home with an arm about her, one hand cupping a breast, and she remained stiff and unyielding at his side. A mile from home he turned off on a dark street and parked, took his wife in his arms and kissed her. He opened her mouth with his tongue and delved within, tickling and teasing, feeling his already great excitement mounting as there was a small but unmistakable flicker of response from her.
Then she pushed away and said, "Wally, not here. If you want a little loving, wait till we get home."
"I don't want a little loving. I want a lot," he said, and kissed her again, even more warmly and deeply.
"Honey, we could get arrested," she said, panting just a little.
"Who worries about things like that at a time like this? And if we're going to be arrested for something, we might as well make it something worthwhile."
Shushing away her protests, he opened her breasts, pulled away her lacy bra, and lavished kisses on her lovely breasts. By kneading them and kissing them, by murmuring endearments to her between his kisses, he succeeded in getting her to lie back across the front seat.
Squeezing her breasts with one hand then, he used the other to tease her unmercifully under her skirt. He sampled every square millimeter of the wondrously soft flesh of her upper thighs before he touched the cushiony plumpness between her legs and found the crotch of her panties moist and very warm. As he began to move down on her, she panted, "Please L . . . Please, Wally. Hurry!"
He ripped her panties when he pulled them away, and to make up for this he covered her legs from the knees up with kisses. She was breathing very fast and reaching down for his head with both hands when he at last pressed a warm kiss directly on her cunt. Her moan was marvelously fulfilling to him, and he parted the fleshy lips of her heavily musky cunt and kissed within, eliciting new moans and sighs from her. He hadn't tasted her thus for months, and now the exotic flavor was most intoxicating as he found her clitoris and sucked it, licked it, whipped it with his tongue. Above him she gasped and moaned and begged for him to enter her, pulling hard at his hair one moment, then pushing him deeper into her the next.
He made her come with his kisses and his hands, and when she was at the peak of it, he was absolutely certain that it was just as intense an experience for her as she knew with her phantom lover. Only then did he quit her deliciously hairy box and come to sit by her side.
He helped her to sit up, and the moment she was erect her weakness fled her and she scrabbled at his trousers with both hands. He grinned exultantly as she exposed his proudly erect member, and she made a little cry of delight and bent to take it in her mouth.
With no little difficulty, he lifted her up, and at once she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him wildly, passionately. When it ended, she sought to bend and fellate him some more, panting out, "Please, Wally. I want to so much."
Suddenly angry, he gripped her very hard and said, "Did you ever go down on that damned Chinaman?"
"No! Never. But I've got to do it for you. Wally, I've got to."
"I couldn't stand it if you did now. I want to be inside you now."
"Ohhh," she crooned, and subsided back on the seat, pulling him with her.
He entered her slowly, gently, hugely pleased by how very wet she was. Halfway in, she threw her legs about him and pulled him belly to belly with her, laughing joyfully along with him.
"Wally, you feel so good. So good!"
"Better than the Chinaman?"
"Better than anybody could ever feel."
"Mmmmm. I love you, Sylvia."
"And I love you. Oh, that's nice. Just like that. Honey, you're going to make me come again if you're not careful."
"At least once more. At least that."
"You're going to think I'm awful, but. . . "
"But what?" he said, still moving, deeply, smoothly, thrillingly.
"But I still want to kiss your lovely prick. Can I do it when we get home? "
"No," he said with mock severity. "Not unless I can kiss that beautifully wet cunt of yours at the same time."
"Sixty-nine!" she gushed, hurling her hips up at him and squeezing him very hard with her vaginal muscles. "Wally, we haven't done that in ages. Just thinking about it . . . Oh Wally, I'm starting to come. Come with me! Please, Wally!"
"I am. Oh, how I am! Really coming hard. Feel it. Just feel it pouring out into you, pouring out like the love that's pouring out of my heart for you."
"I love you, Wally," she managed to say from the heights of her spasming bliss.
"And I love you," he groaned, bursting with joy and happiness, knowing that he'd won his wife completely.
The next day, as soon as Wally gave Sylvia a very lingering kiss and left for work, she called her friend Eunice.
"Guess what," Sylvia said smugly.
"It worked,'" Eunice said excitedly. "Did it really? Tell me all about it."
"Eunice, it wouldn't be lady-like to tell you all the gory, wonderful details. Suffice it to say, though, that I've got myself a very wonderful, very virile husband again. And now it's your turn to start to work on Fred."
"I will, now that I know it has a chance of working. I'll come over and pick up the ring today."
"You can't. Wally took it. He probably threw it away. Just pick one up at the dime store today, like we did the other one."
THE END
* * *
THE LESSON
by James Fox
When Mary Ann Newman left the house, she was doing so against her parents' wishes. Even though she was twenty-two years old, strict rules had been laid down for her:
No men friends until the age of 25. No nights out of the house. No friends in after supper. No reading after the hour of 9 :00.
Mary Ann imagined that there were three more orders added to the list but in reality they were only in her mind. No living, no feeling, no ecstasy.
Whether they were in her head or whether they had actually been added to the list made little difference to Mary Ann. She was living under them as if all seven of them really existed.
She lived as if she were tied down and sometimes she consciously looked for the rope burns and welts that the bonds must surely make on her body.
At night she dreamed fantastic dreams: long nightmares in which she saw herself stripped and tied to a huge Rule Book; endless dream-sequences where she danced freely in fields of tall green grass only to be captured by unknown assailants and whipped to within an inch of her life.
"Don't do this, Mary Ann."
"Don't do that, Mary Ann."
"Honor your father and mother, Mary Ann."
Sometimes she saw herself as a whipped beast, being led from place to place on a long leash. When she resisted a thick boot thudded into her side; when she howled, gags were forced into her mouth.
Therefore she left the house knowing full well what might happen to her when, and if, she went back. She told herself that the punitive measures would be terrible, for although her parents never physically touched her, they put her through hell with their sly asides, their innuendoes and their double entendre.
Despite everything, she left. As the house slept, she rose from her bed, dressed carefully in clean underwear and a clean dress and slipped out the door, out into the cool free night.
She was excited by her sense of freedom and she took off her shoes and walked barefoot through the grass at the side of the street. When she came to a dark section of the block, she ran to a tall dark tree, undid her dress and bra and rubbed her taut nipples against the wood.
She loved the pain that ran through her breasts, it was a positive relief after the mental anguish of being tied to home and family. She ground her body into the stiff trunk, spraddling her legs and feeling-even through the layers of cotton and silk-the wonderful pressure of its hardness against her.
When she finally moved away her breasts were scratched and bleeding but she felt wonderful.
She knew in her heart that tonight was a magic night for her, she felt that she would learn something that would always stand her in good stead if she only had the strength to receive whatever was coming her way.
Since Mary Ann felt that her adventure was to begin in town, she hurried along. In less than thirty minutes she caught a bus going right into the center of the city.
She left the bus at the corner of Alvarado and Main. To her left lay the alleys and bars of Main St. while at her right was a comfortable cocktail lounge. Mary Ann looked at the flashing light and read "The Lady's Gauntlet." A shiver of anticipation ran through her as she thought of a soft leather glove, so she walked through the heavy door and into the cool darkness.
Keeping her eyes straight ahead of her, Mary Ann walked to the only empty place at the bar. When the girl asked for her order she requested a Coke-Hi. Summoning her courage to look around, she found that there were no men in the bar, only women. Furthermore, the floor show consisted only of women and girls. At a signal from the orchestra, the club settled back to watch the first act.
Mary Ann watched with a special fascination because the heroine of the skit looked just like a lady in one of her dreams. The woman's black hair hung to her waist, matched in color by her dark G-string and bra. Long black stockings covered her legs and she was booted to the knee. She carried a long, coiled whip.
"My name is Tania," shouted the woman on the stage. "I command all the jungle animals. Watch now as I put one of these beasts through its paces."
The whip smacked the floor and Mary Ann gulped at her drink. She felt herself begin to tingle with excitement, her legs felt weak and she licked her lips again and again.
At Tania's command another actress came out onto the stage dressed as a panther and because the girl was black as coal she entered nude.
"Now," said Tania, "you beauty. Roll for me, claw the air and whine for me or feel the kiss of my whip."
The panther writhed across the stage splaying her legs wide, causing the audience to lean forward as one woman. Mary Ann looked around her and saw hand joined to hand, thigh pressed to thigh, lip caressing lip. Her stomach churned. She knew what she would do if the panther role could be hers. There would be no obeying of commands; she would purposely neglect her duties in order to taste the sweetness of the lash.
"I need to suffer," she whispered to herself. "I need to suffer for my sins."
Looking up she saw that the scene was finished, trainer and beast stood side by side as the curtain fell and Mary Ann, turning to order another drink, was disappointed. And because there was no one to talk to, she fell into the old habit of talking to herself.
"The act should go on," she said softly. "The animal should resist the trainer and be punished. Then the roles should be reversed, so the passive agent can act. Only in that way is the illusion of reality made complete. Everyone suffers in reality, absolutely everyone. It amazes me that the performers don't see that."
"But we do," said a voice at her side. Mary Ann looked up and saw the woman who had taken the part of the trainer. She had thrown a gown over her brief costume but her breasts, pendulous and ripe, could not be hidden.
"We do see it, child," said Tania. "Everyone on stage realizes the shortcomings of our performance. It is during the act after the act that the stage becomes life."
"You must think me a silly girl," said Mary Ann. "Here I come marching in, straight off the farm, as green as grass and tell you how to run your business."
"I don't think you silly at all," said the older woman. "In fact, you impress me as an astute and intelligent child. And it is for those reasons that I can invite you to an after-hours party. Will you come?"
"Of course," said Mary Ann, "I'd love to."
"You must know but one thing," Tania said, "that is the fact that you may not be a participant in our tableaux, at least not at first. Like any neophyte in a cabal you must spend a certain amount of time in passive submission.
When Mary Ann did not answer, Tania seized her forearm and twisted it.
"Do you hear me, wretch?" she asked.
After the first flash of pain the young girl warmed to it. She felt Tania's nearness, felt her warm breath wash over her face, thrilled at the harsh words, knew that heaving breasts and strong thighs were only inches from hers. Her next words came to her naturally:
"Yes, mistress," she said. "I hear and obey."
Accordingly she waited through two short acts, sitting with her head bowed and her hands locked together in the attitude of the supplicant. In less than an hour Tania came to the bar, led her to an automobile and drove her across the city.
Inside a deserted house somewhere in the beach area, Mary Ann was introduced to the members of Tania's inner circle. Each one responded to the introduction with an appropriate gesture.
"Mary Ann," said Tania, "I'd like you to meet Nora, the young lady who portrayed the panther in the first act of the evening."
When the girl raised her head to speak to the Negro, a black fist snapped her head back. Mary Ann groaned, only half in pain.
"Here," said Tania, "is Isabelle."
Too smart to be taken advantage off twice, Mary Ann bent her head even lower in abject humility. Then she was delighted to feel a strange hand on her breast, kneading it, fondling it, loving it expertly.
Automatically she looked up thankfully only to feel that same velvet touch become an iron fist thudding into the pit of her stomach. As she fell to the ground, her breath completely robbed from her, a spiked boot raked her cheek. When the blood trickled into the corner of her mouth she lapped it.
"A nice touch," said a strange voice. "A very nice touch; she may be useful." Finally, after innumerable humiliations, Mary
Ann was roped into a tall chair. Then Tania strode to the center of the floor and announced, "Let the games begin."
Two women, dressed in the short skirts and frilly blouses of working girls, walked out of a side room. They sat cross-legged on the floor, the lights were dimmed, and the scene began.
"I'm so miserable," said one.
"I find life as painful as you, I believe," said the other.
Mary Ann, from her vantage point, could see up the dresses of the two girls. To her surprise and delight, neither of them wore panties.
"I'm so bored," said the first.
"Oh, god, so am I. If only we could feel something. If there was only somebody who could make us feel something."
At that cue, Tania entered from the opposite side of the stage. Except for leather boots that reached her thighs, she was nude, and she carried a long thin cane.
"You may call me Dream-Woman. Who I am is of no consequence. I have heard and I have come to answer your prayers. If you will do as I say I can promise that you will feel as you have never felt before."
"Oh, if you only could," said one young woman. "Our lives are as empty as the promises that men have made to us."
"First, then," Tania told them, "remove your clothes. Only when you have cast off the symbols of civilization can you begin to experience sensory delights."
Mary Ann, lashed to the chair but happy in her bondage, watched as the two girls removed their clothing.
"Now," said Tania, "caress one another. Let your life forces flow from one to the other. Forget yourself."
Tania watched as hands met hands, breasts brushed and tingled, loins were laved and thighs tangled. When the two girls were on the floor, locked in an attitude of mutual pleasure, Tania questioned them again.
"And are you happy? Can you feel now? Is your life more meaningful?"
"Oh, yes," they answered in unison. "Yes, of course."
Snap! went the thin, flexible cane. Mary Ann heard a cry and saw the narrow welt that the instrument left. She knew what was coming, she knew that Tania would tell them that real happiness was only transitory.
"You fools," said Dream-Woman. "After I have made you happy you lie to me. What you have experienced is not happiness, it is only pleasure. You were only truly happy under the blows of the cane because suffering is the only real, the only lasting joy."
At Tania's words the girls on the floor rolled away from each other and sprawled on the floor in attitudes of utter submission.
"Satisfy us," they said, "satisfy us with the lash."
Smiling Tania stood between them and thrashed them alternately. Her blows left crisscross patterns on the bodies of the girls, first on their breasts and stomachs and then on their buttocks and shoulders.
Finally, in order to show their gratitude, each one crawled to Tania's feet and licked her boots, starting at the tips and working their way up to where the soft leather stopped and the soft white skin began.
Then, as they were about to overstep the bounds of supplicant and take their pleasure directly from Tania, the final pleasure came. With the heavy end of her cane, Dream-Woman knocked them both senseless and the performance was over.
After the floor-area had been cleared and most of the guests had left, Tania came over to Mary Ann. She looked at the younger girl's bonds, noting with satisfaction that the ropes had left heavy singe marks in the flesh.
"And did you enjoy your role as passive participant?"
"I would have enjoyed it more as an active one," said Mary Ann. "Already I'm thinking about the punishment that my parents will give me when I get home. I still don't know how I'll be able to handle it. Somehow I had hoped you could show me."
"Perhaps I can, child. Of course your parents will not beat you, but their verbal assaults, their psychological torture can be pleasurable, too."
"If that is true, Tania, that is what I must know."
Then come with me and we will begin the lesson."
Tania led Mary Ann into a private bedroom.
The walls were decorated with pictures of martyrs and beleagured saints.
"First," said her instructor, "you must learn to accept pain as part of your daily life."
" Now crawl up onto that bed, you little bitch."
Tania's voice grew cold and raspy and Mary Ann knew what she was in for. She would have to be insulted and flogged. Only then could she take the next step in her course of instruction.
Mary Ann spread-eagled herself on the soft coverlet as Tania opened a heavy chest and withdrew a black, serpentine whip. Then the older woman swung it round and round her head, drawing ever closer to Mary Ann until she stood almost directly above her.
The dominated child noted how acute her senses became as the threat of pain pleasure approached her. She could see vividly, hear the hiss of the whip and the click of Tania's boot, smell the pungent leather and the heady, musky odor of femininity.
Mary Ann arched her body, her cambered middle straining up toward the whirling whip. She wanted it, she needed it and then-with a whoosh of exertion the lash stung her soft white belly.
She moaned with discomfort and desire for more, and Tania-her arm pumping furiously-gave her all she could take and then a little extra. When she was almost finished, Mary Ann lay humbled on the bed. She was a maze of cuts and lashes, her body was ridged with welts and narrow slits.
Nevertheless she felt increasingly alive, so that when Tania dropped the whip and fell onto her, she responded with unbelievable ferocity. As the other woman's mouth closed over hers, Mary Ann's stiffened tongue intruded with this woman's.
While Tania caressed her torn body she tangled her fingers in that long black hair, tugging at it, directing the eager lips beneath it. Finally Mary Ann, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed, felt Tania kiss her feet, then suckle the in-sides of her knees and then raise herself finally to the center of all love. At her touch, she blossomed like a flower and then-like the heroine of some quaint old novel-she swooned.
About thirty minutes later Mary Ann awoke to find two young maidens spreading a soothing cream over her body. All the sting and harshness of the lash was gone and she felt only a kind of pleasant strength course through her. She longed to see Tania. Pushing away the sycophantic girls with rough shoves, she arose and marched across the room to the huge bed where the sleeping Tania lay. Mary Ann picked up a heavy cane and balanced it in her hand; the wood was heavy, smooth and lethal.
"Tania," she called softly.
The woman stirred in her sleep.
"Tania," said Mary Ann. "you have given me strength, and now I give you pleasure in return."
Then she raised the cane in her two hands like a woodsman and brought it down across Tania's shining buttocks.
Although the blow was severe, the older woman only stirred on the bed and parted her legs. So Mary Ann struck again. This time she broke the skin around the patella and Tania reached down to feel the wound.
"How delicious," she said as the thick fluid seeped between her fingers.
"And now, child, show me that you really love me."
Mary Ann fell to her task with a will. As Tania rolled from side to side on the bed, she thrashed her to within an inch of her life. When she was finished, so many bruises clotted Tania's skin that she looked Negroid.
And then, as her strength left her and desire replaced energy, Mary Ann threw the cane away and lashed the woman's broken body with her healing tongue. For a while they both slept. When Mary Ann awoke, the same girls were applying cold packs and special herbs to the black-and-blue body of their mistress.
"Will she be all right?" asked Mary Ann.
The girls only nodded in affirmation and as Tania regained consciousness they scurried away.
"And that is what love is?" said Mary Ann.
"Partly," replied Tania, "but love can be procured anywhere. What you must have for survival is the capacity to deal with the confused affection of your parents as it is manifested in their stringent rules and cruel regulations.
"You're right, of course," said Mary Ann. "Since they will never beat me I need to know some way to enjoy or merely tolerate their mental cruelty."
"I think I know," said Tania getting off the bed and walking across the room. "Lie here for a moment while I get ready."
In less than ten minutes Tania commanded
Mary Ann to look up and when she did she saw her mother.
Or what looked like her mother. Tania wore the clothes and make-up of an old woman and though she did not look exactly like Mary Ann's guardian, she did look enough like her to give Mary Ann quite a little shock.
Since she knew what was expected of her, the young girl played along.
"What do you want with me, Mother?" asked Mary Ann.
Tania, affecting the cracked voice of a matriarch, told her, "You've been out with those young people again, running around and ruining our good name. I don't know what's to be done with you. I command you to read ten more pages of the Bible every day and to pray in your room an extra half-hour. Do you hear me?"
Mary Ann looked at the burning eyes and sharp, hateful mouth. Suddenly she felt that her mother's angular person and rough mentality were positive weapons against her. She felt the eyes burn her flesh, suffered as the rasping mouth threw lethal words at her.
Then, almost as soon as she realized that psychological torture can be as acute as the physical, she began to enjoy it. Every epithet that thudded against her left a bruise and the accompanying glow.
Every name that her mother called her only hurt her momentarily, almost immediately afterward the pang was replaced by the warmth of pleasure.
"You harlot!" screamed Tania in her role as aggressor. "You shameless hussy. You're a child of the devil. Your breasts should be cut away, your groping hands should be sliced off. Your father and I rue the day you were born."
On and on she raged, hotter and hotter grew her speech until Mary Ann felt herself building to completion. Finally as Tania poured an especially hateful mouthful of hot words onto her tender flesh she quivered and the spasms began.
Wave after wave of complete release poured over her. It felt as if she was never going to stop writhing.
Afterwards as she dressed to leave, she asked Tania if she had learned enough.
"More than enough," said the woman. "Now you are able to turn any attack on you into something pleasurable. Whether it is physical or mental, makes little difference."
Mary Ann put on her coat and knelt at Tania's feet. She lifted her teacher's boot and kissed the sole and heel.
"Thank you," she said, "for the wonderful lesson."
Tania felt her blood heat as she watched the girl suck on the thin, pointy heel.
"Stay awhile," she said, "if you can learn more, perhaps we can go over some of the things we have learned."
And Mary Ann, slipping out of her coat and lying back on the floor, replied:
"Yes," she said, "oh, yes. Who knows, maybe the teacher can be taught!"
THE END
* * *
THE AWAKENING
by Jack Cass
Ray Schofield awoke in a bathtub. An unfamiliar one. Not that he normally spent the night in even familiar bathtubs, but these completely alien surroundings made his position all the more alarming to him.
His nude body had reposed in an unnatural posture and now his black muscles twinged when he sat up. His head was swimming and his stomach was queasy, his mouth hot and dry and stale with his hangover. Some of his clothing was strewn about the floor of the little bathroom, though he didn't at all remember stripping in there. In fact, he remembered nothing of the previous night beyond the fourth or fifth bar he'd been drinking in. The rest of the night was a total loss to him. He didn't even know in what cheap hotel he was, but he did know it was a cheap one. He got out of the tub.
Looking out the window to orient himself, the first thing that Ray really saw there was the ancient landmark of the scabbiest section of town. The big old sign with its scaly block letters had been urging drifters to 'REPENT' since long before Ray had moved to the city two lonely years before. He'd chuckled at that sign in the past, but now he decided to adopt it as his watchword. He'd repent. If in the future, he ever felt the melancholia he'd felt at the start of the night before, he'd amuse himself with a nice, sedate movie.
A wash in the cracked basin helped some and then he began to sort out and don his clothing. He found his own shirt and beneath it a woman's blouse. Had he come up there with a woman? He threw the blouse in the corner and put the shirt on. Its tails would have to cover him when he left the bathroom because the trousers on the floor were not his. He found one of his socks and both shoes and put these on. The rest of his clothes had to be beyond the door, out there were some blowzy pick-up was snoring with the owner of the trousers on the floor. Feeling ridiculous in his partial nudity, Ray eased the door open.
She was there on the bed, her back to him, her head hidden by a pillow, locked in the somnolent embrace of a young man of about Ray's age. She had a slim figure, a good one from what Ray could see of it, and she was dressed in only a black bra and a black garter belt supporting dark hose lined with runners. The man was quite naked, his arms and legs intertwined with the woman's. And there on the bed, lying partly under both of them, were Ray's trousers. Whatever had happened last night, it must have been a wild affair, a drunken orgy the likes of which he'd never even thought of becoming involved in, up to that time.
He stepped over a whiskey bottle and tiptoed closer to the bed. It would be almost impossible to extricate his trousers without awakening them. But perhaps the whiskey they'd drunk still had them anaesthetized. The first touch at his captive trousers, though, awoke the man. He yawned and smiled and stretched lazily with no modesty at all. He said, "Morning, Ray, baby. How was the bathtub?"
"It was . . . all right. I've got to get my pants. I've got to go."
The woman stirred now and rolled over, her out-flung hand striking Ray's bare thigh. He involuntarily recoiled from it, then recoiled even further in horror as he looked at her. Smiling up at him through heavily made up eyes and mouth, the woman was very obviously a young man. He stretched out his arms at Ray and said, "Hi, lover. I missed you last night. Bobby and I both did. How do you feel? Up to another romp with us?"
"A . . . a romp? What happened last night? What did I do?"
The transvestite laughed and leered at Ray. "What didn't you do last night? But are you ready to start again now? Bobby sure is." One of his hands was busy ensuring that Bobby was, indeed, ready. The other reached out to grasp Ray and pull him closer to the edge of the bed.
Ray said, "No. No, I've got to go. Just let me get my pants.".
The masquerading male simpered, "Come get them, sweet."
When Ray bent to try to pull them from under the couple, the transvestite reached deftly behind him and caught him off balance to tumble him onto the tousled bed. Giggling, laughing, his hands were all over Ray, taking any number of humiliating liberties with him, accompanied by words of the lewdest, most perverted nature. Ray worked frantically to get his trousers free of the melange of bodies, his cheeks aflame, almost strangling with his shame. At last he grasped the trousers and managed to escape from the grasping hands, the two warmly writhing bodies, and he urgently covered himself.
He paused at the door, trying to control his breathing, trying to fight the strange excitement he felt. The couple on the bed seemed to have forgotten him already. They were locked in a long kiss, their hands roving expertly over one another, their denuded bodies straining languorously together. Ray said aloud to himself, "No. No, I'm not one of those. I'm not queer."
The transvestite broke out of the kiss only long enough to call out in a derisive voice, "You may not be queer this morning, darling, but you sure were queer last night."
* * *
Ray's shattering experience altered his habits greatly. If any male, even the ones at work, showed any sort of friendliness toward him, he immediately and sometimes aggressively withdrew. He'd never dated much since his arrival in the city, but now he went out of his way to be in the company of girls of any description whatsoever. His dating kept him all but broke financially, but he knew it was worth it. He forced himself to go just as far as he could sexually with each of his dates and he reassured himself that the long necking sessions and the occasional times he was suffering to go all the way, were truly delightful experiences. He shunned even glances at the ladies' shops that he passed on the street and he refused to look at any advertisements for women's clothing that appeared in the periodicals. He gave up drinking altogether. Where he'd previously enjoyed a drink or two during his quiet evenings in his flat, he now only drank coffee on those nights that he stayed at home. He didn't even permit himself a glass of wine on his dinner dates. Only more coffee.
Ray forced himself not to recall that awful morning in the hotel room. He convinced himself that that wild excitement he'd felt surging through him, just before he'd closed the door on the dreadful scene on the bed, was only his hung-over imagination. His greatest consolation was that he could remember nothing of the events of the night before that morning.
But he did have dreams about the couple on the bed and himself. That wasn't too surprising. The way he was sleeping lately, all sorts of meaningless dreams troubled him. He became so weary from his sleepless nights that he had to curtail his dating activities and that helped him. He found that even when he deprived himself of most of his feminine companionship, he developed no desire for a homosexual replacement for it. He began to wonder at the necessity for his altered existence. He slowly permitted his aloofness with other males to ebb. He even bought a bottle of good scotch and resumed his occasional evening highball. And one night, he ventured forth for a solitary adventure on the town.
* * *
He awoke in a panic next morning until he recognized the familiar surroundings of his own bed. He was slightly hung over and the events of the previous night were fuzzy, surely mixed up with his dreams. But he was alone and he was safe in his own room and that was all that mattered. He got up and made his way to the bathroom. He leaned against the basin for a minute, then looked into the mirror. A garish, gaudy face stared back at him. Both eyes were heavily shadowed and mascaraed. His eyebrows were arched and lengthened with pencil. His cheeks were rouged. His mouth was painted into a crimson bow.
He couldn't look at himself. He hung his head and he scrubbed savagely at the makeup. And as he scoured it away, recollections of its application came flooding back at him. He'd been seated in a young man's lap, as nude as he was, laughing, facing him. And the man-Ed? Edith?-had expertly painted his face while his laughter had changed to moans and coos and sighs as he squirmed hard against the body below him. It was horrible. Too horrible to think of. But he couldn't stop thinking of it. And what made it even worse, he was, in spite of his revulsion at it all, very much aroused.
He wheeled blindly from the bedroom and into the kitchen to rouse himself with coffee. Cup in shaking hand, he went to the living room. It was a shambles, the half empty glasses with their lipsticked rims brought still more of the previous night's events to him. He started to stumble back into the kitchen, dazedly picking up a folded paper with his name on it that was propped up on the table. He slumped down at the kitchen table and his mind took him back through more of it. They'd met on the sidewalk outside a bar that Ray knew to be a den of homosexuals. Ed had eyed him brazenly and he'd unfalteringly smiled back his encouragement. Far from being hesitant, he'd hailed a cab and almost rushed Ed to his apartment. Once there, he'd been at Ed at once, mauling them both out of their clothes and lavishing kisses with complete abandon. Later, much later, when even perverted desires should have been totally sated, he'd begged Ed/Edith to apply the makeup to him. And while it was going on, he'd permitted himself to be used as a woman.
Dully, he read the note:
Darling Ray, Hope you're still snoozing in our bed when I get back. I dashed off to get some undies for us. I took $10 from your wallet and we'll have a Champagne breakfast in our Baby-Dolls soon. In bed. And then. . .
Kiss, Kiss Edie
The note was punctuated at the bottom with the smeared red imprint of a pair of open lips.
Ray remembered the Baby-Dolls now and all he'd done to persuade Ed to fetch them for this Saturday morning. He got up and lit a match at the stove, held it under the corner of the note and let the paper turn black before he dropped it onto the grate. He stared at it until the flame was gone. Then he opened the gas burner beneath it.
At the table again, he relaxed with his coffee. He relaxed for the first time in weeks and he even smiled a little at the first odor of gas. Only then, when he could smell the escaping gas, did he look down at his throbbing excitement. Then he thought back over every touch, every kiss, every moment of the night before and he reveled in reliving each hugely stimulating thrill. He filled his lungs deeply and he found that he could even remember that first night, that night in the dingy hotel. That had been wonderful, too, for there had been three of them to love and be loved. He thought he'd burst with his excitement as he remembered more and more of that night. He yawned and stretched and inhaled deeply and smiled and closed his eyes, the better to recall it all, while he still could.
* * *
Ray had awakened in a hospital after his induced sleep. His arms and legs had been strapped down beneath the covers and he had had a severe headache. Aspirin were administered for the headache and he'd been informed by the doctor that restraints were routinely used on attempted suicides. Ray had stoutly insisted that his case was not at all a try at suicide. The doctor had said he believed him. He had further said that Ray was a lucky young man for his nameless savior to have turned off the gas and called for an ambulance. He had finally said that the straps would remain until Ray's discharge the following day.
Ray had ranted and raved at this, so loudly that the doctor had called for an orderly to wheel Ray's bed to a private room.
The orderly lingered, making sure Ray was comfortable, that he was calming down. He lit a cigarette for Ray. He was about thirty, about five years older than Ray. He said his name was Chuck. When Ray was secure in his new quarters, Chuck sat on the side of the bed and held Ray's cigarette for him. "Well," he said. "Are you going to try it again?"
"What?" Ray snorted. "You think I tried suicide, too, eh?"
"I know you did. I was on duty when they brought you in."
Ray frowned and quickly said, "Did I say anything?"
"Nothing the doctor understood. Enough so that I think you'll be wanting to try again. Will you?"
"That's my business. And nothing the doctor or you or anybody else can say or do will change my mind."
Chuck smiled sardonically. "I know how you feel. I've felt that way myself." He pulled back the sleeves of his loose, white linen coat and turned up his hands to Ray, showing the thin network of scars at his wrists. He said, "But, I got over it. I changed my mind. Maybe you will, too."
"What was . . . Why did you try it?"
Chuck leaned forward to let Ray drag from the cigarette and said, "I'm a homosexual. I took it hard when the psychiatrist didn't cure me before my money ran out."
"What? I mean . . . You . . . Just like that? Just like that you tell a perfect stranger that you're . . . one of those? "
Chuck laughed a little. "Oh, I don't run around telling everyone I meet that I'm a homosexual. For one thing, most people associate us with the hanky-waving queens that draw so much attention. I was that way once, myself, so I sure can't knock them. I gave up dressing in drag when I was going to the head-shrinker. I changed a lot of my ways then. But I'm still a homosexual."
Ray said crossly, "You don't tell everyone. Why tell me?"
"Because I thought you might understand. Because I thought you might want to understand."
"I don't," Ray said, and turned his head away.
Chuck went on as if Ray had not said this. "You see, Ray, finding about your inclinations very often changes a person. It's such a shock, such a departure for what we've all been taught is normal, that the homosexual usually tries to live up to the accepted image of the homosexual-the fairy. That's not too hard to do. Like I said, I was a swisher for a while. You know, effeminate. And although a lot of the effeminate homosexuals are pretty nice people, I wasn't that way. The prettier I tried to make myself on the outside, the uglier I was making myself on the inside. I was mean and conniving and a schemer and, worst of all, I was selfish. All I could think about was the relatively unhappy, relatively lonely life that I had to live, I suppose, and I found ways to take this out on other people. I let the fact that I was a homosexual change the rest of my personality. I'm back now, for the most part. Not that I was such a wonderful person to begin with. But I'm back to being a whole person again-" Chuck laid his hand lightly on Ray's blanket covered thigh, as if to emphasize the end of his speech, "-even though I am a homosexual."
Ray immediately twisted and turned himself against the straps, quite in vain as he gasped out, "Oh, no. Not with me."
Calm, smiling a little Chuck moved his hand surely and smoothly up and down the blanket covered thigh. He said, "You know, when I was really gay, almost every man I saw was attractive to me. That's changed now. A lot." He smoothly drew the covers down from Ray's struggling body. "It's really rare now when I meet a man that stimulates me deeply." He brought a strangled sort of a sob forth from Ray as he laid hands on Ray's bared legs. He said, "You affect me that way, Ray."
Ray couldn't possibly control his reaction to
Chuck's soft touches then, but he did manage to blurt out, "Stop. Stop or I'll yell for help."
Chuck continued. "Go ahead. It might just be worth losing my job to prove to you that all of us homosexuals aren't entirely selfish." He raised the brief kirtle of Ray's hospital gown to go on with his lingering touch.
Ray's futile struggles subsided. He could only lie there and let the waves of excitement take him over. In a last desperate attempt, he pleaded, "No. No, Chuck. Let me alone!"
"Why? You're going to destroy yourself anyway. What difference will this make?"
Ray could feel Chuck's warm breath caressing him now. He moaned, very softly, "I beg you. Just let me alone."
"No, Ray. You've been alone too long."
* * *
It took Ray a while to regain control of his breathing again as he lay under the covers. And as he lay there, he decided that he'd never felt more sure in a purpose about anything in his life. It was a good feeling as he worked diligently in the darkness. His reward for an hour's work was getting two fingers down to where the strap buckled about his left arm. It wasn't going to be easy to undo it, but he had time, plenty of patience to work at it.
It was ll:01 p.m. by the clock on the night-stand when he got that arm free, and it was ll:03 when he was out of his room, padding stealthily down the almost dark hallway of the hospital. At the end of that hallway was the blank darkness of the open window. There'd be a good view of the city, four stories below, from that window. And there was only one real source of light between Ray and the yawning cavity in the night.
He paused at this source of light, this open doorway, and he carefully peered around its edge. Chuck sat there, his dark head bent down over a desk, his back to Ray. In his bare feet, it was a simple matter to glide unnoticed behind the seated man. Ray placed his two hands about Chuck's neck and Chuck raised his head and tried to turn about, but Ray's grip held him fast. Ray said, "Don't move, Chuck. I've got you now." Slowly, his hands slid down, down to smooth themselves under Chuck's shirt, over his soft, hard chest as Ray murmured, "Now it's my turn."
THE END
* * *
DREAM RESCUE
by Frederick Fowler
Listening to the sputtering, popping airplane engine and watching the white wall of fog swirl in billowing furrows over the wings, Mark Carter angrily pounded the cockpit panel of his faltering plane.
You poor son-of-a-bitch, he thought to himself, you just don't get into trouble . . . you get ass-deep into trouble.
He had been flying for about an hour when the first uneven beat of the engine had signalled danger. And just at that moment his compass had begun behaving as if someone were kicking it from side to side and round the clock. It must have been an ignition system block that had fouled up the engine as well as some wiring near the compass. The electrical spark probably was what was knocking the compass needle cockeyed, too.
With luck, he fancied, that wiring will soon start a fire somewhere. Imagined or fancied, he suddenly thought he could smell the first acrid fumes of smoke sneaking back through the firewall.
"Sweet Jesus," he said aloud. "You don't have to do everything I tell you to do."
He shrugged and settled back to do what he could to nurse some extra mileage out of a rapidly failing engine. Mixed with his skilled handling of the plane were thoughts of just how he had managed to land in this predicament.
Carter was what the tuna industry calls a fish spotter. He flew his light plane out to sea and looked for the deep swimming schools of fish which surface fishing boats could not see. When he spotted the schools he signalled his crews to move in for the catch.
This morning . . . how many hours ago had that been . . . he had taken off early so that he would be with his commercial boats at first light. There had been light fog about the small Southern California field when he took off, but he had grown used to that disadvantage during the winter fishing season. As usual the fog had cleared when he got above 2,000 feet and he had headed quickly out to sea. His boats were about fifty miles beyond the channel islands; maybe seventy-five or eighty miles to sea ready for the day's work.
He had set his compass heading and picked up about 3,500 feet altitude for the trip to his working grounds. The fog had been patchy beneath him as he flew in the still dark night. Periodically it would grow thick and cut off his view of the dark Pacific Ocean, but mostly he could see the surface down below with ease.
Then, still 20 miles short of his patrol area, the fog had become a solid wall, blocking the blackness of the water with the depth of its impenetrable whiteness. It had not posed any particular problem because the fog was like an immovable wall. It stood still in the water and he could dip down in front of the wall and fly along it as if he were skirting some vast snow-capped mountain.
He flew down to about I,000 feet hoping to pick up a line on his fleet's nets or maybe even a boat light. It was then that a rapid wind change had blown the fog curtain toward him, around him, all about him.
And, immersed in the soupy, cloying vapors, his engine chose just that moment to give its first burp of protest. He had jammed the throttle forward to pick up power for a quick ascent, but the engine only popped weakly in answer and he had pulled off on the power to conserve whatever horses were left in the malfunctioning power plant.
Which put him right where he was right at the moment-unable to climb above the soup, unable to tell in which direction he was going, just plain damned unable!
Only now he knew the smell of smoke wasn't in his imagination. He coughed as the fumes tickled his nose, burned in his mouth. His eyes were watery and he could feel the new wave of heat in the jammed cabin.
He flipped his radio on wide-band sending and yelled, "May Day," loudly into the mike which hung before his mouth. A lot of damned good that did, he thought. A yelp for help from somewhere in the Pacific Ocean . . . no position fix, no bearings to guide a rescue craft. Oh, well, he shrugged . . . pilots are supposed to yell May Day when they know they're in trouble so I'll yell it again to jar up the Coast Guard.
But he could only call for help once or twice more. Then he was too busy getting ready for a crash landing in the ocean. The cabin heat was rising rapidly now and the smoke was unbearable. He knocked back his side window to clear some of the searing air and gave him the chance to look out through a view that was unstained by the droplets of moisture that blotted out each window now.
He cut the engine. No sense in adding to whatever was burning up there. He glanced at the altimeter and watched as the tiny needle indicated he was already beginning to give up precious altitude. He had a good glide approach left with the small plane, but the presence of fire aboard made him decide to give up height in favor of getting down to the relative safety of the water as soon as possible.
"Relative safety," he muttered to no one in particular. "Burn to death up here or make shark-bait down there."
He surrendered 800 of his I,000 feet quickly side slipping to keep the motor fire from sweeping back and catching the rest of the airplane. Then he leveled to a glide supported by the speed he had picked up in the rapid descent.
Two hundred feet between them and the ocean -maybe. With his run of luck the damned altimeter could well be off and he was just going to smack the water head on at 80 or 90 miles an hour. Well, he shrugged, if I hit that hard the blasted sharks are going to have to look for the pieces. He continued his probinig of the eerie, silent white fog.
He was down to 100 feet now and relying solely upon his glances at the instrument gauge. He still had a few feet for maneuvering. He steadied the nose for the final glide and leaned his head out the window hoping for some sight or sound of the ocean to warn him of the last moment before contact.
Edging ever closer to the unseen surface, his eyes glued upon the permeating fog beneath him, his attention centered only upon what would be his watery landing pad.
That was why the shadowy hulk of the ship caught him completely by surprise as it loomed ominously ahead of him. Only the ship's bulk attracted his eye and he flinched as he saw its gray shape close upon him.
"Christ," he yelled. He would hit the ship broadside in his present approach. Instinctively he jerked back on the control wheel. He'd kill someone on the boat if he hit her now. He was coming in at deck level and the fog lifted just enough so that he could see scurrying figures darting away from the point where his plane and the boat would collide. Then, as the plane reacted to his emergency action, the deck level slid lower. Now he saw the superstructure, then some reflected light upon the windows on the bridge, then a smokestack. He aimed the plane directly between a looming mast and jumble of screens and boxes.
They passed on either side of his small plane's fuselage and he let out a great gasp of air he had been sucking into his guts. He had missed the ship.
But the ordeal wasn't over for Carter. He had, indeed, prevented a ship-plane crash, but it had cost him his last inch of forward speed-and any hope of controlling his own impended letdown into the water.
The plane stalled at the peak of its last effort to gain altitude and raced now for the water. He was like a helicopter now-nothing ahead, all down. The plane maintained its level position for the last breathtaking second or so of its crash-course toward the ocean. Then it hit flat with a spanking sound. Water poured into the cabin as fuselage seams snapped apart from the impact.
Carter yanked at the seatbelt and it popped open releasing him from the confines of the seat. He dove for the open window at his side and slid into the water. As he did he popped the carbon dioxide capsule in his Mae West to inflate it. The bouyancy popped him to the surface and he gasped for breath as the fresh salt air filled his lungs.
"Hold yourself still, Comrade," a gruff voice called from somewhere above him. "We see you. Hold safe. We'll get you."
Carter heard a babble of foreign, husky voices from that same point above his head. A harsh voice called out commands in the same tongue and then a rope ladder splashed like a snake into the sea beside him. He grabbed for it and held on. He was suddenly too tired to even think of hauling himself out of the water and onto the dripping wooden steps.
"Hold on, Comrade," the husky voice came once more. "A sailor will get to you in just a moment."
Then Carter felt strong hands grasping his arms and he was being tugged bodily up the slippery rescue ladder. On deck he collapsed still gasping for breath and spitting salt water out of his mouth. Now more hands were lifting him gently and he could feel himself carried through a gangway door, down a long corridor, through another door.
"You're quite weak, Comrade," someone said in a soft feminine voice. "Relax, we'll care for you."
Then his soggy flight coveralls were being removed. He was lifted again and he felt warm covers being placed over him. He tried to open his eyes, but the bright light in the ship's cabin blinded him. He tried to say thank you, but he only coughed more.
"Relax, Comrade," the girl's voice echoed dimly into his darkening consciousness. "All's well now."
He was slipping off to sleep when he felt more movement on the bunk. It seemed that someone was crawling into bed with him . . . someone quite warm, quite soft. He turned slightly to accept the warmth being offered and then he slept.
Later, he was told he had been unconscious for nearly 20 hours. The hazards of the crash, the cold water the near disaster of missing the ship had taken more toll of his strength than he had imagined possible.
It was that same, soft feminine voice that awakened him finally. His long sleep left only fatigue and hazy dreams.
"Wake up, please," the girl said quietly so as not to alarm him. "You're uneasy now . . . you should wake up."
His eyelids tore when he tried to open them. The tugging reluctance reminded him of a monumental binge he had pitched a few years ago in San Francisco. His aching muscles also recalled that same event. Could a hundred million gallons of sea water match a five-day consumption of whiskey, he mused.
"You're having dreams, Comrade," the soft voice continued. "Better to wake up."
Carter moved slowly in the bunk hoping that the physical moving would help snap his eyelids apart. It was then, that he discovered for sure that he was not alone in the bed. Groping uneasily with his hands he felt he had to get his salt-strained eyes open at once. Someone was not only in bed with him, the someone was most definitely a girl.
"What the hell? " he blurted out. "You are unhappy?" the girl's voice questioned him.
He squeezed gingerly at soft flesh that moved toward him at his urging. Just when had he been dreaming, he worried. If this was a dream, the hell with getting those eyes open. He'd sleep until he had all the dreaming he had coming to him.
"You are not unhappy," the girl laughed as he now rubbed his own naked body up and down eagerly upon hers.
This talking dream was beginning to bother him. He decided to chance everything by opening his eyes if he could. Once more there was that searing pain on his eyes as his sticking eyelids .were forced to move. Then light began to fill the dark void he had known so long. His left eye popped open first.
"What the hell?" he repeated. This dream not only felt good, talked good-it looked good.
He steadied his gaze on a piquant feminine face that rested on the pillow beside his own. Creamy white skin, lips and cheeks tinged by a healthy, crimson glow; sparkling eyes that regarded him merrily; tussled tresses of long, black, wavy hair. A dream girl or a girl in a dream-his luck must have changed somewhere.
He shifted again in the bunk so that he faced her fully. He couldn't see more than her face and soft throat because blankets covered them both-but he could feel. Her breasts were like firm bulbs pressing against his chest. Her belly molded itself to his own torso and he could feel the long muscles of her legs as she moved to him.
Still not quite sure whether this was a dream, Carter crammed an arm around the girl's shoulders and drew her even closer. Their cheeks brushed, noses touched and then he was kissing her full on her slightly opened mouth. His tongue sought to penetrate that sweet oral cavity and her lips parted in response so that his probing could be more extensive.
He could feel himself building up a sweat and the girl's body also began to dampen with their activity so that the mutual lubricants made it easier for them to slide up and down upon each other. The firm breasts welled under the slithering movements and her nipples hardened to piquant buds that he could feel crushing against him.
He felt his organ swelling to the simuli and soon it stiffened to become uncomfortable between them. The girl, writhing now in his embraces, felt the same awkward sensation and raised her leg to give him a place to put the swollen shaft. Her shoulders gyrated as she reached down to help even more.
She pulled her moist lips from his and he opened his eyes once more to look at her. She was smiling happily.
"You're feeling better," she snickered.
For her answer he pulled her mouth to his, once more matched the strokes of his tongue with a plunging motion of his belly which brought forth moans of rapture from the girl. He tried to draw her beneath him, but she pushed deftly with her hands and hips to indicate he should wait.
"Save your strength," she whispered softly.
Then she was turning away from him, shifting quickly under the blankets so her back was now presented to him. He felt the mounds of her buttocks now pressed hot against his stomach, her back arched to offer him completely what he-and she-needed. He wrapped his arms about her and groped for the twin breasts that soon filled his cupped, sweating palms. Once more she eased her leg upward. Then he could feel her hands touching the shaft that was again seeking a nesting place.
He was licking on her neck and shoulders when she eased him gently into the warm, waiting portal of her body. They sighed as he slid it to the hilt in one easy push. He played with a nipple and massaged the other breast excitedly. She mewed like a playful kitten and reached to apply gentle pressure to his testicles.
"Oooooh," she squealed, "you're feeling much better."
Then she stopped talking. From there on it was to be all action without any small talk. Carter knew it from the way she raised her hips and jammed herself back upon him. With the need for conversation ended, he settled himself to his end of the coupling. As she slid down upon him he reared forward and ended her search with a jamming, hot jab. The buckling and writhing quickened in pace and then she was moaning in delight and he was gasping for breath.
The dream, if it were a dream, was magnificent and Carter and the girl sought delightedly to culminate it successfully. That wasn't too long. The girl was gasping for breath, too and she was skewering herself upon his distended sex frantically. Carter slid both hands to her hips enjoying the feel of the soft, yearning flesh and guiding her so that he touched the torrid depths of her passion with each thrust.
Then, just as he felt the first jolts of his. juices
GO spurting outward, the girl cried softly and stiffened against him for the briefest of moments.
"Now," she shrieked. And she was flattening her moist buttocks against him, filling herself to the fullest. Wantonly she kneaded his testicles as she milked him into her own pulsating depths.
The spasmodic twitching of her quiet body then indicated the activities were at an end. He held her close permitting his still swollen organ to pulsate quietly in the now wet port of welcome. She groaned ecstatically as the movement relieved him of the last vestiges of his desire. And they slipped apart.
"Much better," she smiled when she had managed to turn about to face him.
"Much better," he grinned in response.
"Would you like some tea now? " she asked.
He turned in the bed to follow the gaze of her limpid eyes. On a table in the room stood an immense copper samovar, steam floating from the nozzle.
"Yes," he said, "and I'd also like to know where I am. This is a ship, isn't it."
"It's the ship you almost destroyed yesterday when you crashed into the sea. We are a Russian trawler fleet's home base. You saved many lives when you tried to dodge us," the girl said rising from the bed, tossing on a blue sailor's pea coat and heading for the steaming samovar.
She returned to the bed with the tea and he savored the hot brew. So that was it, he thought, a Russian ship fishing the tuna grounds and it had picked him up.
"We heard your 'May Day,' " the girl continued in perfect English. "We were heading to you to help. Our radar had picked up your plane-but we didn't know you would nearly hit us."
Carter sipped the hot tea, looking over the lip of the cup at the girl's long legs sticking out beneath the bottom of the short pea coat. No Manhattan model in a mini-skirt could have ever looked better.
"I'm glad I didn't hit your ship," he said. "I wouldn't have wanted to damage any property aboard her."
The girl giggled, walked to the bed and kissed him fully. He reached up to pull her down into the bed once more, but she pushed him away discreetly.
"I must telephone the captain now and tell him you have awakened," she laughed. "He wanted to know at once . . . I'm afraid I've been derelict in my duties."
"Derelict, hell, Carter thought. With your talents in the United Nations we could solve world problems in twenty minutes.
When she had finished calling the bridge the girl held the telephone line open.
"If you're hungry I can have some food brought to you," she said. Carter nodded and she was talking once more in Russian to someone on the telephone. Her words were like those he had heard just as he was being rescued and he relished the "skis" and "shostas" that echoed in the cabin.
She had just hung up when the captain entered the room. He looked gruffly at her attire and then said something which, because of the language barrier, Carter didn't catch. It couldn't have been too bad, however, for the girl laughed and chattered gaily with her commander. They talked for a few moments longer, then the girl turned to Carter.
"Captain Fordorvsky wishes you well and says that we have contacted one of your fishing boats. It will be alongside in about an hour and they will take you aboard.
"He asks if your needs have been served?"
"Tell him admirably . . . absolutely admirably," Carter grinned.
While the girl was making the response, the door opened and a second girl walked into the room carrying a large tray covered with white linen. She smiled shyly at Carter.
"Well, well," the pea coat clad girl said, "this is service. The ship's cook serving you instead of a sailor. I think she just wants to see what an Amerikanski looks like."
Carter smiled at the cook, gathered the blankets about him so he could sit up in bed and started eating.
The cook left and the captain and girl were talking once more. When the jovial captain ended his words the girl turned once more to Carter.
"Captain Fordorvsky ways he hopes you weren't inconvenienced by my getting into bed with you," she said.
Carter nearly choked on a piece of cake he was eating when she spoke the words. Still coughing and laughing he looked up at her.
"No inconvenience at all, Captain," he laughed.
"We've found that warming a comrade with our bodies is the simplest and most effective method to help when one has been immersed in cold water, but usually it is a man who goes to bed with another man," the girl continued.
"Tell the captain that I consider myself fortunate to have been able to have had your most skillful services," Carter said returning to the massive meal.
While the captain and girl spoke, another sailor entered the room with his flying togs still warm from the laundry. Carter ended the meal and dressed while the others left him alone.
An hour later a commercial fisherman pulled alongside and with many handshakes and calls of "Comrade" he was transferred back to home base.
"Did they give you any trouble?" a burly seaman asked when Carter stepped aboard the fisherman.
"None at all," Carter grinned, "None at all."
"Why don't you head down to the galley and get something to warm you up," the sailor suggested.
Carter looked longingly back at the Russian's bridge. The girl was standing beside the captain waving.
"Not right now, thanks," he smiled, "I'm warm enough."
THE END
* * *
BLACNINE'S DIARY
A Study in Hypnotic Rape
by Umberto Duffy
Joe DiMaggio and Otto Graham were for other children to lionize; for young Damian Blacnine, the only true hero was Houdini. Those who knew the peculiar youth more intimately than by reputation had to face the realization that in this soul something indefinable but frighteningly unique predominated. Although no one could diagnose specific manifestations in his behavior, one got the distinct feeling of uneasiness when Damian was in their presence. Ridiculous as it seemed, more than a few people actually felt that the child could read their thoughts; some even went so far as to conceal them when he was nearby. The unnerving mystique of Damian Blacnine grew with age. After his thirteenth birthday, no one could recall the peculiar youth wearing colors other than black and white, but no one, including his alcoholic step-mother, dared to ask why.
Their relationship had never been on a mother-son basis. When his real mother died during childbirth, Damian's father remarried and later ran off with his new wife's seventeen year old daughter. Phaedra, the love-starved beneficiary of young Damian, at first wanted to kill the youngster-even going so far as to take a butcher knife from the kitchen and hover above him during his sleep. Something, she wasn't quite certain what it was, stopped her from doing it.
When the child celebrated his thirteenth birthday, more than his wardrobe changed; on that day, both he and his step-mother witnessed his transformation into adulthood. He was not a child who was successfully pretending to be an adult, Damian Blacnine was actually a man.
Without other celebrants interfering with the occasion, the slightly intoxicated step-mother and her responsibility toasted the milestone with restrained happiness.
"You're starting to look like your father," blurted Phaedra.
"Do you miss him?"
"Sometimes. It isn't easy being my age and sleeping alone, you know."
"Why haven't you slept with anyone? Or have you?"
"You know damned well I haven't, and you know why, too. I never went to bed with anyone since your father because I thought somehow you'd.. . "
"Punish you," asked the thirteen year old. "Yes," she admitted.
"I've never had sex with anyone in my life, Phaedra. Would you like to have sex with me?"
"No. We can't, and you can't make me. I won't, do you hear me?"
"How could I make you," he asked innocently. "You're talking to me as though I have some sort of power over you. Phaedra, look at me. I don't have power over you at all. You fully control your mind. You only do what you want to do and I have nothing to say about it. Do you understand, Phaedra?"
The young man innocently peered directly into his step-mother's eyes and tenderly rubbed her cheeks and neck. As her eyes got heavy, he carefully stroked his finger tips along the low cut blouse of the extraordinarily buxom woman, touching the ends of her breasts so slightly that she wasn't sure whether or not he actually touched her.
"I'm your step-mother," moaned the hard-breathing lady. "I'm thirty-six years old. You're only thirteen. We can't. . . "
"Can't what, Phaedra? Make love? We're not going to make love unless you want to. I wouldn't even want to unless you wanted it very badly," he said, touching her eye lids lightly. "No, open your eyes and tell me what you want from me."
As the brunette raised her eye lids and exposed two strikingly blue eyes which were noticeably misty, a thumping heart pounded from within, symbolically setting the pace for her increasingly intense desires.
"I want you. I want everything that has to do with you. I want your body to cover mine and to pierce mine. I want all of you right now. I always did, ever since you were an infant. Please do me, Damian. Don't prolong my suffering."
It was his first sexual experience, but Damian did not go about it in an immature way. He knew how badly she wanted his body in hers; after all, he transmitted his thoughts quite plainly. But he was more than anxious to see for himself, the wonder of the mature female's body. He yearned to touch the bouncy flesh which he had seen only from a distance, covered partially by her half-bras. And the triangular patch of hair, which protected the sensational opening between her legs-the black, very thick hair he had seen when Phaedra stepped out of the shower only a few weeks before. Now, he would not only see them more closely, but she would be begging him to kiss her prized sexual antiques and make passionate love to them.
The seemingly calm youth ran his forefingers along the contour of her shape as her body involuntarily slid off the couch toward the carpeted floor. Every fiber of energy in Phaedra's torrid body was concentrated in the incredibly loud pounding of her heart, making her left breast flutter as freely as a flag on a turbulent day.
Her Spanish style off-the-shoulder blouse did not require unbuttoning. Merely pulling it down would rid her anxious body from its restrictive nuisance. Before exposing the breasts that he could hardly wait to explore the young lover with the poise and self-confidence of a professional, guided her limp arms through the two short sleeves, leaving the elastic with the job of hugging everything except the bare shoulders and arms. Tenderly his lips met the soft hot skin of his step-mother's neck and shoulder as she groaned for more.
Phaedra, unable to keep her body from twitching anxiously, implored the youth to proceed with haste. He responded in his own sweet time, finally beginning to uncover the jellied flesh set which protruded well beyond anything in her profile. If people stared at Phaedra in the street, almost in-, variably the reason had to do with the size of her breasts and their encouraged bounce. Often, she would exaggerate her strut to emphasize her uncanny wobble on top.
The first four or five inches of his step-mother's breasts could be seen without interference as he slowly pulled down the white elastic blouse. They were much rounder than he'd dreamed. It appeared to him as though something, maybe her bra, served to push them against her rib cage allowing for this unexpected bubble of delightfully loose flesh.
The young man pulled further, revealing a black see-through bra, which was cut immediately at the ends of two unusually dark and extraordinarily large nipples. Finally, when the blouse was completely removed and thrown aside, he very lightly touched the surface of the bobbing glands with his fingers and then his lips and cheeks. From behind, he unfastened the four hooks which kept the black half-holster tightly against her body. When the last hook was complete, her bulge was unleashed and spilled forth like a bursting dam of unharnessed insanity.
His face, which was close to her breasts as he undid their holder, was the beneficiary of her volcanic gush and young Damian responded instantly, smothering his entire head in billows of sensational womanhood.
Phaedra, hitherto the unchained victim of frustrated imprisonment, felt as though she was being brought back to life. Her step-son's every movement was providing joyously erotic thrills throughout every inch of her electrified being. Clutching his head, she pressed it into her dangling jugs gluttonously, as though trying to touch every inch of her top against it.
Damian kissed, then licked, then sucked, then bit into her pulsating group mercilessly, trying to force his step-mother to scream with pain. His attempts, however, were unsuccessful. The more fiercely he sank his teeth into her, the more pleased and content she seemed to feel. Only groans of delight came from her delirious being.
Phaedra's nyloned loins swiveled uncontrollably and her young lover pictured the moist, hairy axis at their source. But before he began the lower-half ceremony of removing her dress, the frenzied woman had already ripped away every stitch of clothing except her stockings and garter belt. These, he insisted, would come off from his own doing.
The long, slender legs of his step-mother delighted Damian. He wondered if girls of his own age category were blessed with skin as tender as Phaedra's. Maybe age had nothing to do with it, he thought. Perhaps Phaedra and no one else in the world was so gifted. He could barely run his fingers along her legs and, incredibly, it would cause wrinkles. His tongue explored and approved of the taste of these delicacies, discovering that the closer it sucked near the mainland of her body, the softer it became.
With the nylons and garter belt finally torn away from their obstructive position, the thirteen year old explorer pressed the flat part of his tongue against the upper regions of her hot thighs. Writhing with almost painful ecstasy, Phaedra threw her head back and begged loudly for more.
Droplets of clear extract oozed from the patch of hair between her legs down to where his busy tongue was parked. She pulled him by his hair upward toward the volcanic hole, silently begging him to award it with a sliver of his tongue.
As he did so, as he flexed his anxious tongue and stuffed it into the divorced lips of her pelvic crack, an obviously involuntary shriek escaped her lips. It was the first of many more to come. The woman was no longer in control of herself, if indeed she had been from the very start. No longer was she a woman making love; now she was an animal, a beast in the jungle who, out of biological necessity, allowed herself the abandonment that only animals enjoy. Never had the young man seen a human being as frantic without being in a lunatic asylum.
With each successive shriek becoming louder than the last, Damian could not wait a moment longer to immerse his hot, throbbing stick in woman for the first time in his short life. It sank into a gush of lava like a limousine disappearing into a mound of quick sand. Once inside her, it was swished around by what felt like pelvic muscle spasms tenderly forcing his rod to flow wherever the beat of her heart took it.
Phaedra clung to her lover tightly, digging her long, long nails as far into the crack of his backside as they would go. Humping up and down, sideways and in circular motions, she controlled his body from his anal cavity with her right thumb as the guiding force. When she needed circular care, her right thumb, from its rear grasp, waved circles in the air, forcing his body to respond accordingly.
Holding her thumb in custody, he tightened his grip until he smothered it with pressure, forcing extract to leak onto her hand. She loved every bit of it; lifting him off and removing her thumb, Phaedra simultaneously sucked her thumb and his rigid penis. Kissing, biting, and sucking the very throb out of it, she gradually worked her way down to his wrinkled bulge and forced it gently, in its entirety, into her mouth.
It was a wet and warm sensation for Damian, who was flat on his back and touching his lover only with his feet. As she forced deep intentional groans from her mouth, causing even heightened sensations in his groin, the young man discovered that his left foot could reach inside the large, inviting asshole of his partner. Part of his toe was already beginning to sink into Phaedra, who, without stopping her oral exercise, contributed to their mutual delight by sitting, with the force and weight of her entire body, on his stiffened foot.
Ail this, to the tune of the nymph's humming, convinced the young man that he would never enjoy anything that life had to offer nearly as much as tonight. Both bodies were pulsating out of control. Neither lover could tear themselves away, by this time, no matter what the consequences might be. Death was the only alternative to climaxing oceans of reward from their milked sexual utters.
The older sex mate removed her tongue and wet lips from his hanging sack and put even more pressure on Damian's toe, forcing it to sink still deeper into her body. She then turned a complete circle with his immersed foot as her axis. When this ambitious maneuver, a most successful one, was complete, Phaedra pulled her backside free and devoured the newly released toe with the cleansing tool of her saturated tongue.
When his foot was no longer in need of her refreshing mouth, she stuffed it back into her neglected vaginal hole and pounced up and down on it like a crazy person. While doing so, she bent forward and sucked Damian's iron-hard prong into the delightfully familiar folds of her hungry mouth.
This would be the final position of their aching limbs until that long awaited climactic moment. Neither Phaedra nor her adolescent lover let up on the insane passion with which they humped from the outset. Frantically, their bodies gyrated and rotated against each other until, almost on cue, they tightened and froze in position.
Damian felt his toe being drowned in what felt like a bucket of warmed over olive oil. The never ending flow raced down his foot onto the flooded carpet and, as his foot felt this affect, his ears were treated to the affect of blasts of gasping noise from her mouth. She saturated the room with sounds-sounds she couldn't possibly control, which invigorated even further, his already peeking libido.
Phaedra continued to gush from her hole as well as her mouth and the rumblings were becoming increasingly apparent in his own body. He felt the tingle of howling nerve endings creep up toward the tip of his hard-on and he felt Phaedra's machine-like tongue coax it even faster. After it reached his bulb, the young man couldn't hold nature back one second longer and spewed forth his pressurized slime like a shot gun. Her grateful mouth became the target, the home, the burial place of every last pump of his gorgeously frantic sex stick.
As she slurped in the last droplets of Damian's payload, Phaedra swallowed gratefully and fell into her lover's arms, where they rested silently, enabling what had just happened to sink in. Finally, Phaedra spoke.
"You could have had me anytime you wanted, couldn't you," she asked.
"What makes you think so?"
"Now come on, Damian, don't play dumb with me. I know you too well. You act as though you can't mesmerize people with that look of yours. If you don't want to talk about it, that's one thing, but don't lie to me."
"Phaedra, I don't know exactly what you're talking about," protested her step-son.
For the first time Phaedra entertained the possibility that the young man might not be aware of his own hypnotic powers. But could it be? Could he not realize such awesome power?
"Damian, are you aware of certain . . . do you consider yourself an average thirteen year old, or do you sort of think there's a little something special about you? Tell me the truth."
"The truth is that I do think I'm special. Not smarter, exactly, just, I don't know, more aware of other people and what they think," he explained.
"Do you get people to do things that you want them to do? I mean, if you wanted somebody to do something, how would you go about convincing them that they should do it? What do you do?"
"Ever since I was a small child," explained Damian "if I really wanted something badly enough, I'd just think to myself how badly I wanted it. Then, I'd just corner the person who might be able to do something about it and transmit my thought waves without making myself obvious. That is, until now. What I do has nothing to do with hypnotics though. I don't put a spell on people and make them do what I want them to do. They do it voluntarily, they just get the idea from me."
"Damian, you're out of touch. Don't you know you have a reputation? Aren't you aware that people think you're some kind of mystical phenomenon? "
Mystical phenomenon! The phrase stuck in his mind like peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth-and left a taste which was equally as delicious. He remembered stories about his idol, the great Houdini, whose reputation preceded his own knowledge of his talents. His greatness emerged first in the minds of others and finally in his own mind, though he, too had an inkling that he was different from the others.
Damian too was different. People, grown-ups in particular, treated him with the respect of an adult. Some, he sensed at times, were even frightened of him. Perhaps they sensed what he knew: that he could read their thoughts like the morning headlines. But this didn't make his powers hypnotic, did it?
"Phaedra," he asked, "did I hypnotize you into making love with me?"
"Of course you did, sweetheart. You practically ordered me to do it. Don't get me wrong," she added hastily "once we started, I wouldn't have stopped if the militia came and tried to drag me away."
"But if you really were hypnotized." reasoned the young man "you wouldn't know it. liven now, you wouldn't be aware that I put you under a spell."
"That's only because I've been living with you for all these years and I know you better than, anyone. I was fighting you and to hypnotize someone who's consciously trying not to fall under the spell is almost an impossibility. Do you know what it means? It means that you could hypnotize just about anyone, whether they want to be or not. The only trouble is if you make the mistake of letting them know that you're trying to put them under a spell. They'll go along with it, but they'll realize that what they're doing is as a result of your powers."
The conversation came to an end soon after these revelations were brought to Damian's attention. If everything Phaedra said was true, he thought, Houdini was only a flash in the pan. His reward was merely money, and he had to perform onstage like a clown to get it.
Damian wasn't going to sell out. Never, would he admit to having powers beyond those of other human beings. If they thought he was strange already, let them keep thinking it, but they would never know his true powers. In fact, he decided black and white would be his colors from this day forward. Let them think of him as just another weird person, rather than the mesmerizer that he would become.
As Phaedra slept, newly enlightened Damian Blacnine thought of all the ways in which he could put his magic to work for the best good. He wanted to have the most satisfying life possible, to have the maximum amount of fun until his death; death, he was certain, could not be postponed by his powers.
The best time. What was the best time? What did he enjoy doing more than anything else in the world? It didn't take long to reach the conclusion: sex. Without a doubt, the most satisfying experience in life so far was sex. From this day forth, he would devote his life to it.
Although he pledged never to hurt another human being, young Blacnine would spare no one who happened to excite him sexually. More than a few teachers at Schreiber Junior High might be in for a happy surprise in the near future; Damian Blacnine would see to that. It might be a sneaky way to get good grades as well.
THE END
* * *
MAIDENHEAD
by Van Couver
Marsha was a small-shouldered chick with very long, black hair. She had big dark eyes and enormous breasts. I mean, she was really built. When I saw her in the shower, I thought she had the biggest set of any girl I'd known. Her hair was so beautiful and so long I didn't even notice her build when I first saw her.
She was wearing an incredibly low-cut blouse with a micro-skirt. I thought she'd bounce out of her blouse if she laughed, but she only glared at me through her smoky dark eyes.
Something made me stop. She was standing in front of the house with Kitty, my regular girl. They were talking. I had parked the car in the garage and came up quietly along the side of the house looking at the flower beds and thinning that one weekend I should get out from in front of the TV and spade some fertilizer into the good rich earth.
The thing about owning a house is that you always have the chores staring you in the face.
Marsha had seen me but Kitty didn't know I was standing there.
"You don't really want to?" Marsha said.
"I really do, Marsha."
Their hands touched.
"You wouldn't know what to do," Marsha kidded her.
"I would know." Kitty threw her head back defiantly. "I could do anything I wanted to do."
"You don't know. I mean, you really don't know."
"I could do anything," Kitty repeated weakly.
I must have become paler standing there listening, but I resolved not to be discouraged by anything.
Kitty was-well-she had a good body. It wasn't that her face was unattractive-god knows she literally spent hours in front of the mirror making it look good-but she didn't have the brains to make her features move in a sexy, womanly way. She was like a dumb, soft-faced little girl. Every once in a while it got to me and I pushed her face around a little bit. I was never very proud of that. She couldn't help being so thick.
Marsha's alert, amused eyes glanced at me over Kitty's shoulder. Her taut, low-cut blouse pressed the outlines of her breasts into large round globes.
She pushed her body tightly against Kitty's.
There was no bra strap cutting across Kitty's back. Their breasts met and their hips matched, like twins.
Marsha's hand touched Kitty's breast. She was rubbing her nipple. I wondered what they were feeling. It was strange looking at one chick touching another. Hot currents of desire coursed through my body.
Marsha put her arms around Kitty's shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. Their twin lipsticked mouths softened and molded into one another. I looked at their soft bodies clutching each other and I cursed myself for being so paralyzed by my curiosity.
Quietly I moved back away from them.
The last thing I saw was Marsha staring after me, clenching her jaw, smiling in triumph.
I made a lot of noise coming in the back door, and gave Kitty some time to straighten herself up. I didn't let on that I'd seen anything. Surprise and something else, a new desire, was on her face.
The next day I took off from work early and called Marsha. The wind had cleared away all the clouds and smog. I picked her up. She was wearing a tight gray sweater, wool pants with a zipper up the front, and clogs. Her glossy black hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back.
We drove out toward the Strand, the part of the beach that was always windswept. The beach was no good there, but some crummy motels had been built on the sand. Everyone in town called the row the Hot Pillow. It was a good place to get a room for a couple of hours with no questions asked.
We checked in. I brought along a suitcase with nothing in it. You didn't need to bring any luggage, but I didn't want to take chances. I might not get another opportunity like this.
In the room, I threw the empty suitcase in a corner and locked the door.
I put my arms around Marsha and pushed her body up tightly against mine. Her breasts rammed forward under her tight sweater. She squirmed around, her thighs imploringly stroking my legs.
Instantly there was an unsatisfied hardness jutting up inside my pants.
She casually wiggled her hand inside and touched it. It felt great. Lingeringly she touched its resilient warmth. I worked my legs up and down along her groin. My knee jammed up hard between her legs.
My hand went up under her pants. I felt her warm wetness beneath her panties. I took off my trousers and rubbed my increasingly urgent hardness along her triangle of desire. Her tiny warm point of hardness got bigger under my prodding. I was surprised. If she'd had one any bigger, she would have needed to wear jockey shorts.
She spread her legs after I took off her pants. She guided my fingers under her groin. She showed me where to touch her, as if I hadn't learned a long time ago. She wanted me to rub her harder up front. Soon my finger was animatedly expanding the size of her bearded lips. I was ripe for doing it them, but I held off.
She thrust her body ferociously against my finger. I squeezed her erect little piece of tender flesh between my fingers. I guessed she got most of her satisfaction from that, rather than her slippery vaginal canal.
My fingers unhooked her garter belt. It fell around her ankles, leaving her in frilly bikini panties.
She slipped off her sweater. She wore a lacy black push-up bra that cut across the upward swell of her breasts. Those fine, enormous, soft mounds would have been inadequately tamed by any bra. It was a sin to coop them up. Her smooth nipples hardened into large erect cones of dark flesh atop creamy bulbs.
My desire infused my organ with a painful urgency. Every time I moved, it rubbed excruciatingly against her crotch.
She teased me by dancing coyly away from me. I pushed her panties down, but she pushed my hand away. Artfully she unrolled one stocking down her leg. Then her hands deftly unrolled the other stocking.
Her legs were long, well-formed and smooth.
She tried to push me away. I grabbed her around the waist and wrestled her down onto the bed. She was strong, that one. My mouth sucked at her through her panties. My hands reached impulsively to the elastic band holding her panties tightly around her hips. She grabbed my wrists and fought me!
"No! Not like that!"
When she cried out, she pushed her shoulders forward. I looked hungrily at her goose-pimpled proud breasts.
My mouth slobbered and sucked at her through the nylon crotch of her panties. I squeezed my head between her thighs until she cried out.
I pulled on the elastic and shoved her panties down until they were just barely hanging on her ample bottom. Her furry triangle bulged out underneath. I stuck my tongue into it and combed the little hairs out of the way, one to this side, one to that side.
I slipped her underpants down her smooth legs. Off came her panties! I flung the little piece of nylon with the brassiere into a corner.
I pushed my face into her generous meat.
She rolled off the bed and eluded me. Wearing only her clogs, she walked around the bed. Her breasts bobbed smoothly. Her hair brushed around her small, smooth shoulders.
She stood there haughtily, legs spread. I could tell she was turned on, but she didn't want to admit it. I guessed she was afraid of it.
Her breasts were rosy with excitement. The tips of her nipples were translucent from being squeezed by their own erect hardness.
"Have you ever had a man?" I asked her.
She shook her head defiantly.
But she wasn't any virgin, I knew that.
She was staring at my very obviously erect organ. I grabbed her hand and made her touch it. She shivered, whether from disgust, envy or desire I couldn't tell.
"How do you usually make it?" I asked her. "With chicks?"
She laughed. "I'm the one who does the making," she answered.
With a body like that! It was really a shame.
"You don't know what you're missing. You've still got your maidenhead, in a manner of speaking. You've got to lose it sometime."
Slowly she acknowledged what I said. "I-I just can't, right now," she mumbled.
"You want to do it a different way?"
She shivered again and nodded her head.
We lay down on the bed. I spread my legs and she fastened her mouth over my organ and began giving me pleasure. She mounted me from the opposite way, rubbing her body on my mouth. I was going crazy! My tongue reached up and licked her. I pushed her face closer onto me. My thrusting legs gripped her neck. She rocked back and forth on top of me. A sudden outburst of pleasure started between my legs and worked its way all through my body.
My back arched. The room faded away. I was almost swept off my balance by my long-awaited, delicious coming.
Afterward Marsha went in the bathroom; I suppose to wash out her mouth. It was too bad-I mean, the way she looked and all, and then she didn't like to make it with men.
So I had left her maidenhead intact. But I had plans for that night.
When I got home, I suggested right away that Kitty call up Marsha. As I suspected, she was eager to do it.
"Hi," she said casually, chewing on an apple and scrunching down in my favorite chair. "What's happening?"
I pretended not to listen. I went in the kitchen and got an apple for myself, before Kitty ate them all up. Her smooth voice came into my ear like balm.
"What are you doing, babe? Just being bored? Recuperating? Recuperating from what? Oh, a party. Why wasn't I invited?"
Silently I laughed.
"I wouldn't worry," Kitty said. "Men can take care of themselves."
There was a long moment of silence. I stopped chewing on my apple. I watched the branches of the tree outside the window. They moved slowly, creating patterns of light on the kitchen sink. It seemed unreal and far away.
"Why doesn't she come over? " I suggested.
"I've got a better idea," said Kitty. "Why don't you come over here?"
My stomach felt uneasy. It must have been the frustration this afternoon. I put my hand over it to steady the queasy feeling.
"Oh, there's no scene. Mommy and Daddy are here for the night. We're all alone in this big house. Listen toots, why don't you pack up some things, nightie and all, and come spend the night?"
Excitement swelled through my body. My stomach twisted into a tight spiral.
"Come on, Marsha." Kitty's voice sounded very sure and firm. "Don't think about what other people will say. Look at what you want to do. I know we'll have fun."
A wind shook up the tree outside the window. I rubbed my eyes. Marsha evidently was still hesitating, because Kitty continued to talk in her slow, reassuring voice. When Kitty wanted something, she went after it.
"O.K." she said. "We'll see you in a little while."
After she hung up, I felt easier. Things were working out fine. I didn't know what my next step would be, but I figured the girls would think of something.
Kitty was running around the bedroom wearing only a pair of black lace panties. She didn't pay any attention to me, but that was all right.
I could wait.
Out of the closet she took a pair of blue crepe pants that she had once told me were too tight for her to wear out in public without her feeling embarrassed. They were so tight that I could make out the outline of her panties underneath the tautly-stretched material.
She slipped on a tight white sweater with no bra on under it. She checked herself out in the mirror. I don't think she had ever dressed so daringly for a date with me. Then she settled down in front of the mirror for her usual hour to brush her hair and put on makeup.
I went to the store to get some drinks. When I got back, I put everything in the bar refrigerator. There was a knock at the door.
I answered it. Marsha was standing there dressed in a man's striped turtle neck sweater, brown pants with side pockets like a dude's, and loafers. She stood with one hand thrust into her pocket. In her other hand she held an overnight case. She wasn't wearing any makeup. Her long black hair stood out in all directions.
"Hi," she said.
We kissed. My heart was beating fiercely. I felt like I couldn't breathe. "Come on in."
She brushed next to me as she went in. "Here, let me take that."
Her fingers touched my hand lightly as I took her case. Excitement tingled through my arm.
I took her case into the bedroom and set it down on top of the bed. I left the two women alone to make their own greetings. I waited for them in the den, by the bar. I had drinks waiting for them.
When they returned, Marsha surveyed Kitty's revealing costume as if she hadn't noticed before. She whistled.
"Wow, doesn't she look great, Delano? Turn around, chick, I want to get a good look at you."
Kitty obligingly spun around cutely, letting us look at her pants tightly stretched over her bottom and crotch. She had to take care sitting down or she'd rip them out. It must have excited her, her pants riding up her seat.
We had a couple of good, stiff drinks. I wanted everybody to get relaxed. I took out my stash and began to roll a joint. I puffed on it to get it going and passed it to Kitty. We sat on separate bar stools passing the cigarette back and forth.
Marsha took a long drag off the joint. I was getting high. My heart stopped beating so fast and I relaxed.
I expected Marsha to pass it to Kitty, but instead she leaned over and touched her lips to Kitty's. If I hadn't been high, I would have fallen off my stool, watching the two women kissing.
After she had kissed Kitty, Marsha took another drag and then kissed me. Her lips tasted cool and fine. I got hot and cold flashes all over.
Neither Kitty or I smoked any grass for ourselves after that. Marsha would take a puff, then kiss one of us, exhaling the sweet smoke into our lungs. My mouth seemed molded to fit hers. When she pushed her tongue into my mouth, I responded by getting tight in my pants.
I put my arms around her shoulders and rested her body against mine. Her arms went around me. She kissed my neck, my ears. Her hands pushed up my skirt and touched my back.
I was breathing hard. I put my arms around her and squeezed her hard to my body.
We separated. We were both breathing hard, our eyes glazed.
Marsha and Kitty embraced one another. Their breasts pushed against each other. Their hips bumped together and their bodies ground tightly together.
Kitty and I put our arms around Marsha's waist and started to lead her toward the bedroom. But she suddenly cooled off.
She stopped.
"No," she said. "I can't."
Kitty ran her fingers through Marsha's long hair. "What's the matter, darling? Scared."
"No, it's not that."
"What is it, then?"
I could see she felt confused. She knew she dug both of us and wanted to go to bed with us, and yet-
"I don't know," she said.
Suddenly Marsha's expression changed to a baleful, hateful look of disgust with herself and with her body.
"A chick! How I hate being a chick!" she cried. "I hate it! Why wasn't I born with balls!"
I laughed. "But you're such a fine looking broad, with those breasts and hair. . . "
She grabbed her breasts with both hands, squeezing them tight like I would have liked to do. "I hate them!" She grabbed up her hair as if she wanted to tear it all out. "I hate my hair, too! I wish I could cut it all off! I hate having long hair, and wearing skirts, and-"
I could see she was all worked up about it. Suddenly Kitty ran away into the bathroom. I didn't know what she was going to do.
Kitty returned with a pair of scissors in her hand. She whirled around to face Marsha.
"Let's cut it off!" she exclaimed. "You won't have to look like a girl anymore."
I was amazed. I watched Kitty, trying to read her expression. I didn't know whether she was jealous of Marsha, or if she just dug the idea of this beautiful chick looking butch. Probably a little of both. She held the scissors in one hand and stroked Marsha's long, beautiful mane with her other hand.
"Don't cut all your hair off," I said. "You're beautiful with it."
I shouldn't have said it. It was the last thing Marsha wanted. To look like a woman!
Marsha's face took on a set, determined expression.
"Cut it all off! I can't see to do it."
"I don't think you should do it." I held Kitty's hand. This was one of the times I really wanted to rearrange her face. Her eyes were glittering with excitement.
"Go ahead and cut it," said Marsha. "Give me a man's haircut. I'm tired of all this hair."
Kitty looked at me with triumph in her eyes. I shrugged. If this turned them on, it was all right with me. I desired Marsha's body, not her hair.
"I'll cut it about an inch long all around," said Kitty. "Really short."
Kitty took Marsha into the kitchen. She sat her on a stool in the middle of the kitchen. At first she put a towel over her shoulders so her hair wouldn't get in her sweater. But Marsha ripped off the sweater and threw it on the floor.
Wearing only her pants and boots, she sat on the stool. Her body was soft. Above her belt, a soft roll of fat bulged out, showing where her wide, female hips began. Her large breasts hung down white and heavy, their dark nipples wrinkled in excitement.
Her black hair shone with red highlights down the long white arch of her naked back. It was long. It must have taken years to get it that long. It reached all the way down to the stool.
Kitty brushed it all back until it was glossy and even. Taking a bunch of hair in her fist, she thrust the scissors in and snipped. About three feet of hair fell onto Marsha's shoulders.
"Don't be afraid."
Marsha's eyes were tightly shut.
Kitty sheared off all her hair close to her scalp. As the scissors bit into the hair, I held the severed strands and put them on the kitchen table. Soon thers was a big pile of hair. On one side of her head, Marsha was divested of her beautiful hair, leaving only a mowed crop of unruly stubble.
It turned Kitty on, cutting Marsha's hair. It was very strange to watch.
Finally the last long strand was snipped off. All the length of her fall of hair was shorn off.
Kitty instructed her to bend over. Her short hair fell down. Kitty began cutting it close to her head with fingernail scissors. When she was finished, Marsha's hair was less than an inch long on top of her head. She almost had a crew cut. Kitty had left it longer in front of her ears. She cut square sideburns out of what was left. In the back, it was cut square across the nape of her newly-exposed neck. Kitty parted it to one side and brushed it over. I stood in front of her to look at it. It was almost exactly a man's haircut. It was even shorter than mine. In a way, despite Marsha's beautiful body, I felt turned off at what I saw.
Her jaw was firmer, her neck thicker, and her shoulders seemed broader. If she didn't have those beautiful breasts, she would have been a good-looking boy. She opened her eyes and looked at me.
"Well?" she said.
I shrugged. Kitty looked at me with bright eyes. Next to Marsha, Kitty looked good.
Marsha pushed her fingers through her short-cropped hair. She looked at the pile of clipped hair on the table and shuddered.
"My god, there's nothing left!"
"You look great," said Kitty. She leaned over and kissed Marsha on the mouth. For the first time, I really didn't feel much attraction for Marsha. "Go look for yourself," Kitty whispered in her ear.
Marsha went into the bathroom to look at herself while I stayed behind with Kitty. I grabbed her jaw.
"Ouch, you're hurting me."
"You deserve it. What a thing to do."
Kitty shrugged in a feline way. "But she digs it, darling." She picked up some of the shorn strands of Marsha's hair and arranged them around her head.
"Would you like me with long, dark hair?"
I'll never understand women. Kitty ran her hands over my body, feeling the growing hardness beneath my pants. I kissed her. Her body melted warmly against mine in a passionate embrace.
From the bathroom there came a scream. Kitty got there first. Marsha was standing in front of the mirror, clutching her head, moaning. "It's all gone. Oh, God!"
Kitty held her and gave her consolation, while I watched. Marsha fingered her shorn hair. Kitty came up behind her and cupped her hands around her breasts, hiding them so that the broadness of her chest showed up.
The difference was really amazing. Where a few minutes ago had stood a beautiful girl, now there was-I don't know what. I couldn't understand how she had turned me on so much before.
But she really turned Kitty on. She kissed the exposed nape of her neck, bit her ear. She wanted to go to bed with her right there!
She undid Marsha's pants. Her trousers collapsed around her ankles. I was amused to see she was wearing white cotton jockey shorts underneath.
Kitty slipped out of her cashmere sweater and tight pants. She was wearing black lace bikini panties, she had long hair, a soft body, and she turned me on. She was so excited she was rubbing her wet crotch against Marsha's bottom.
I decided to join this strange duo. I put my hands on Marsha's bare shoulders. Marsha turned and I held her shuddering, quivering body while Kitty stroked her back and kissed me.
"Do you dig me as a butch?" Marsha asked, sobbing.
Before I could answer, Kitty had her claws out.
"God, do I dig you, chick! Darling, darling! You feel so good. You're so firm, just like a man."
Even though she looked different, her body decidedly did not feel like a man's body. Even so, I felt strange holding her now.
"You're a man now," Kitty told her. "You've got the balls."
I ran my hands over her shoulders, over her arms. In the mirror, I could see Kitty holding her body. It excited me to see her black panties pressed up against Marsha's jockey shorts.
We guided her into the bedroom. Kitty lay on the bed with her legs spread. I wanted to come in right then.
Marsha was muttering strangely, saying that Kitty would do everything she said, she was her old man now, they were a couple. She was the butch, Kitty the fern. Their love would last because she could give Kitty satisfaction that no one else could give. She knew everything that would turn her on, she knew how to manipulate her body because she knew what it was to be a woman. Kitty would never find a man who could satisfy her like she could. Men were insensitive.
Kitty winked at me.
I was turned on so much I could hardly contain myself. Sweat poured down my back.
Kitty was writhing on the bed, begging Marsha to love her. Her hair stuck to her face in the tears of passion. Marsha ordered her to spread her legs. Kitty opened her legs and kept them open. It was really her only talent.
Marsha opened her overnight case and took out a rubber dildo from it. She strapped it around her legs. With her haircut, she looked even more like a man. I tried to remember her with long hair, but already it was difficult. People change, but others accept the new status so quickly that it really makes no difference. Life goes on.
Kitty lay across the bed. Marsha lay upon her, wiggling her dildo so that it entered her. With her fingers she manipulated it so that it worked steadily in and out.
My excitement doubled. With my real thing, I prodded Marsha from behind. I straddled both women's bodies. My fingers spread apart her cheeks. Underneath Marsha's quivering body, Kitty was crying with the spasms that shook her. My back arched with my urgent passion. I wanted to get deeper inside her, deeper! My body heaved tumultuously. I cried joyously as I slid in and out of her. My body danced in a primitive, steaming heat for her. With deep thrusts, I showed her she was still a woman. I wanted to give everything I had to her.
I felt giddy. A shrill, piercing scream escaped from the lips of one of the women. Madly I drove my body harder into her opening. She kept on screaming. Both of them were emitting yells of ecstasy.
At last an inexpressibly gigantic climax took hold of me and shook me out 'til I was wringing wet and satisfied. I lay exhausted atop Marsha's naked body. With one hand on top of Kitty's breast.
Later, when we all had slept a little, we tried it a different way, with Kitty on top of Marsha. I think Marsha was learning to enjoy it.
I fell asleep in both women's arms.
Later in the night, I awoke and went to the kitchen. Our lovemaking had wrung out all the excess moisture from my body. I took a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator. On the table was a dark, furry mass that I didn't recognize at once. Then, by the refrigerator light, I recognized it for what it was: the remains of Marsha's hair.
It seemed unreal. I wondered if she would ever be able to find satisfaction as a woman, now that she looked so butch. Of course, it would all grow back. But in the meantime, what would her friends say the people she worked for her family? I had a feeling that everyone's whispers would cast her forever in the role of the butch. It was especially ironic, since she had for the first time tonight broken her maidenhead of fear and made love to a man.
When I returned to bed, I took the shorn hair and placed it carefully beside Marsha's head, on her pillow.
Kitty's body adoringly caressed mine as I slipped in between the two women, and I no longer worried about what anybody thought of Marsha. For the third time that night, she showed me what delights a woman could give.
In the morning, Marsha woke up and felt her clipped head. She saw the mass of hair on her pillow. She started to cry. Kitty and I would see to it she wouldn't cry very much-anymore.
THE END
* * *
JOY RIDE
by M. F. Tobias
Flight twenty nine would be getting the go-ahead within the hour as the fog which prevented arrivals and departures for most of the day began to clear up. It wasn't an unusual winter's day in Boston, not typical due to the lengthy delay.
The passengers for the departing New Orleans "shuttle" had mingled at gate seven for nearly an hour and a half, time enough for some to establish at least temporary friendships. Among this congenial group were Laura Dwight, a wealthy thoroughbred from Tea City's finer stock, and Peter Twilley, a black militant rebel on scholarship at Boston University. If their rapport was not immediate, the relationship, however brief, flourished when Jack Dwight conducted business in the VIP offices of the airline, giving his daughter more than an hour's worth of individual freedom. This if nothing else about the fog delay, made it singularly unique.
As for the conversation between the blonde and the black, it was a most predictable happenstance; during a pre-Christmas vacation, it was rare for college-aged people to fly, particularly when the destination was New Orleans.
Most of the discussion dealt with "the movement" and "the war", de-emphasizing personalized data other than personal opinions about these major issues. To their mutual delight, they agreed on almost everything.
At last, the plane was about to board and immediately after the announcement was made, Jack Dwight exited the plush suite from which he had engaged with endless telephone conversation. Approaching his daughter, the preoccupied executive was introduced to her "friend", whom he greeted with a handshake if not a warm smile. Together, they boarded the plane but before Laura could ask her father whether he would mind if she sat with Twilley, he directed her to the prescribed accommodation next to himself.
Following the announcements and the apologies by the captain of the plane, they were airborne and heading toward New Orleans. Laura's aisle seat was not far from where her tall black fellow collegian was stretching, a position which allowed for a potentially more potent method of communication than conversation: note-writing. Peter Twilley initiated the first note, taking full advantage of anonymity it afforded compared to the inhibitive pitfalls of conversation.
"Laura, "I hope I didn't do you in with the old man. He's probably a little sore that you spent so much time with a black man.
"I wonder how he'd feel if you and I decided to really do a number and go to bed with each other.
"In fact, I wonder how his lily white daughter would feel about it.
Twilley"
Successfully concealing the note, Laura looked into the author's eyes in a less successful attempt at determining whether he was writing it in jest. Although she was not at all certain, Laura concluded that the safest course was to treat it as though he was entirely serious. But rather than make a quick reply to his question, she decided to wait until the heavy eyelids of her father won their battle over his consciousness. Her patience was not severely put to the test in this regard.
With her father asleep, the twenty year old heiress began to compose her answer, delivering it personally upon its completion.
"Mr. Twilley, "If you are seriously proposing a merger of bodies, I suggest we do same with the utmost of haste as my father has fallen asleep and I happened to have noticed that no one is presently occupying the john.
"I wish to make it clear that I expect to see you therein-all of you.
"Most sincerely, L. Dwight"
After handing it to Twilley, the shapely coed marched toward the rear of the plane and half-closed the door to the bathroom so that the "occupied" sign did not appear.
Only a few minutes passed before Peter Twilley joined his other half, making certain that none of the passengers or stewardesses noticed his entrance into the bathroom. As he closed and locked the door, the black man's surprise almost betrayed his position. He had all he could do to remain silent upon seeing the practically nude honky, who was smiling, peeling, and looking straight into his eyes with an eager expression on her face. The new arrival, feeling equally as eager and not hiding it, followed suit, stripping his body of its clothing.
His tall, lean, muscular, black skin fit tightly around every part of his body, thrilling his light-haired counterpart and overcoming her with optimistic anticipation. Around his stomach, Peter's ripple of hardness appeared to have been molded out of clay; mahogany brown clay, which made it even more alluring to her.
Laura watched excitedly as her lover's barreled arms unbuckled his belt and pants and dropped them to the floor. He was not wearing underpants and the moment his clothes uncovered his groin, it bounced forth like a gun with a mission. The realization that her own hole would be its target gave the hard-breathing rich girl a head start on her already bubbling libido.
With his pants out of the way, the couple embraced, clinging to each other as though they were bound by a third force. The small confines of the bathroom hardly provided enough room to create new techniques for the feelings they would work up, but neither participant even thought of voicing a complaint.
Whether from excited exhaustion or whether she simply couldn't wait to taste his throbbing rod, Laura's knees gave in and she felt herself sinking down his velvet body. So as not to waste the effort en route to her primary destination, her tongue dribbled a path to his bulge.
The thing was even too large for both of her hands to cover its spreading length. Indeed, it didn't stop spreading until long after she had given up this effort. When she could force it away from its perpendicular position and against his leg, Laura could see that it spanned almost halfway to his knee. The prospect of allowing this horrendous piece of meat to sink into her sex cave was frighteningly sensational.
The black poker felt hot against her face, even after she saturated it with her mouth. It felt, as she closed her eyes, like a perfectly cleansed corn-on-the-cobor at least a warmed over portion of it.
Twilley grabbed her longish hair, pulling her face toward his crotch and smothering her nose into his sack.
Tilting her head upward, she encouraged his hanging spheres of joy into her wide-open mouth, embracing each of them gently with her tongue. With both sides duly sucked, the eager eater nibbled at the loose skin which held his bundle of fun together. The texture of this sack covering was similar to that of a very old man's neck, all wrinkled and soft-but black; even blacker than the rest of him.
As she carried out her oral feast, Laura's fingers, instinctively, crawled along his legs, around toward his crack, and finally inside the cheeks of his rear. She thrust her fingers as far into the black crack as she could without losing her wrist in the process.
"That's it, baby, send it up, send it up. All the way up my ass. I want all of it up there, that's it," he chanted, encouraging Laura, who needed little encouragement.
"Turn around, babe," she urged.
Twilley followed his lover's advice and as he did so, felt each side of his rear splitting apart and opening it up to more daylight than ever. He was surprised at the comparatively small girl's strength, but attributed it to sheer determination.
As the black man turned his back to Laura, she scratched the walls of his inner cheeks with her nails, filling them with debris, but cleaning them off with her mouth. When this inner surface had been treated, the anxious coed spread her lover's rear even wider apart than before, allowing enough space for her face to find its way inside. Once her nose reached the wall of his hole, she immediately triggered off her tongue, which was the only part of her face wet enough and small enough to sink past the opening.
Burrowing her moist sliver into Twilley's rear seemed to smash the slurping wench's sex buttons, as her breathing became more pronounced with each succeeding rotation of her tongue. She allowed his cheeks to snap together against her face, devoting her grasp to the long hot stick in front. Both of her comparatively tiny hands tugged and tickled his sex barometer mercilessly, occasionally trying to guide it underneath to where her face was being gripped by the tight flex of his ass. This was an impossibility, however, not because it wasn't long enough-it was-but because it was too hard to bend at all.
It was as rigid as it was going to be and Peter Twilley needed a warm moist sanctuary to relieve himself of the frustrating agony he was going through. Reaching in back, he pulled his lover by the hair, forcing her to abandon her feast. When they were both standing, he lifted her even higher, practically hitting her head against the ceiling of the cramped cabin. With her slit on a direct level with his own sex machine, Laura took her cue and opened her legs for the final sensation of their act.
She wrapped her shapely loins around his midsection like a snake strangling its victim, but in this case, the victim was encouraging as tight a hold as possible. Four limbs-two arms and two legs-engulfed the black man, making it unnecessary for her to keep her feet on the ground. In exchange, Twilley's middle limb, the long muscle-stick between his legs, shot into the girl, assuring further her stability.
The couple hugged tightly and bounced up and down within the confines of their quarters. The fact that Laura's skull occasionally smashed against the roof or the walls didn't stop their frantic motion for a second.
Although it didn't bother her to be both literally and figuratively banged against the walls, a passing stewardess happened to overhear the noise and decided to investigate the unusual sounds emanating from the John.
"Are you alright in there," she asked, knocking on the cabin door.
When no one answered, she asked a second time and still there was no answer, but she did hear something of a commotion from behind the door.
Unfortunately, each of the lovers inside the small room assumed that the other had ruled out answering the intruder; similarly, they assumed the responsibility for same and responded simultaneously.
The confused airline hostess, hearing two distinctly different voices, one male and one female, didn't know what course of action to take. Should she report this highly unusual episode to the captain? Should she investigate herself and try to break up whatever was going on? Or should she follow her natural instincts, pretending that nothing unusual was happening and then go on about her business with the assurance that no one else on the plane would discover what was going on? Before she could decide, the door opened and a strong black grip pulled her inside the bathroom.
"What are you doing," protested the hostess in an excited whisper, the tone of her own voice convinced her that she had planned on taking the latter course of action from the three alternatives.
"Don't worry about anything," said her abductor who was wearing a light-haired nude around his waist, obviously in the process of balling her.
"You're not going to get hurt unless you open your mouth."
"But if you stay in here any longer, they'll find out what you're doing."
"Take off your clothes," demanded the irate black man. "I don't care who finds out about what. I'm calling the shots on this trip. All the shots, get it?"
"Are you saying that you're planning on . . . on hijacking this plane," asked the frightened third.
"That's it, baby, but first I'm asking you to take off your clothes. Notice I said asking," he emphasized. "I'm considered to be a very understanding type of guy when my people follow my instructions."
"I didn't know you were planning on a hijack," said Laura, wearing a peculiar look on her face. "Where are you going?"
"To Cuba, where else?" he asked.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"We were discussing other things," he laughed. "Why are you so interested? Want to join me in Cuba?"
"Is that an open invitation for both of us," asked the disrobing stewardess.
"Well," answered Twilley. "Look what we got here: a revolutionary in blue. Sure, it goes for both of you. I'd like you both to come with me and help me get this thing there."
"I know exactly what to do," assured the practically naked newcomer. "But let's finish up our work in here first if that's agreeable to you . . . to both of you."
"Sure," said a hesitant Laura. "Sounds fine to me. I'm game."
Within the claustrophobic confines of the aircraft's head, the three nudes went after each other's body like starving animals, eating, licking, sucking, scratching and generally devouring any part they could get close to.
Laura, never having given up her monopoly on her man's injection, as though nothing of importance had happened in the last few moments, continued to hump away at the upright lover. The stewardess, who was extremely well-built, allowed her long round knockers to massage his back as she held firmly to Laura's grasping legs for stability.
Getting relatively little satisfaction from this, she urged the twosome to turn slightly so that Twilley's back was against the bowl. When they unselfishly completed this circle, she braced herself on her counterpart's wrap-around loins and stood on the perimeter of the seat, elevating her position to the full height of the tiny room. In this position, the hostess could lift her hanging sex wads around the black man's shoulder, smothering his warm neck in their enormity.
Laura, still bouncing up and down from her humping lover's movement, was directly facing the flesh saggings of the newcomer as they draped around Twilley's neck. She could see them bulge and contract with the heart beat of the elevated hostess. Still clinging her legs tightly around the waist of the hijacker, and still being reinforced by his huge sausage, she unclasped her arms from his neck and shoulders and used them to fondle the new girl's magnificent bombs.
Rubbing, squeezing and sucking the breastal mountains, Laura finally sank her teeth into them, devouring every inch of softness. She caressed them with her tongue and mouth as though she'd always done it, but her skill in exciting the hostess emanated from the passion of the moment-not previous experience.
The two females looked into each other's eyes from over the black shoulder which separated them and a force, magnetic or otherwise, pulled their mouths together until they locked in a moist frenzy. The grunting stewardess reached around toward Laura and lifted one leg at a time around Twilley's bare back, hoisting herself on him from the rear.
Peter Twilley's muscular body supported both parasitic nymphs, Laura, with whom he interlocked sex glands from the front, and the stewardess, who was clinging to him from behind and making love with Laura's tongue.
Backing against a wall, the brunette's groin got a feeling of soft, warm skin and, like a glutton sampling a taste of something delightful, she craved more.
But it was too late. The brute was exploding his sauce into Laura's body, jerking his machine into her with the thrust of a maniacal convulsing beast. She wanted desperately to be the benefactor, as her own sex machine began secreting juices even without satisfactory attention.
Laura's grimaced expression characterized every emotion from pain to sheer joy as the thunder of their bodies collided and blended. With the final pump of his body, she was lowered all the way to the floor, signifying that the session had come to an end. Twilley collapsed against the far wall and sank to the seat of the toilet and his front rider, breathing very heavily, remained where she was laid down. Although she appeared to have some life left in her, the hostess had to make certain, for her own thunder was threatening and she badly needed a helping hand.
With her female counterpart looking up at her, the hostess interpreted this as a sign of encouragement and she acted swiftly on her own behalf. Bending at the knees, she lowered herself to the point where Laura could comfortably eat her: an appreciated request which was carried out with enthusiasm.
As the rich girl's lips nibbled away at the female groin in front of it, the air hostess began to lose strength in her legs. Kneeling halfway down was tiring enough, but when a hot-lipped sex partner dined on a throbbing clitoris at the same time, standing was made impossible.
Losing the stamina to remain in position, she sank down, but was saved by her black hero from behind, who offered his knee as a stool. As she was about to sit on the perfectly positioned limb, Twilley stuck his monstrous hand in between her rear and his leg, sending his fingers all the way up her crack. With his energetic fingers working away from the back, and with Laura's tongue, teeth, and wet lips eating her hairy gullet, the stewardess allowed her body to excrete anything it had to, anything it wanted to. Her drippings were plentiful and the body sauces which escaped her thrilled being included more than merely love relish. Urine and come filtered past the pubic blanket of her groin and onto the face of the girl below. Laura opened her mouth even wider than before to taste the juices which she helped to create and when the secreting hostess was finally finished, Laura licked her entire midsection clean.
Even Twilley helped in the cleaning up process, lifting the girl with his sunken fingers and sponging her rear with the cathartic help of his flattened tongue.
Finally, the threesome sank into utter exhaustion, musing aloud as to the ramifications of the beauty they had just taken part in. Theirs was a totally unselfish merger and each participant received a fair share of the action.
"Do you realize," said Laura, expressing the feeling of her counterparts, "that the satisfaction we just got from each other is so rare that even married swingers don't even come close to it? I make a motion that the three of us spend the next . . . however long it takes us to get sick of each other. I say we stick together for that long. What do you think?"
"I think any other alternative would be second best," said the hostess.
As these words came from her mouth, a knock at the door interrupted her, but she soon continued as though it didn't matter. More and increasingly forceful knocks at the door didn't perturb the stewardess or her friends and their conversation continued.
"But why Cuba?" asked Laura. "What are your reasons for going to Cuba?"
"Are you copping out?" asked the hijacker.
"Not at all," she replied. "I'll try anything once and I'm not against finding out what Cuba's all about, but what are your reasons for wanting to go?"
"Repression is reason enough for me," said the defiant black man. "I'm sick of living in this racist society and I'm going to Cuba to live in freedom."
"But what would . . . " a knock at the door sounded urgent, but the speaker only hesitated for a second. "What would make you change your mind? Would you stay here if you had freedom? If you weren't repressed or the victim of a racist society?"
"Sure. I told you, I'm not going to Cuba because they make good cigars there, I'm going there for a better life."
"I got news for you then, Charlie, we don't have to go to Cuba. None of us do."
"Why," asked the hostess.
"Because I'm on my way to New Orleans to claim my grandfather's estate. The old man willed me a mansion and a fortune in stocks. The three of us can live like kings and queens, whichever we felt like being," she winked. "Don't you see? We can have everything."
Broad smiles overcame the naked trio as they considered the possibility.
"Alright, alright," said the hostess to the crowd outside, "We'll be out in a second, just hold your bladders."
As they finished putting on their clothes and opened the door to the tiny compartment, a line of astonished passengers gasped at the emerging group. Among the people on line was the co-captain, who advised the smiling stewardess that she was fired.
Never telling her boss that she'd just saved the flight from being hijacked, the brunette accepted his verdict without questioning it or expressing regret over the incident. She had just taken part in the most sensational experience of her life and was guaranteed more of the same. Nothing could possibly sadden her.
Peter Twilley, amidst the cold stares of the passengers, took his seat and thought of the wonderful life of luxurious freedom he would enjoy with his two appreciative playmates. He was secure in the fact that, if his new life style depended on his sexual performance, years of the good life most certainly lay ahead.
Laura, meanwhile, quietly sat next to her father, careful not to awaken him. Her thoughts turned to her appointment with that New Orleans head shrinker who, allegedly, was going to rid the student of her "psychotic defenses" of lying all the time. She hoped it would work, but she remained skeptical. Whatever the outcome, at least she had a pleasant flight to New Orleans. Except for some occasional bumpiness of course, which her head would remind her of for a few days.
THE END
* * *
ROOM SERVICE
by Kevin Kuntsler
Tugging at the golden chain which drooped across his pin-striped black vest, Claude Seaton produced his trusty time piece; it read nine thirty three. In two minutes he would march from his plush suite of offices to the morning personnel check, a route he had paved every morning for the past seven years. If other hotel managers assigned this seemingly routine task to their underlings, they were not required to maintain as meticulous an operation as the luxurious Carthay Hotel. His patrician clientele from around the world expected the very best of everything when they registered at the Carthay, and for many of them excellence was epitomized in the person of Claude Seaton.
Exactly on time, as always, the distinguished looking executive strode through the busy corridors of his hotel, past the main lobby and into the large dining room, bidding passersby good morning with a characteristically abrupt shake of his head.
His entrance snapped a talkative amalgamate of thirty or so to attention, resembling British Revolutionary War soldiers who were caught by surprise when General Howe stopped in for inspection. Each man held out his hands instead of his musket when their leader carried out the examination. With the minor exception of Neil Tracy, from room service, hands and uniforms passed this morning's test.
When this chore was completed, Seaton briskly made his way back to the main lobby where he read the reserved VIP list for the day. A few notables would be registering this day, including Bennet Polk, the noted author, Allison Johns, Governor Johns' lovely daughter, Dwight Landsman, an actor of fading importance, and Phil Barris, the most celebrated professional quarterback in the history of football. That Barris would choose to stay at the Carthay was somewhat surprising, thought the amused hotel manager.
Ordering his secretary to have flowers and champagne sent to each of the residents on today's list, he wondered if other hotels furnished a beautiful young lady for the athlete's merriment. The idea would be a good one, he conjectured, if this was any other hotel in the world. Surely the young playboy would appreciate the gesture.
A buzzing intercom on his enormous desk interrupted Seaton's meditative mirth.
"Yes," he asked impatiently.
"Sir, a Mr. Reynolds is here to see you."
"Who? I have no appointments until lunch. Who is he?"
"He's with the government and he insists it's important that he see you immediately."
"Alright, send him in," ordered the administrator.
Even before he could stand to greet his uninvited guest, the door to his office opened and two men in black suits paraded inside.
"Mr. Seaton," asked the older of the two. "I'm Ed Reynolds, investigator for the Senate sub-council on rackets. This is my associate, Mr. Janis."
"Yes," said the bewildered hotel manager "what can I do for you?"
"We have, sir, a top secret memorandum from the sub-council instructing us to bug and monitor Phil Barris' suite. We'd like your official approval before we begin setting up the gear."
"Isn't this highly irregular? This kind of thing has never happened to me before and I've been in this business for quite a while. I just don't understand it. What has Mr. Barris done?"
"We're not at liberty to discuss that," explained the crew-haired Janis. "And we're not surprised that this has never happened to you before. You've never had the class of people in this hotel who would attract our services. Do we have your official permission to carry on? "
"Yes," he agreed reluctantly. "I'll have some people sent up to help you."
"No," insisted Reynolds. "Absolutely no one is to know about this. Not even your closest, assistants. Is that clear?"
"Alright, I'll get the key for you from the desk man. You'd better do whatever you have to do quickly because Mr. Barris is due to check in at one thirty."
Reynolds and Janis accepted the key in the lobby and quickly located the quarterback's suite without assistance. The electronic ear could be dropped anywhere, being such a small device, but the camera was more difficult to conceal. Cleverly, they changed the bureau mirror to a two way mirror and secured the movie camera behind it. Their task complete, Reynolds and Janis quickly made their way to a small vacant room in the basement of the building, where they would remain to watch the results of their work.
With a hysterical entourage made up mostly of young boys and older girls, Phil Barris, the sex symbol of the decade, entered the Carthay. As aloof and sophisticated as they were supposed to be, employees of the chic institution crowded around the quarterback asking for autographs and shaking his hand. The delighted young man, they learned, was infinitely more patient and far less brash than they had read in newspaper and magazine articles about him.
By the time the ritual of registering was complete, the blue-eyed celebrity was smiled out. He was led to the elevator by one of his biggest fans, though he did not know it. Neil Tracy, who usually worked in a room service capacity, was granted his fervent wish of showing Phil Barris to his room.
Trying to make conversation, the young employee of the hotel happened to mention that other distinguished guests this day included Dwight Landsman, Bennet Polk, Allison Johns. . .
"Did you say Allison Johns is staying here today," asked Barris.
"Yes, sir," answered Tracy. "Room 1909."
When he was at last alone, the celebrated sportsman rested on his bed with his eyes closed. His mind echoed that beautiful experience with Allison Johns, three years earlier.
As a highly publicized collegian, Phil Barris became the target of just about every coed's passions, including the exceptionally impressive passions of sumptuous Allison Johns.
A victory party in an off-campus, fraternity owned, home was the scene of their first meeting. Each, of course, was impressed with the credentials of the other, she, being the governor's daughter, he, being the famed all-star. Predictably, they were immediately attracted to each other.
"Why don't we get out of here and go somewhere quiet," he suggested.
"You mean your place for example," smiled the comely blonde.
"Unless there's no one home where you live."
"Well, we'd have to get past about twenty newspaper reporters, my father's staff, my father, and whatever group happens to be picketing outside, but I'm willing to make a go of it if you are," she joked.
He speculated that there must have been a lot of talk when they left, but neither of them seemed to think their being alone together wasn't worth the gossip. They drove to his place, he recalled, and wanted no time small-talking. Words were not necessary, for both made it clear that what they wanted was each other.
With only a candle lighting his bedroom, the quarterback ran his fingers along the ban-Ion sweater which intensified the ripeness of her glowing silhouette. Without flinching, she silently secured his left feeler and raised it to her slightly colored lips, kissing each finger tenderly. Every inch of his hand, from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger had been delicately made love to by her knowledgeable mouthpiece, when she began to lick and suck away at it.
Barris, having only one hand free to explore, made the most of it, undoing her bra and watching her healthy mountains quake as he loosened the undergarment. Freely and crisply, both sides bounded up and down when he released his hand from behind her back. As she continued to suck on his other hand, he felt around toward the front of her body, anxious to familiarize his bare skin with her rubbery breasts.
At Allison's bony rib cage began a sloping portion of buttery-textured bosoms, too large on either side to fit into his enormous stretch. The end of her left droop, he could feel, was rough, unlike the silky feel of the rest of heer skin-the roundness of it required a healthy percentage of space.
Anxious to see exactly how much of her chest was devoted to nippled territory, he removed his exiled hand from the grasp of her tongue, lips, and teeth and slipped it underneath the sweater of his provocative partner. Rubbing, feeling, manipulating both butterballs in his hands and fingers, pinching her nipples mercilessly, he finally unveiled the bare product from under its ban-Ion covering. The round tips at the summit of each breast covered, incredibly, at least half of the entire glands. Every ounce of fat on her body was concentrated and stored in her duo-toned chest bulbs.
The athlete immersed his head between the folds of her sag, rotating feverishly to enable his chin and nose and lips and cheeks and tongue to luxuriate in its give.
With his parts out of her reach, Allison could not correct her frustrated predicament, but to prepare for her own turn and to hasten matters, she reached in back for her buttons and slipped out of her mini-skirt. The fact that she happened not to be wearing panties further expedited her cause.
Looking down at her marvelously shaggy groin, he whispered, "What will they say when they find out that the governor's daughter doesn't wear underwear?"
"Phil," she pleaded, "I'm not going to be able to wait much longer. Please take off your clothes and let's get in bed. I'm going to burst if you're not in me very soon."
Without delay, almost as though he was dropping back to pass, her lover retreated and began to unbutton his shirt. Helpfully, the naked blonde, from below, dismissed his blue jeans and undershorts from duty, which, when removed, allowed his magnificent erection to spring against her. Allison was in awe of its structure, its tall, bony configuration and, most of all, it's thick-bodied broadness. It must have been as thick as her wrist, she thought, as she pressed it against her face guiding it with her hands.
In order to put the thing into her mouth, the ebullient mistress discovered that the total expanse of her mouth and jaws was required. When his massive red bubble surged between the roof of her mouth and her hollowed tongue, Allison's hands were free to fondle his loose bag of genitals, a favorite pastime of the governor's daughter.
Finally, her jaw could no longer stay open at its full potential and she removed his blimp from her mouth, directing her eager tongue to taste its length back and forth until it became red with heat.
The quarterback fell against the bed and his lover followed without even removing her hands or tongue from his pulsating joint. Once again, she pressed his glazed rod of fire against her face, intermittently chewing on it with her lips and teeth, while softly clutching his salient sack of circular playthings with her long nails.
Now it was Barris who could no longer tolerate the torture of their torrid preliminaries. He had to have his masterpiece within the grip of her hairy hotbox. With the force for which he was famous, the athlete grabbed his partner's arms and forced her underneath his body. No sooner was she on her back when he rammed his heavy load into her, separating her partially closed upper legs and storming through its target like an ice breaker cutting through the northwest passage.
Allison's lubricated joint and the largeness of its boundaries would have accommodated other men easily, but her hulk of a man came equipped with a pole that other men wouldn't know what to do with. He could stick the thing in, but it scraped along the sides of her hole-in her life, no other man had been able to touch every bursting millimeter of the inside of her sex duct. The sensation was mind-blowing, as though she had overeaten in a sexual buffet. Her internal bottom felt filled as her lover pumped forward, and empty as he jerked back. His constant thrusts submarined her with agonizingly erotic thrills, convulsing the spread-legged recipient into fits of howling hysteria.
There was so little room inside her hole that she was afraid to come, wondering where it would manage to secrete. But the more fear she felt, the more thunder she could feel her body delivering. When the final burst of thunder shook Allison and the juices of her sex glands gushed from her body, the quarterback humped even more frantically, trying to get every last drop of the wet stuff to anoint his plunger.
Before Allison was juiced out, her lover ripped his wad from her hole and, just as quickly, tore into her rear tunnel.
"Please, no. You'll never get it in. Phil, don't . . . you . . . won't. . . AHHHHHHHH!"
Her scream could probably be heard at the football stadium with a full crowd, but neither of the lovers cared. She was certain that in choking her anal hole with his enormous piece of meat, the cheeks of her rear separated and cracked the skin. His bloody sheets proved her right.
Again, he jammed his stick in and out furiously. She was climaxing by the glassful, but his joint was causing her a tremendous amount of pain. As she screamed for more, tears ran down her face from the punishment she was withstanding' .
Barris, noticing her tears of pain, pulled himself from the knot of her ass and crawled it up to her mouth. She licked and sucked excretions of all kinds from his red hot poker as his sack rested on her chin. Turning her around so that he was behind her, the athlete allowed his testicles to rest in the comfort of her closed eye sockets, while she continued to lick the slime from his quaking joint.
At last, it erupted, streaking against the back part of her throat in gushes until the grateful blonde's mouth was practically filled with the delicious white stuff. When her lover was finished, Allison swallowed hungrily and smiled thankfully at her heroic all-star.
Their relationship lasted for the balance of the school year, which happened also to have been the balance of their collegiate careers. But it was not a cut-and-dry merger. When two people in the public eye join forces, gossip pirates who fabricate stories seem to crawl out from everywhere, like roaches at a picnic. Such was the case with his playmate and himself. Lies were printed in every newspaper tabloid in the country about their alleged illegitimate children and other ugly stories. Complicating matters, of course, was
Governor Johns, who forbid his daughter to be seen with the controversial star.
If that part of the relationship was distasteful, their sexual and intellectual rapport tilted the scale toward continuing the romance. Perhaps even marriage wasn't out of the question. The only thing holding them back, however, was the governor; he was, as it turned out, the only reason why the two lovers separated.
Now she was in the same hotel; a totally coincidental stroke of luck.
Excitedly, he asked the desk to connect him with Allison's suite. The governor's daughter was thrilled to hear from him, confessing that she'd never really excluded him from her thoughts. Barris made a similar but more detailed confession, and the pair arranged to meet for dinner.
"Where would you like to eat," he asked.
"We don't have much of a choice," she said disappointedly. "We have to restrict ourselves to room service in your suite or mine. If we dine out, we'll be taking an awful risk."
"You're right," he agreed. "Meet me here at eight. I'll order first. What would you like to eat?"
"Ask me that after dinner," she quipped.
After a shave, a shower, and a change of clothes, the all-star called downstairs to order dinner for two, intentionally ordering early to avoid chancing whoever delivered it to see Allison.
Neil Tracy, to his everlasting delight, got the call: Deliver dinner for two to Mr. Barris' suite. He did so with a smile, which broadened considerably when his idol recalled him showing him up to his room. The young man went out of his way to please Phil Barris, dusting his furniture, cleaning off and setting the table, and even offering to shine his shoes, which the quarterback declined. In doing these tasks, the hotel employee sensed something different about the room, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. Something about the mirror looked different than the mirrors in the other suites but when he dusted closer to it to investigate, he sensed Barris rushing him. The curious boy left reluctantly, but he left one dollar richer.
One his way down to the kitchen, Neil Tracy tried to think why the mirror looked strange. He'd delivered food up there regularly for months and he never noticed it. It was sort of smoked over, as though unclean. Yet obviously, it was deliberately designed that way. But why? And since when? Neither of his questions were, for the moment, anyway, answerable.
Soon after the room service boy had finally left, Allison rang the bell to her lover's suite. Their embrace left no doubts as to the ultimate plans for the evening. Neither of them could wait until after dinner and they began to look into each other's eyes rather than at their meal.
Barris pulled his chair from the table and walked toward his beautiful guest, lifting her from her own chair into his arms and passionately tonguing her mouth. Before she knew it, Allison was once again under the same incredible spell as she was three years earlier. She realized her dreams of Phil were not distorted or exaggerated-they were real. All that sensual pleasure was real after all.
The embracing couple craved each other and quickly removed the clothing from their heated bodies. But when they were finally undressed, the doorbell broke their spell.
Hesitantly, the quarterback went out to the foyer to answer it, assuring his playmate that there was no need to worry.
It was Neil Tracy at the door, which infuriated his idol.
"Come on, son, what the hell is it now? Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?" he asked excitedly.
"No, sir," answered the trembling deliverer "but I forgot to give you your bill."
"Put it over there," he pointed.
"If it's all the same to you, Mr. Barris, I'd appreciate it if you took a look at it now. I think there might be a mistake somewhere."
With his anger intensifying by the second, the celebrity looked quickly at the card the boy was handing to him. About to say that it was perfectly alright, he noticed writing instead of numbers and drew it closer for a real look. The penciled writing read: "Mr. Barris, I suspected and it was confirmed, that the mirror in the other room is two way. It was smoked over intentionally for just that purpose. There is a possibility that you're being watched. If this is so, there is also the possibility of some mechanical device listening in on your conversation."
"Yes," said the bewildered reader. "I think there is a mistake here. Tell Mr., what's his name
. . . " he mumbled, reading the name, Claude Sea-ton on a champagne bottle, ". . . tell Mr. Seaton that there was a mistake on my bill and I'd like to talk to him immediately."
"Right away, sir," said the boy as he turned and ran toward the elevator.
Without explaining what was going on, Barris quickly dressed and went downstairs to see Mr. Seaton.
"What makes you think it's being bugged or monitored," he asked unconvincingly.
"Listen, Seaton, if I'm being watched, you can forget about the reputation of this fine hotel of yours, because everything goes up in smoke when I get finished filing suit against you personally and against the Carthay."
"Please Mr. Barris," said the hotel manager, visibly shaken at the very real prospect of a huge suit-and without the government's protection because they wouldn't admit to top secret snooping, even to protect the innocent. "I can explain . . . " he began, relating the afternoon's circumstances.
"Did they prove to you that they were federal agents," he asked.
"Well, no, I don't think so, but.. . "
The quarterback, as though dashing for a touchdown, rambled downstairs to the basement, where Claude Seaton told him they were waiting.
When the two men, watching a monitor which showed a naked blonde, saw the principal of their investigation, they began to run, proving immediately that they were not federal agents. One man escaped, but the speedy athlete tackled the other snooper, who admitted that he and his partner were newspapermen. When they learned that Allison Johns was registered at the Carthay on the same day as he was, they thought for certain that it was premeditative-a definite headliner.
The ugly matter was handled compassionately by Barris and Allison, when she learned what was happening. But they did take steps from preventing the same type of thing from happening again. They hope to raise an entire all-star backfield. Over the next forty years they might even have two generations of all-stars. But definitely, they agreed-no politicians or newspapermen.
THE END
* * *
EVERY THURSDAY
by Sandi Ego
Once the press corps finally got settled, the new appointee made her way to the podium. With only one preconceived announcement, that she was pleased to have been appointed to the position of administrative censor for network programming, Riva Cox entertained questions from her audience.
Did she approve of sex and violence on the air? Absolutely not. The sooner these evils were stripped of air play, the better off society would be.
Would she strictly enforce measures designed to limit sex and violence on the air? Yes. To the utmost of her power, provided she did not infringe upon guaranteed constitutional rights of the networks.
As her first news conference progressed, a feeling of satisfaction overcame the twenty seven year old censor. Each passing moment, each succeeding question, convinced her that she could cope with her new role in life, that she could play the role, until a reporter from one of the wire services asked his question.
"Miss Cox," he began "do you similarly disapprove of sex and violence in movie theaters as well as on television? Can you dare legislate morality to other mature adults? What gives you the right? We know you have the power, but on a broader scale, what gives you the moral right?"
The shapely speaker fixed her long blonde hair, allowing herself an extra second or two to answer the question with convincing austerity.
"I don't want to legislate anyone's morality, sir. I only want to do my job and protect the viewing public from distasteful programming. The difference between the movie theater and the television screen, I'm sure you realize, is vast. The theater-going public pays to see a specific entertainment vehicle, knowing full well what they're going to see. But people sitting at home watching distasteful entertainment are in a different position. Children could turn on the television at home, whereas they wouldn't be permitted to walk into an x-rated movie. We must have some prohibitions for home viewing."
Satisfied with her answer, Riva Cox directed her attention toward another questioner, who asked whether she considered Ward Price's type of singing style in bad taste. Should this hip-swinging rock 'n roller have his own show, or should it be removed from television?
With very mixed feelings, the censor sold out on her true feelings and handled the question conservatively, remarking, "Although the ratings tell us that Mr. Price is very popular with a certain segment of the viewing public, I personally don't watch the show. As far as recommending its removal from the air, I haven't really made a final judgment on that, but it doesn't appear likely that I shall initiate such a proposal. Not at this point, anyway."
With the press conference out of the way, the fine looking young administrator received congratulations from other high-rankers. Each amateur critic was particularly impressed by the poise with which she conducted herself on the question of "legislating morality."
The day was finally complete after Riva Cox met with network vice presidents, who expressed their happiness that "such a lovely lady now presides over their destinies, even if it was in but a small way."
Declining a dinner invitation, noting that the time was nearly seven thirty and that she simply had to be home "for personal reasons", the bachelorette made the half hour drive in twenty minutes. Arriving at her apartment a few minutes before eight, she quickly turned on the television to channel six and waited for the picture to emerge from the darkened screen. Before it did, a voice announced, "Stay tuned for the Ward Price Show," informing the would-be viewer that there was time to hang her coat in the closet and to take out the equipment there from.
Riva Cox removed a black box from the corner of the closet and took her seat in front of the console, patiently waiting for the show to start. Finally, Ward Price appeared, waving to a throng of screaming females. His black leather outfit and his sly smile encouraged such outbursts and his occasional scratches near the crotch of his pants necessitated it. The man was pure sex and as far as Riva was concerned, any woman who did not admit to this simple fact was being untrue to her own gut-level emotions. A woman's natural instinct, she believed, was to find Ward Price almost unbearably erotic. Just to watch him on the television screen had to do something to his female viewing audience, particularly if the female happened to be highly sensitive. His blonde admirer was just such a female.
At every airing of his program, Riva made certain not to involve herself with appointments which might coincide with her weekly experience.
With a red light providing the only source of brightness, other than the light from the television itself, Ward Price's most appreciative fan, as she had done every week, planted herself on the comfortable black velvet couch in front of the television set. This week, however, the blue-eyed blonde neglected to close the drapes covering the window. Although she was usually careful about such trivia, there was not much time to prepare for tonight's session.
Quickly, she removed a long object from the black cardboard box and plugged it into the wall -without removing her heavy eyes from the television screen.
The singer opened with a fast song, gyrating his black-leathered body to the rapid pace of the music. Animalistic sweat began to flow from his skin, intensifying his masculine image.
Even before he finished, his simmering admirer had almost entirely disposed of her uncomfortable woolen outfit which clung to her body like a soggy blanket. Relaxed in front of her television in her bra and panties, Riva Cox began to rub her cold hands along the surface of her legs, first scratching with her nails lightly, then using the palms of her hands to rub warmth into her fingers. There was plenty of warmth to be gotten from between her silkened loins.
When her body was hot enough, she peeled the last two garments from her skin, allowing an entirely free soul to luxuriate in the privacy of her fantasy. Her hands roamed her body with abandon, feeling exactly what she wanted to feel, knowing as only she could know what would heighten her own excitement. From her heavily sagging bosoms, to the hairy tripod between her legs, the viewer imagined her hands to be those of the image on the screen.
Licking the tips of her fingers, Riva touched the ends of her breasts, squeezing the wart-like lumps which bobbed up and down to every heartbeat. She even tried to raise them directly to her lips and teeth, but, as she had learned a long time ago, this was an impossible maneuver. Nevertheless, grunts of frustration escaped her throat and, unaware that her position was making her vulnerable to the view of the neighbors across the single lane driveway, she did not try to muffle her sounds.
Herbert Farrel, the neighbor closest to the action, had just walked into his apartment. Before he poured himself his nightly martini, the twenty nine year old bachelor heard these painful sounds and investigated, thinking that someone might be crying for help. Approaching his window, the red-tinted room across the driveway caught his eye immediately-and held his attention for longer than he had at first suspected.
Inside the neighboring window, he could see in red silhouette what appeared to be a beautifully built young lady who was putting on a show just for him. In the event that the proceedings were not for his exclusive entertainment pleasure, the grateful ringsider took the precaution of turning off his lights before returning to his position with a pair of binoculars.
The helpful lenses allowed Farrel to witness more clearly the woman-in-heat. He could see that she had light hair and that her features were rather average. In fact, she looked somewhat familiar, but he could not place her because her face was not being given equal viewing time. It was her body and how she was handling and fondling it which monopolized his interest.
With her forefingers and thumbs being removed from her sloppily anointing tongue, she tweezed the outermost portions of her nipples, pulling her entire breast set frantically during the latter stages of the repeated routine. After five or six similar moves, he could see in her eyes that she was no longer in full control of her own mind. Her blonde-covered head rotated about in incoherent circles, as though trying to avoid a plaguing cloud of lethal gas without having the energy to walk away from its deadly scent.
Long, painted nails led the way down from her chest, scratching against the surface of the skin and intermittently rubbing the graceful feelers against her flattened tongue. When she felt duly moistened, the nymph pressed flatly against her stomach and hips, to the movement of occasional humping. Whenever her hips were treated to attention by her moist hands, they rocked back and forth, making the lump of hair between her legs quite visible with the help of the light from the flickering television set.
He could see that humping the air, for this horny nude, was an involuntary reaction rather than a calculated move. When the passion mistress thrust her body back and forth toward a make believe lover near the television set, it was a necessity, just as it was a necessity to flex against the feeling of a cramp.
As each hump became increasingly pronounced the sighs from her throat grew louder. Finally, when it seemed that she could no longer tolerate the apparent suffering, the perspiring blonde reached for a long black stem, which looked suspiciously like a black man's sex stick. The larger-than-life prop seemed to be made of either plastic or rubber, but the shape of the thing was unmistakably a replica of a penis-and black in color. Even the molded veins of the thing were apparent, lending even greater credibility to the likeness.
With the flick of her thumb, the electric machine vibrated rapidly, sounding like an electric shaver. But before the predictable insert between her flapping legs, Riva brought it to her mouth and sucked on it while it oscillated. Evidently not being able to suck satisfaction out of the device, she turned it off and sank her anxious teeth into it, proving to her unsuspecting audience that it was, after all, made of rubber instead of plastic.
The naked girl, never removing her eyes from the television set, turned up the power on the instrument once again and ran it along her revolving hips and thighs. At last, she shoved it into her body, first circling the perimeter of her hole and then pulling it in and out of her groin. Once it was all the way inside her, the erotic madwoman was on her feet, humping in what looked to her peeping Tom like another dimension of movement. Clearly, the woman was not in control of herself-and increasingly clear was the fact that her witness was losing his own fight for control.
Almost as quickly as she stood to her feet, Farrel did likewise, dropping his binoculars and stampeding out of his apartment. He made his way to the neighboring building, but, not knowing exactly which apartment contained the nymph, he. made three futile attempts trying to find her. This tragic waste of time began to eat away at his chances for success, he reasoned, and after a few minutes he began to panic, stalking through the halls with a rigid growth and no place to put it.
By the time Farrel stopped and logically figured out her position, he feared it was too late to make an attempt. But, he thought, anything as passionate as that lady, might not yet be finished after all. Rapping on the door, he took a deep breath and hoped for the best. Almost a minute passed before it was answered. The strangely familiar blue-eyed blonde answered the door breathing hard, but controllably so.
"Yes," she said, trying to fix here mussed hair, "can I help you?"
Not knowing exactly what to say, the intruder asked the first question which came to mind.
"Yes," he stammered, "could you please tell me where the manager of this apartment lives? I was thinking about renting a place in the building."
"No," Riva answered. "I really don't know which is his apartment."
About to walk away dejectedly, he was brought back by the perceptive woman.
"Wait. I might have his number," she said, looking for her telephone book. "Come in for a second while I find it."
His heart beat faster as he stepped into the room, which was no longer tinted red but bright with the light from the ceiling. Certain that he had seen the handsome female before, he hesitated before using the worn out line, then rejected it altogether. Rather than talk, he decided to watch her bouncing body come alive under her hastily adorned silk robe.
As she looked for her telephone book, the blonde spotted her sex machine and quickly grabbed for it and stuffed it under the sofa before her bothersome visitor could notice it.
"Yes here it is," she said. "I'll write it down for you. You'd better wait until tomorrow to call, though, because I doubt very much if he's working tonight."
"Alright, I will," said Farrel, playing the game to the last second of his visit. "Thank you for your trouble and I'm very sorry to have bothered you."
"Not at all, I hope you find something you like," Riva uttered, closing the door behind him.
Her last sentence, before he found himself in the hall with the piece of paper in his hand, could have been a perfect opening for a clever line, but by the time he opened his mouth, she was no longer there. If this woman was a nymph, he concluded, she was a strange one.
Herbert Farrel walked back across the driveway a very disappointed man. When he walked into his apartment and immediately looked toward her window, he could see nothing but a closed curtain, which shattered his hopes for more titillating moments of sensual enlightenment.
Totally frustrated by the fact that he could find no outlet for his sharpened emotional charge, Farrel poured his usual dry martini and tried to settle himself down by turning on the television set. This attempt at solitude proved disappointing, as the news dominated air play during this hour. About to turn his set off, he spotted on film, a familiar speaker behind a podium. Not placing her at first, he positioned himself closer to the television for a better look and watched the woman he had just seen in a completely different role. He couldn't believe his eyes. Was this the nymphomaniac who was masturbating with that plastic or rubber sex prop? It was!
". . . I only want to do my job and protect the viewing public from distasteful programming," she was saying. This lady, the chick they were calling Miss Cox, Riva Cox, was the censor of network programming. The new appointee. In his great astonishment, Herbert Farrel didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or merely sit there questioning his own sanity.
His immediate response was that he now had this Miss Cox in a negotiable position. He could, if all else failed, blackmail her. He could threaten to expose her publicly for what she was-or, more correctly, what the public would believe she was. But would this be the best way to get her? He didn't know, but he sensed otherwise. If she was as passionate as he believed, there would be little trouble in getting what he wanted from her. The only thing against his chances was the fact that she had an image to uphold, an image she went out of her way to protect, judging from her press conference in which she fabricated her true feelings. His only course for success, he concluded, was to play it as though she was nothing more than a neighbor. He would come on as though unaware of her identity.
The week passed slowly for the calculating strategist, who decided that the most opportune moment during which to make his move would be mid-way through the Ward Price Show.
With binoculars in hand, he waited for his neighbor to begin her evening's adventure, turning his own television to the Ward Price Show. The drapes, however, were only half opened and he could see only the red color of the room. Riva Cox could not be seen at all, but he assumed that her timetable would be approximately the same as last week's session.
Halfway through the show, when it went into double commercials, Farrel dropped his binoculars and rushed toward the adjacent apartment.
This time, he knew exactly which apartment to go to and he wasted not a second getting to it. Rapping on the door as he had done the previous week, the hard-breathing young man waited for a response. He could clearly hear that the Ward Price Show was being seen inside.
After a long wait, Riva Cox finally answered her door. Her state of mind could not even remotely be considered close to sanity. Something drastically was going wrong or had already gone wrong-something much more than her sexual adventure.
Without even bothering to put on her robe, the blonde resident fell to the floor under what looked to him like a stroke.
"Please," she whispered painfully, "please help me take this thing out. I can't get it out. Please help me."
The frightened intruder asked what she was talking about, but the woman was making no sense. Quickly, he closed the door behind him and kneeled toward her whispering explanation, but still he couldn't understand what she was trying to tell him. As a last resort, she spread her naked legs in an attempt to explain and he finally saw what she was talking about. In between her legs, stuck in her groin, was the prop she had been masturbating with the week before. Apparently, she had stuffed the thing too far up and couldn't get it out.
"Stay still," he ordered. "I'll get it out. Keep your legs exactly where they are."
Carefully, Farrel stuck his fingers in and secured the rubber instrument, pulling it slowly from her trap. The wetness from between her legs gushed from within, drenching his hands and pouring onto the carpet.
Laying on the floor, the blonde, rather than trying to restore her senses, urged her rescuer to take her on. She begged the young man to make love to her, stuffing her fingers in and out as she made her plea.
"Please," she begged, "I've got to have you. I've got to have a real person in me, I can't take it any more. You've got to do me right now. Do me. Do me. I'll pay you. I'll give you anything you want."
As her words rambled out of her mouth, her listener's desire began to evaporate. No longer was she the erotic neighbor he had seen from across the driveway. To have sex with her now would be no source of satisfaction to him whatsoever. He would gain nothing from the experience. Furthermore, he disliked her as a person for being such a hypocrite, for putting on a phony act because she happened to hold a position that required her to uphold conservative and unrealistic morals which were foreign to her own true feelings.
"Are you going to do me or not?" she asked in a demanding tone.
"No," he answered, dropping the rubber penis to the floor. "If you weren't Riva Cox, I might just do it. In fact, I'd love it. But you're a phony. You do nothing to me except support my lack of faith in human beings. You're nowhere, lady."
As her would-be lover turned and exited, the crying blonde ran after him through the halls, screaming, "Bitch! You son of a bitch!" Without regard for her position in life, the censor allowed her true feelings to emerge. It was the first time in a long while that she had done so and it rewarded her with more satisfaction than the job itself; the job she had won by removing herself from her gut level feelings.
During the week, Herbert Farrel happened to be sitting in front of his television set, watching the news with a martini in his hand. The headline was that Miss Riva Cox, the newly appointed censor, quit her job "for personal reasons". Immediately after he heard the news, he rushed next door smilingly and proudly waiting for Riva to answer it.
Instead of the blonde, a hairy man in his forties opened the door in a state of semi-undress.
"Yeah, can I help you?" he asked in a spectacularly unfriendly tone.
Not knowing quite what to say, Farrel stammered and replied, "Yes, I'm looking for the manager. I'd like to rent an apartment in the building. Could you tell me where I might find him?"
"You're looking at him, pal. No apartments for rent," he said, slamming the door in the young man's face.
. Once again, he walked dejectedly back to his apartment, pouring himself a martini and settling down in front of the television set. As Farrel looked toward her window, he could see that Riva's drapes were tightly closed.
THE END
* * *
MATERNAL JOURNEY
by Van Couver
Kenny Jacklone stormed upstairs to his room and slammed the door with the full strength of his infuriated being. One more fight with that witch of a step-mother, he decided, and she would never see him again. In fact, one more word from her tonight would do it. He would pack up what little he owned and simply take off without thinking twice about the pitfalls of providing food, shelter and clothing for himself. At seventeen years of age, it was time he learned to be self sufficient anyway. Just one more word from the witch would do it.
"Kenny," shouted Flora Jacklone from downstairs, "your friend Alvin is here. Shall I send him up?"
"Come on up, Al," screamed the sulking adolescent, bypassing his step-mother's meddling.
Leaping two stairs at a time, another seventeen year old, Alvin Zale, entered the upstairs bedroom.
"Hey, what's wrong with you," he asked in a confused tone of voice. "Why aren't you ready?"
"I can't go. The old lady's making me stay here to baby sit while she wastes her time at that stupid PTA thing."
"Baby sit? For Dorothy? She's thirteen years old. She can take care of herself, can't she?"
"Sure she can," replied Kenny. "But Dorothy is the old lady's real daughter and I'm just her stepson. I'm the one who has to do the dirty work, even if there's no dirty work to be done. The witch will invent something for me to do. That's why I have to stay here. By the time the Army ships my dad home, though, things are going to be different around here, I can tell you that!"
"I know how you can get back at her," suggested his friend in a mischievous whisper. "You can ball Dorothy when the old lady cuts out."
"Are you nuts? She's a kid. She doesn't even have girlish lumps yet. I wouldn't get a thing out of it. Not a thing."
"Then why don't you wait until she splits for the PTA thing and we'll go to that place I've been telling you about."
"To tell you the truth," said the disgusted youngster "I don't believe there is such a place. You've never been there and we've only heard stories about it from Hank Stern. How do we know he's on the level?"
"Where the hell do you think he plucked those red pubic hairs from, an over sexed rooster," countered Alvin Zale. "No. they're from those horny ladies who hang out at the Blue Spruce Inn."
"How do you know they weren't from chicks our age or younger? We don't even know for sure whether they're from some guy or whether they were actually taken from a girl. You can't just go and believe everything everyone tells you, especially when the story is such a weird one."
Hank's was a "weird tale" indeed. It was related to a group of his closest friends, among whom were Kenny Jacklone and Alvin Zale, less than a month ago and subsequent conversations of their clique had centered around little else.
According to their hitherto trustworthy classmate, who worked in Mr. Sander's flower shop after school, he was carrying out a routine errand at the Blue Spruce Inn. When he had dropped off the flowers, the man at the desk instructed him to carry them upstairs to room 509. It was an unusual request, explained Hank, because in all the time he delivered flowers to that address, no one ever asked him to take them up to a specific room.
Further complicating matters was the fact that room 509 was not an ordinary hotel room, but a myriad of elegantly decorated hallways and inner rooms. Not knowing which way to go, he asked a passing waiter, who happened to be room-servicing in the area. He handed Hank a white cotton hood, with holes only for his eyes. The shroud, he was cautioned, was not to be removed until he exited the fifth floor. When he asked what its purpose was, he was told, "To conceal your identity." And, as the waiter pointed him toward the right direction, he warned the inquiring youngster that "The fewer questions you ask around here, the better off you'll be."
The mystery intrigued Hank, but he admitted when he related the story that he was "plenty scared". In any case, he followed the instructions as well as the advice that the waiter offered and walked into the room to his left. The door creaked as it opened, but as he entered, the story changed from something out of Edgar Allen Poe to something out of Henry Miller. Directly in front of him was a naked lady. She wore nothing except a white shroud over her face, concealing her facial identity but leaving no doubt as to her sex.
The lady was mature, she wasn't a youngster, but her body was, in Hank's own words, "fertile". She had a wad of very red hair between her legs and her chest wobbled up and down, back and forth, like nothing he'd ever seen before.
Huge nipples, shaped almost like stars were situated at the ends of each bosom, the color of which was a mixture of ruby red and dark brown. According to his testimony, "The things were like pasted on but they were real. They stretched from the very points of her tit to the meaty middle of each side, and on the right side, it looked like she had more of both nipple and tit."
When the boy finally gathered his nerve and talked, he couldn't believe his own words. "Where do you want these, lady," he asked stupidly.
Apparently the woman was sensitive enough to realize that the young man was frightened.
"Is this your first time up here," she asked in a warm and friendly tone.
"Yes, ma'am," stuttered Hank Stern. "I've heard about places like this, but I've never been in one before."
"Do you think that this is a . . . you're mistaken if you think that this is a . . . a whore house. It isn't!"
"Come on, lady, I'm young, but I'm not that young. I walk into a room with, you know, in this situation, and you try to tell me that it's not a whore house. It's alright, I won't say anything to anyone. Honest, I'll keep my mouth shut about it."
"Well, honest, it isn't a whore house. This is just a place which was designed for mature people who enjoy sex. No one pays anyone except sexually and everyone leaves a little happier and a little more fulfilled."
"Then why do you wear masks over your faces," asked the young man.
"No one has to know the other person's identity. It would be indiscreet and it would serve no purpose," she explained.
Hank, as he told it, stood there trying to think of every question, reasonable or otherwise, in order to prolong his stay. Never really listening to her answers, he glued his eyes to her womanly body which simply oozed with sex.
"Mature adults," he stammered. "What about the mature adults who come up here? Are there any people my age who take part in this thing?"
"Sure," she smiled. "In fact, most of the woman up here prefer boys-or, rather, young adults."
"What do they have to do to . . . to join up," he asked, swallowing a dry air bubble.
"Ask for it," she said seductively.
The talking was over at that point insisted Hank as he related the story to his friends. It was the most incredible experience of his life. Indeed, he surmised that he would never experience such ecstasy for the remainder of his lifetime.
Immediately after she advised him to ask for "it", young Hank didn't quite know exactly what to ask for. He knew what he wanted to do, he assured his giggling audience, but "what do you say when a lady tells you to ask for 'it'? "
Luckily, she didn't wait for a response. The bouncing body bounded toward him, growing larger and clearer with every step. He had never been as close to a mature female adult body. She was NUDE, totally NUDE, except for the covering on her face.
"She could have been a leper, for all I cared," admitted Hank.
Unbuttoning his shirt and pants, she "swooped" her young lover against the wall, making him feel like a "hostage". Each progressing step toward a sexual merger of this lady and himself became more and more frightening and almost directly proportionate was his feeling of being weaker and weaker. What turned the tide toward strength was when she softly felt his not-yet-hard penis, tickling it and fondling it as though it was as sexy as her own sex parts.
Almost instantly, his joint grew to its maximum potential, responding gamely from her every touch. What excited him more than anything else was the fact that the lady seemed to be getting something out of it. The mature nude, who had handled probably hundreds of mature male sex organs, was, it seemed to him, becoming aroused as his hard on expanded.
"She was bigger than me in every way," explained Hank. "I mean, her height, her shoulders, her legs, her everything was bigger than me, but I'm telling you that my body did something to her. When I got hard, she breathed hard. When I got excited, she got excited. I know this part of it is the hardest to believe, but I found myself actually turning this grown woman on."
Even as he explained his own story, he seemed not to entirely believe it. After all, the group unanimously agreed, it was a pretty far out story.
Detailed Hank, "After she played with me until I was rock-hard, she motioned me over toward the bed. When she laid down on it, her legs just spread completely open. They were bent at the knees and when she opened them up, I could see how unbelievably wide and deep her hole was through the red hair covering it. She could have fit three or four guys my size in there and not even feel it.
"But I'll tell you one thing," he continued, "when she pulled me into her arms and my thing went into her, she acted as if I was doing as much for her as a grown man could do."
When Alvin asked what it felt like to him, Hank thought for a moment and replied, "I felt like I was sinking into a divot full of sea weed, but it was even softer than that. It was like lined with butter. I was sticking my hard-on into a vat of hair-covered butter, that's how it felt. If I ever feel anything like that again during my lifetime, I'll be very grateful."
Hank had all the answers. None of the fellows listening to his story could trip him up on details, proving either that he went over the entire lie in his mind with painstaking exactness, or that the story was, in fact, not a lie. It impressed his audience that he went so far as to quote her words in the heat of their passion: "Keep it up, honey, see how long you can pump. Mama's starting to come. You're making mama come," she repeated.
"How long did you last?" inquired Kenny.
"It could have been ten minutes and it could have been a half hour, I really couldn't tell for sure," he answered reasonably. "I'll tell you this, though: she actually came. I can honestly tell you, my friends, that I, Hank Stern, high school senior, made a grown lady climax."
As Kenny and Alvin re-examined the testimony of their friend's alleged experience, they convinced themselves that he was, after all, telling them the truth.
"Let's go," insisted Kenny.
"What about Dorothy?" asked his pal.
"Let her stay here alone. She belongs to the witch, not to me."
Following Hank's precise directions, they left the house after a half hour "safety delay" from the time Flora Jacklone departed for her PTA meeting.
Once they finally reached the Blue Spruce Inn, Alvin suggested they return to the house, but Kenny was determined to press on and get to the bottom of the exciting tale. Sneaking past the man at the desk as a precautionary measure, they climbed the stairs leading to the fifth floor and looked for room 509. The pile of laundered hoods outside the door to 509 tipped its location.
"Well," whispered Kenny, "so far, so good. Here are the hoods. I guess the rest of the adventure is through that door."
The young men wore their white concealers gratefully. If they were not wanted on the premises, at least no one would be able to see who they were-unless they could catch them.
Slowly, they entered 509 and discovered exactly the layout that was described to them by their friend. No room service people or other hotel employees were in sight and the adventurers explored further, looking into three or four empty alcoves before finally hearing human voices close by.
Laughter was coming from a totally darkened room in which more than one couple were gathered. Although neither of them could determine the exact number of "guests", three or four women and one or two men seemed to be having a merry old time in the pitch-black bedroom.
Without being over cautious, yet not giving themselves away, the seventeen year old twosome meandered into the thick of things. Everyone seemed to be milling about on the bed, feeling everyone else at will. When the boys felt the skin of the others instead of their clothing, they quickly removed their own clothes so as not to arouse more suspicion than necessary.
The huge bed accommodated however many people were playing on it easily. No one was more cramped than he wanted to be, but all bodies intentionally clustered next to each other with hands and fingers feeling everyone else.
Kenny's eager hands couldn't wait to explore an adult female's body, but his first attempt failed. In the blackness of the room, he felt the closest person, who turned out to be none other than Alvin.
Reaching toward his other side, though, he immediately felt the soft warmth of the mature female in his hands for the first time in his life. It was devastatingly tender to the touch. The formerly preoccupied woman responded immediately to his anxious feelers, holding them in her hands as though assessing the person directing them. She then brought them to her mouth and kissed them, sparking euphoric reactions all over his body, particularly between his legs. Not yet on the bed two minutes, he was already sporting a hard-on.
The mysterious lady seemed to forget whomever she was previously playing with and concentrated entirely on Kenny. His youthful body was evidently getting to her just as Hank's woman had.
The warm, long, experienced fingers-clearly, they were experienced-roamed his body, squeezing those features which particularly interested her. But the young man did not have the patience to sit back and allow his hands to be idle while this cotton-soft adult nude was next to him.
Shifting his weight on top of her, the young man made it known that he wanted a chance to fully explore her every crevice of womanhood. The lady, sensing this, relaxed against the mattress and encouraged him to carry out his desire.
"Go ahead," she whispered above the quiet sounds of the others, "feel me all over. Touch and suck every inch of me. I want you to. I'm begging you."
If she said these words it was barely above the sound of his pounding heart, which seemed to be the loudest noise in the room.
His fingers felt her navel first because it happened to be the area of her body closest to him. It was a large navel, much wider and deeper than the average woman, he assured himself. Pressing his middle finger in, there was plenty of room around the edges and room enough to sink it in past the first knuckle. He wondered if this was the same one that enjoyed Hank.
Exploring further, his both palms grabbed her right breast, pushing it in and out, shaking it back and forth. Even though she was lying down on her back, she could, by no means be considered "flat on her back". Each bosom, from its own weight pressed against her rib cage and mushroomed out in a huge sphere.
The young man turned his matronly counterpart around to allow her breasts to swing freely into his cupped hands, discovering that there was not room enough-for either gland. Although she was quite large on top, her body did not feel fat in any other section. Even her upper thighs which she tried to wrap around his head, were not flabby. They were made out of the softest human skin imaginable, but they were still not flabby.
Finally, he was about to explore an adult female's most celebrated sex part; the hairy hole between the legs. He scratched his way along the paper-thin crinkle of her loins until the bristled stubs of pelvic hair warned him of the proximity of her bullseye. Carefully, he held both lips of hair and less carefully, spread them apart. The pain of her pubic hairs being pulled delighted the woman, who began shaking her hips up and down in increasingly frantic dimensions.
"Put something in," whispered the deep-breathing adult. "Put your fist inside me."
"My entire fist?" he asked, trying to disguise his youthful voice.
"Sure, the whole thing. Stick in everything you got."
Clenching his hand, the boy rammed it into his experienced lover, still clinging to the hairy wall of her crack with the other hand. As his closed fist felt itself being engulfed within the dewy claws of her gullet, he rotated his arm to its limits, triggering an incredibly animal-like response.
The groans from her throat seemed entirely involuntary, but they were so deeply rooted that the others stopped to allow her excitement to rub off on them. This didn't inhibit the lady in the least; indeed, the quietness of the room encouraged even more obvious grunts of satisfaction. "Do it to mama," she uttered.
As rapidly and as deliberately as a surgeon saving a patient, she yanked his arm from her opening and raised his body in the air until he was directly on top of her. Slowly, with Herculean strength, she lowered him, penis first, into her. When he was at last dunked in the swirling love cheese of her groin, the lady clasped her hands in back of him and tightened a vice-like grip to control his movement.
But the vigor of youth would not give up easily, she learned. Kenny's rabbit-quick humps continued to thrust relentless thrills into her love gap. His joint might not be quite as large as the redwoods she was used to, but at least his energy made up for it. "Mama's ready," she moaned. "Do it hard, 'cause I'm ready."
The youngster and his elderly companion peaked together, merging their climactic gushes and grunting their final grunts simultaneously.
Truly, it was a heavenly experience and one he would, like his pal Hank, never forget.
As he lay there on the bed, half listening to the others making love and half waiting for his heart to beat at its normal pace, the young man wondered who the lady was: whether or not it was Hank's woman he had just laid. He remembered part of what Hank said when he quoted his lady, something about "Mama", the same word this one kept repeating.
Would he ever know who the lady was? Was there any way of finding out? He thought not, disappointedly. There could be no way other than to ask her, an alternative which was completely out of the question as far as he was concerned.
A tap on his shoulder from his other side interrupted the curious boy's thoughts.
"Hey, you ready," asked a trembling whisper. "I'm finished, are you?"
"Yeah," answered Kenny. "Let's get out of here before they turn on the lights."
The boys, knowing exactly where they'd laid their clothes, inconspicuously put them on while the others in the room continued their personalized orgy. Only his woman didn't continue to encourage her passions further. Sensing that Kenny was getting dressed, the lady brought him aside.
"Listen," she whispered, "I want to be with you again. I'll write down my name and number for you."
In the darkness, she scratched out her information on a piece of paper in lipstick, to the delight of her young playmate.
"Here," she said, giving him one last feel between the legs. "Call me as soon as you get the chance. I'll be looking forward to it."
With their clothes finally on, the high school senior quickly exited the room, the floor, and the Blue Spruce Inn-smiling widely as they ran out the door.
"How was yours," asked Kenny.
"Dynamite," said his friend. "And yours?"
"Fantastic. I got her name and number," he said triumphantly, looking at the lipstick writing. "She begged me to call soon and . . . Oh, no! She was supposed to be at the PTA."
THE END
* * *
SHRINKING VIOLET
by Anne Mario
She blessed the twenty-foot colonial brick wall that surrounded the terrace and pool of their Tudor-style home in Southampton. The day had finally come when she had mustered the nerve to learn to swim. Now she had a reason.
John had been after her, ever since he added the new feature for their summer fun on the Island. For two summers Elaine had decorated the poolside, lounging on beach chair or blanket, looking from the liquid in her martini glass to the liquid in the pool, working up courage. As a child, she had a daddy with the same idea as John, but he took a different approach. He picked two-year-old Elaine from her playpen by another pool and tossed her into the middle of the water. When she surfaced, spluttering and screaming, Elaine had the nightmare vision of her Daddy's back as he walked away from her to take a telephone call. Only at the last moment had he jumped to her rescue as she was gagging with a lungful of water and sinking for the last time. It had carved an unforgettable hatred of the water on her mind.
Now the problem was back and it was compounded. The weekend before they had had neighbors Henry and Violet over for drinks. Her John had too many martinis and at one juncture, nasty and churlish that Elaine wouldn't use his quarter million dollar addition to their place on the beach, he had advanced menacingly and grabbed her arm as she lay on a recliner at the water edge.
"C'mon, you're going to learn or drown, dammit! " He was too loaded to see the sheer -terror in her eyes as he dragged her over the tile. He laughed thickly over his shoulder to the visiting couple, "Shink or shwim, right Harry?" Violet had seen the horror in Elaine's eyes and jumped to the rescue.
"Put her down, John, I'll go in with you."
Elaine watched the two tumble drunkenly into the pool, while Harry, equally drunk, stumbled over to her blanket to console her.
"S'okay, Elaine . . . lishun, whyn't you g'tcher-self leshuns while the old turd's away? He'll be in town all thish week. I'll be here and can teashu how . . . whatcha shay? "
Elaine studied the prostrate form in the elasti-cised trunks at her side. The elastic was very active and calmly Elaine studied Harry's groin as she answered. "Would you like to give me the lessons in or out of the water, Harry?"
"Any playsh, baby . . . lesh try it in the water.
John's shwinging there right now with my broad!"
Her glance swung to the pool where she saw John thrashing and splashing near the edge with Harry's lithesome Violet. Then she stared at the bit of cloth floating free near the romping couple. It was Vi's bra, borne on the surface of the water by the buoyancy of the sponge booster pads.
John was totally oblivious to his wife's watching eyes. Elaine stared unbelieving. Many times before she had seen her husband hungrily casing the flanks and the full breasts of Harry's wife, but Elaine, more than able to hold her own with Vi's figure, hadn't worried. Much, that is. Now her John, as nude as the Violet he had stripped, was advertising in rampant boldness his naked feeling. Merrily he was manipulating the bared breasts of a flailing Vi, whose head was thrown back ecstatically against his chest. Her eyes squeezed tight to the joy of John's dancing fingers, didn't see John's wife either as Elaine crawled close to the edge of the pool. ' "Lemme in, you wild witch! . . . I wanna violate Violet!" John was laughing uncontrollably as Violet's sex-driven hips, naked and white-hot in coital desire, thrust backward and forward, shoving her superbly cushioned buttocks writhing wildly against the man's taut stomach. Elaine gasped at the incredible sight illumined by the pool's underwater lights. Vi's widespread hips were matched by wider spread thighs, and Elaine knew from the action between those thighs that this was no violated Violet. The man there was very much at home!
"I'm in! I'm in!" John panted in inebriated un-control, eyes closed and head dug into the nape of Violet's neck.
Vi had gripped a rung of the pool ladder for support and a frantic "ooohh!" forced itself from her lips. It was just at the moment that she felt the approach of John's crisis that her eyes opened wide in happy expectation and saw there, not two feet away, watching every movement, John's wife! When she saw Elaine's look of open hate, even loaded Vi could feel the murder of that look and tore herself free.
Elaine lay shaken and sobbing on her stomach and watched the antics of her frustrated husband so suddenly disenfranchised. He had all the appearance of a little boy thrown out of his favorite playground. Elaine was sure that that's just what it was.
"C'mon, Vi . . . don't be a shrinking Violet . . . pleassh."
If there was one thing Vi wasn't, Elaine knew now beyond a doubt, it was a shrinking Violet-especially around her man!
Vi's Harry, who had watched the action, even in his drunken state, now needed his inning. Not five yards from him was the luscious tail that he knew was just part of that wild and wonderful female, Elaine. He stripped his elastic trunks and crept unsteadily toward her widespread legs as she sprawled in despair. Before she could twist in protest, he had a handful of the shreds of her Jantzen and was astride Elaine's heaving buttocks. The overheated water scene had her well prepared, soft and moist for his animal thrust.
But Harry was the last man she wanted and Elaine screamed in outrage. To Harry it sounded like desire and it brought Violet flying out of the pool with pretended virtue.
Angrily she pummeled her husband's shoulders, "Stop it!" Violet screeched.
"Why should I, you bitch?" he bellowed back. "You and John are gonna be makin' it all next week."
Harry was in too deep to stop, and wildly Violet shoved the two over the ledge and into the water. The shock of their splashing entry seared through Elaine, and gagging, she grabbed for the rounded edge of the pool. Frantically she hung to it, and in terror of drowning, cried to a hilarious Harry, still impaled, "Harry, get away!" What he'd said to Violet was pounding at her even in her nightmarish fear!
Harry tried to eject, but he was fighting a basic law of physics. Cold contracts and heat expands. The cool of the water outside had tightened Elaine' super-heated middle like a cruel vise on Harry, and while she was a tunnel of fire within, he was completely trapped by the contraction. They were locked in a passion pyramid and there was no escape for either. Her terror at the thought of going down tore all thoughts from Elaine except simple survival. For Harry it was one glorious climax-riddled joke.
When eventually he got the message that the woman was in mortal fear of her life, Harry somehow managed to force the two of them, still linked, up the ladder onto the tile. Moments later
Elaine had pulled free and swung hysterically at the mirth-filled trio watching her.
"Get out!" she ordered Harry and Violet. "Don't ever come back!"
"Aw, honey, don't get uptight now. We didn't know what we were doing." It was John, all remorse, as he tried to calm her, but she saw the way his eyes kept wandering to the sizzling nude form of Violet.
"I suppose if I had drowned, you would have explained that to the police." She was adamant and pointed to the door of the pool area. "Go!"
Harry and Violet left. Then she swung on John -demanded to know what Harry meant about Violet making it with him next week. Flushed and angry, John swung on his heel and retreated for a drink.
In the week that followed, John was to be away from Southampton in the city, and on Monday Elaine put her Sunday thoughts into motion the moment John's Mercedes rolled down their white pebbled drive and made a scratching, angry turn toward the highway to Manhattan.
From her second floor balcony she had seen the lifeguard on the public beach just adjacent to their very exclusive 'Breakers' estate. She dialed the Recreation Commission and the director was flattered that Mrs. John Kimberly-Smock had noticed the highly efficient young man who guarded the lives of Southampton's middle classes. "Yes," the director thought that Jerry might be interested in moonlighting and giving Mrs. Kimberly-Smock swimming lessons on his off-hours. While she was waiting, she called John's office. "An emergency, Mrs. Kimberly-Smock? Why, he's at the Belmont-Plaza."
Elaine checked. A Mr. and Mrs. Kimberly-Smock were blatantly registered at the Belmont.
Promptly at two there was a ring at the Breakers massive front door. Jerry Voorhees' eyes widened in pleasure as he saw the student-to-be was instead of a matronly, super-wealthy bag, a young marvelously contoured figure of a woman.
"You're Jerry!"
He looked even better to Elaine at close range than through her binoculars. She glanced at his sports bag and led him to the French window that exited to the high walls surrounding the pool. "You'll find a cabana to change in, and I'll go jump into my suit upstairs."
He watched a moment as the trim housecoat disappeared round the curved staircase to the second floor.
"Some dish!" Jerry mused as he peeled his shirt and trousers and struggled into his Riviera-type trunks. He hoped the beginning disturbance he felt wasn't too visible through the thin silk and wished he'd brought a supporter to hide his evident awareness of the very shapely Mrs. Kimberly-Smock. Just then the great oak gate from the terrace swung open and he gaped at the voluptuous figure that sauntered leisurely toward a beach chair. He'd seen all types of bathing suits at the beach, but never dreamed one could be so tiny.
He'd seen all sorts of female forms walk by his life-guard perch, but never a body that breathed sexuality like this one! Little two inch squares that must be attached to an invisible thread pranced happily atop a pair of the most gorgeous breasts ever to madden a man. Low, ever so low, on Mrs. Kimberly-Smock's stomach was a black cloth triangle, likewise mysteriously attached, that left no mystery of the wealth beneath. He stared at the smooth curve from her hip to the apex of that triangle, and as though she knew she was being watched, Elaine chose a deeply contoured beach chair that boldly accented her riches.
He stepped from the cabana, cursing his stupidity inwardly for having neglected that supporter. He'd been expecting a typical Southampton matron. He struggled to tuck one fold under the other on the beach towel that he'd snugged around his waist.
She saved him from embarrassment and bounded from her chair as he approached.
"How do we start, Jerry? "
"Well, first we get in the water, m'am." He turned his back and flipped the beach towel and raced for the pool. He surfaced quickly in deep water to see her gingerly toying her toes at the shallow end.
"I may as well tell you, I'm scared," Elaine admitted. "Will you come and help me?"
Jerry didn't dare. The minute the water line dropped below his hips, his arousal over his student's body would be plain.
"No, here's the way we're going to do it. You walk down here," he called, pointing to the tile, "then just let yourself gently down the ladder. I won't let you go under. Then I'll show you how to float first."
He gripped the ladder rail and blessed his genius as he reached for the safest place to touch the maddening curves that were stepping cautiously down, ever so much closer and closer. Somehow he had to find a way to think objectively. She was pressing against him now, and looked impishly over her shoulder.
"One thing, Jerry-before we start, please don't call me m'am-I'd like it if you called me Elaine . . . oohh!" Her toe slipped from the rung at just that moment and like mercury, she slipped past Jerry's supporting hand on her shoulder. He felt the sleek curves of her buttocks against his chest . . . then his waist. . . then she was plunging flush against the wild secret inside of his Rivieras. Even as he grabbed for a handhold to keep her from going under, he felt his trunks slip down. Frantically, he grabbed at Elaine's flailing body, finally latching onto the juncture of her thighs to thrust her back to the ladder's safety.
Elaine, laughing breathlessly, seemed amazingly calm at her dunking. He tugged at his trunks, confronted with the near impossible task of replacing all that had sprung from the prison. Jerry concluded that her fear of the water must have overwhelmed any consciousness of what had pressed against her buttocks when she fell. Jerry was wrong-Elaine had felt everything!
"This time I'll support you, Elaine, while you just lie back like you're taking a nap. While you float, I'll tread water."
Frightened, she obeyed, and moments later they were moving gently to and fro around the pool. Jerry, his head locked between Elaine's knees, drank in the suggestive rising beneath the black triangle of Elaine's less-than-mini panties. Only the thinness of a near transluscent cloth kept her most intimate secrets from his passionate view, as he tried to stabilize the novice floater with his hands at the small of her back. His Ri-vieras squeezed him murderously at the sight, and happily at that moment, he felt Elaine's tense body start to relax as she felt a growing security in the water. Like every learner, she fought to keep her head out of the water as she floated, and knowing her fear of looking down, Jerry felt safe to release his manhood from its painful trap in his trunks.
"I'm not afraid so much now, Jerry," Elaine called as she felt her confidence grow without Jerry's hands at her back. "Could you teach me a simple stroke now?" She clasped her hands and hoisted herself to a scissors grip, fortunately high on his waist; then she turned, her eyes wide with childlike enthusiasm, full on him.
"Sure, how about the breast stroke?" he suggested.
She smiled in plain approval. "How do I do it?"
"First, we turn you around." Jerry had tread to shallower water and with a toehold on the bottom of the pool, twisted the wriggling form to face away from him. "Now keep your legs around me and we'll let you down into the swim . . . ever so slowly! See! There's nothing to it."
Elaine, panting excitedly, head high above the water, thrashed with beginner strokes, and Jerry was having trouble finding a place to grip the slippery body. "Higher, Jerry!" Elaine encouraged the bolder grip as she felt his hands slipping. It was a foolish way to teach, but mad fun to grip those two magnificent orbs. He fought the impulse to strip off the silly little squares that hid nothing anyway, and just then a tremor ran through him at the thought that she might just look down and see his condition.
She didn't have to. Confidence building as she felt the water buoy her, she relaxed her grip at his hips to try the stroke free of his support, pleasant as that was. It happened too fast for Jerry to dodge. The instant she released herself she sank flush against the evidence of a very exposed Jerry! He grabbed her as she screamed in shock and started to flounder under.
"No hiding it now . . . she'll murder me!" his thoughts tumbled over each other as he drew the lush body to his own to keep her head above water. She felt the dance of the light fantastic as he pulsated against her squirming stomach.
She never said a word, just looked him full in the face with those "I need you" eyes and reached down to clasp his reproductive parts. After an interminable silence . . . it seemed like hours as she probed the length and breadth of her discovery, she murmured as she nibbled his ear lobe, "We'd better do something about that this very minute!"
Together they crawled from the pool, and as he reached for the black squares, he looked nervously toward the great oak gate. Reading his mind, she answered, "It's all right, there's not a soul around today." She was a writhing, sex-starved bundle of lush invitation as he spread her gently and took her on the soft grass beyond the tile.
There was no containing Jerry's eager student from that moment on. She made one immediate change in their pattern of instruction, and that was to ask that he leave his Rivieras off. Together they frolicked nude and insatiable in their appetite to learn. To encourage his student, Jerry kept an ever-present reward, ready, eager, and able before her dazzled eyes.
In three days she had mastered ten strokes and received fifteen rewards-the extras were bonuses Jerry thought necessary to encourage his remarkable student.
As her confidence in the water mounted, so did Elaine's impatience for Jerry. "Take me right here, you brute!" They had just heaved themselves over the tile ledge. "Ooohh, it felt so good! I thought I'd go right through the tile."
It felt good to Jerry, too, and moments later they were clawing, wildly entangled again. But this time, just at the critical instant, she rolled and they splashed into the water, still imprisoned in each other, hunger mounting on hunger. Breathlessly, she remembered as Jerry finally struggled free, her physics class! Heat expands and cold contracts!
That night as she lay alone in bed, Elaine began to mature her revenge on her soon-to-return husband. Two more days. Tomorrow she'd be ready for diving lessons-first the low board.
A nude man does have problems, even from the low board, Jerry made her know as he insisted on keeping on the red Rivieras while he demonstrated. "You'd be happier covering your own set," he advised as she solemnly watched his turidity fighting a losing struggle for concealment.
"Here, let me help you," Elaine laughed, clasping him with both hands. He looked at the tanned and tantalizing form crouched before him at the step of the diving board and he stepped out of the trunks to spread her, prone and willing, on the spring-board. She arched in invitation and he accepted her welcome with the gay abandon of a very special guest. The board leaped in a merry accompaniment to their thrust and heave and as she felt the tremor sweeping Jerry's frame, announcing the unavoidable onrush, Elaine's body was seized with the same violent joy. At that moment she lurched, toppling the two of them screaming joyfully, into the pool.
It was the slight drop that did it-Jerry felt himself again locked in the savage clutch of heat, coupled with the cold of the water, sinking deeper and deeper into its depths. They surfaced only after a wild fight with themselves underwater, not to simply drown in the unstoppable repeating ecstasies.
They lay spent in the grass for hours before either could return to the serious business of diving. Later, when his hunger for Elaine drove him wild to take her again, she rebuffed him and he left that afternoon, frustrated and impatient for the next day.
That next morning, she insisted that she had done so well on the low board that she wanted the high board. "But I'm so damned hungry I can't get into my suit," he protested, "and if I hit the water like this, it'll kill me." They were at the landing of the fifteen foot high diving board.
"Let's have space sex!" exulted an equally hungry Elaine, maddened by the sight of male heat bold in hot anticipation. She felt giddy, almost suicidal, as Jerry's body joined in tight embrace with hers. Only with his wild drive and her own quick build-up did she keep her courage. Little goose-bumps swept his body and she knew that moment was on him. She rolled, and off into space they somersaulted, down . . . .down . . . down. The water cracked like a whip across Jerry's back and frantically he drove at her. Again the vise locked and again, only at the last moment, they fought to the surface, disengaged, and lay panting at the pool's edge, neither saying a word. Elaine smiled craftily and thought, "Set up that long plunge off the high board with enough martinis and heaven could never be nearer!"
Reluctantly she bade Jerry a fond goodbye. "My John gets back from New York tonight and I do have a surprise for him, haven't I?" A despondent life-guard made his way away from the English Tudor, looking back as he drove out the white pebble drive and wondered if she would, as she promised, send for him for some advanced lessons in a couple of weeks.
It was a forgiving reunion that night as Harry and Violet joined John and Elaine for a barbecue at poolside. The forgiveness was all with Harry, John, and Violet, though Elaine faked it well. Contemptuously she watched as she plied the three with martinis. By midnight, they could scarcely stand, and emboldened by a full moon and Violet so near, John dared them all to strip to the buff and go for a midnight plunge.
Violet was nude, before he finished begging, "C'mon, Elaine, don't be sho convenshunal . . . sh-trip!"
Even Harry, drunk as he was, stayed clothed and sullen, as he watched John leap with all flags flying into the pool.
Elaine joined the mood. "Okay, show-offs . . . let's see you go off the high board!"
John was nuzzling Violet's wriggling torso with lips and other eager parts. At once he liked the idea.
"Okay, you old party-poopers-come on, Violet-girl! " He scooped her into his arms and staggered drunkenly up the ladder. For an instant he poised at the edge of the board, then suddenly reason took hold and he remembered his vulnerability.
"It'll sting like hell if I jump in like this! . . . C'mere, baby, cool me!"
Harry and Elaine watched as the two grappled in a frenzy half-on, half-off the board. If she had choreographed their fall, it couldn't have been done more perfectly.
"Ooohh . . . ooohh . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . " squealed the passion-torn Violet . . . "Oh, baby! Me, too!" Elaine saw the naked ball tumble into the water, heard the crack of the water on John's back, and his gagging choke as he went under. Harry was too dizzy to do more than look bleary-eyed toward the pool and call drunkenly to Elaine, "Wha'shup, kid?"
Elaine watched the swirling couple, driven wild in their locked-in frenzy of cold exterior and hot interior. The underwater lighting gave her a clear view of the fatal ballet.
"Odd!" she mused idly. It was John who went limp first, then Violet, lungs filled with water, and eyes filled with terror as John's dead weight dragged her locked and still reflexing to the bottom of the pool. A few final frantic bubbles eddied up to the surface. Elaine crouched in satisfaction for a full five minutes before she called excitedly to Harry.
Hours later, a vastly sobered Harry sat with Elaine and the Southampton detective sergeant, sobbing with uncontrolled grief. Two white-sheeted forms lay near them waiting the arrival of the coroner.
"If only I had known how to swim," mourned Elaine. "I might have been able to get to them in time!"
"How do you explain their condition when they were pulled out?" demanded the sergeant.
"I don't understand it," said Elaine. Then she added, "Frankly, she always seemed to me to be sort of . . . well, you know . . . a shrinking Violet."
THE END
* * *
GLUE
by Saul Martens
In the first recorded funeral service in the outer reaches of space the body of aged Exeter Nihil was committed to the care of the Lord of the Galaxies. The somber crew of Exploratory Ship 119 was grouped around the great staging platform in the center of the disc-like ship, staring thoughtfully at the carcass of one who had been the sole surviving member of what the older women of Ship 119 had called "the opposite sex".
None of the all-female crew really knew what his function had ever been. That he was different of physique was plain as they studied him for the last time. Such curious placement of flesh and organs! That he had been something of a fanatic in wanting to make this journey to study planet Earth had made up a bit for his utter uselessness around the ship. To Exeter, who died at 105, reaching that strange distant planet had been a consuming fire. His enthusiasm had sustained the crew when feelings of purposelessness began to overwhelm them. Exeter had almost made it. Less than a thousand miles from the gravitational fields around planet Earth he had expired. Solemnly the great door of the disc swung open, and an instant later the body of Exeter was floating out there amidst his stars. Pensively the crew of Ship 119 returned to their stations and prepared for the approach to planet Earth.
Karanella was chief engineer. As a salute to their departed comrade, Andronika, the ship's commander, had ordered rockets at half-speed. Having completed the adjustment of the thrust levers, Karanella let her glance sweep the room in a study of her twenty associates on the expedition. They were a strange mixture of females, without knowledge of the past, for all had been born aboard the 119, and without awareness of what awaited them when they reached earth.
She glanced toward the immaculate glass-encased room that housed all that was left of the space nursery. It was here that she and all twenty of the crew members had begun life twenty-five years ago. It was in that very year that an onboard explosion had destroyed all the males, whom their mothers, while they lived, had mourned with wistful nostalgic tears.
Whether by common agreement, or by awareness that the twenty female children would never need to know it, Karanella, Andronika, and the others had never been schooled in the processes leading to conception and the procreation of the species. They despaired that they were left without such knowledge, since three generations were involved in executing the return flight to the planet Hystersus, and they knew that without offspring, the report of Ship 119 could never get back.
"Perhaps the secret lies hidden in our bodies," mused Karanella, as she looked from one to the other. She had never quite shaken the memory of the moment in her sleeping quarters when, speculating on this very subject, she had allowed her fingers to rove about her body in curiosity. She shuddered at the memory, fresh as yesterday, though it happened ten years before. Out of nowhere a sizzling emotion had rocketed through her being, and in that precise instant, as little cries of "Oh! Oh! Ooohhh!" were spilling from her lips, Matrisca, her mother, had opened the compartment door.
Such punishment she had taken for what seemed so innocent an offense! She had been instantly demoted from head of the class and heir to the ship's command, and only the most exemplary conduct had given her the role of chief engineer. For five years the old grandarmes of the ship had her on probation. Once in an unauthorized peek at her XII, her personal file, she read wonderingly that she had, at fifteen, been suspect of "certain unwholesome desires."
"Never, ever will that accusation be made of me again," resolved Karanella as she slipped the record back into the commander's file.
Still, she puzzled this day as she looked at her twenty shipmates. Scantily clad in the ship's work uniform, each wore two simple strips of red gossamer; the uppermost just wide enough to cover what their mothers had called "Nipples." Knowing that these were the crew members who would land on planet Earth, both red strands were designed to conform with what had been reported as "Modesty" on earth. Karenella wondered what that word meant, as she studied the generous curves and contours of her shipmates-most of whom were totally unclad.
The hour of the final approach to planet Earth had raced by and suddenly Karanella was jolted out of her thoughts by Andronika's command, "Prepare for touchdown!"
The engineer's eyes raced across the instrument panel. Just too late she discovered with horror that one of the landing pods was not down and locked. With a sickening crash Ship 119 lurched to its side, spewing the girls all about the control room.
"Karanella, what happened?" Commander Andronika was staring into the wide frightened eyes of her engineer.
"I . . . I'm sorry! One of the pods wasn't locked in!"
"You should have sounded the warning! You shall have to debark first to examine our damage."
"Where are we?"
"We are at a point on planet Earth called Montauk. I am told by our navigator that this is a popular spot for earthlings to gather."
It was no accident that Exploratory Ship 119 had landed on the outer tip of Long Island. The peninsula offered perfect concealment along its Southern seafront. Sand dunes, some thirty or forty feet in height, a mile and more from the nearest earthling buildings, offered perfect concealment. The largest population group on the face of planet Earth was only a few zilometres away by Hystersus computation. Many earthlings inhabited this region called Montauk Point. They had taken care to make a rockets-off landing, and the navigator had wisely selected the highest complex of sand dunes so they could be free to do their scientific research unmolested by curious earthlings.
As Karanella climbed down the ladder of the disc-like ship, she groaned inwardly at the sharp pitch of their craft as it canted from its three upright pods down toward the collapsed fourth pod. She glanced tremulously around the strange coarse ground as she stepped from the ladder. "Sand" was the word earthlings used for the material that worked its way soothingly between her toes. She looked away from the disc into the night sky and spotted Sunflector 982 in the darkness. Earthlings called it the Moon, "a ridiculous name, as though there might be just one," she mused, remembering that they had passed scores of Sunflectors in just her lifetime.
Then Karanella turned to the inspection of the hull of Ship 119. Luckily the fourth pod had not even dropped from its retraction tunnel, so it was undamaged. A few adjustments that she could make from the outside would release the spring on the pod and set the ship on a level attitude.
This she determined to do before returning to win some of her lost favor back from Andronika.
Then she spotted the crack. Five metres long and running diagonally from the astrodome to the collapsed pod seat was an ominous split in the myscentium sheathe that covered the hull. It would have to be sealed if they were to attempt outer space with Ship 119 again. The pressures beyond the earth's gravitational field would split them like a pea-pod if it were unrepaired. Suddenly the cool night air around her turned hot as Karanella felt the panic of the problem. They had no quantities of patching cement aboard their ship.
Frightened, she slid down the incline of the disc's side to give her attention to the collapsed leg. As she strained and struggled with the safety that would release the spring mechanism and set the ship upright, she was unaware that she was that very moment the object of hungry attention from the bushes less than ten yards away.
Tommy Crane loved to come to this deserted part of Montauk. Every night of his vacation here away from the city he had gone out of the family cottage for a walk on the midnight beach. His family was pleased that he had become enamored of the surf and the seagulls and the wonders of nature. Tommy always headed for the darkness of the dunes at midnight. Here, in the concealment of the bushes, he watched older kids making out in every way. A month of such hidden spying had worked his emotions to a fever pitch and tonight, wonder of wonders, he had chanced on a nearly naked woman. For a moment he was puzzled at the strange object she crawled about so excitedly. He concluded it was one of those left-over bunkers from World War II days that dot the beaches of Long Island.
He was too overwrought with excitement to really care what preoccupied her. Never had he seen such sexually exciting lines in a woman, and he followed every wildly tantalizing thrust of Karanella's straining body. This woman was put there just for him! If she could prance around wearing virtually nothing at all, so could he. Panting excitedly, he pulled at his bathing trunks as he crouched and finally the trunks were over his knees and off.
It was just at that moment that Karanella found the spring release for the landing pod. "Crack!" It jumped free, righting Ship 119 but hurling Karanella, crumpled and lifeless, almost at the feet of Tommy Crane.
"It must have been an old grenade!" The boy was panic stricken and rose to run. Then he looked at the unconscious beauty.
"She's alive!"
Karanella's breasts heaved and fell as she fought for breath.
"Help her! Help her!" was all the terrified teen-ager could think. "Artificial respiration, that's the thing! But how?" Tommy had never had first aid. He knew he was supposed to straddle the victim and pump air into her lungs. Knowing no better, he left her on her back and swung astride her hips.
Why had he taken off the bathing suit? Suppose she should come to and see him like this!
Rhythmically back and forth he first squeezed her rib cage, then snapped his hands away to allow for her intake of air. Suddenly she stopped heaving against him and settled down to even breathing.
"She's getting better! She's going to be all right!" Tommy was exultant. His eyes drifted from Karanella's rib cage to the full globes just above. His hands moved upward and touched two jutting points, just as Karanella, drifting back to consciousness, felt herself half-consumed by a glorious sensation she vaguely remembered, but could not identify. She became aware of a moving form; then through half-closed eyes she saw the moving form had far more to it than the aged body of Exeter.
He must be an "earthling" opposite sex. How different than the one Hystersus opposite sex she had known! She explored him with her hands since she sensed the earthling was friendly. A light roar from the breakers just beyond the dune caught her ear and she felt the mist dash across their two bodies. Then just as another breaker crashed, she heard her earthling friend scream unintelligible sounds. This time the spray across her body was intense. The tide must be coming in and her friend's sounds must be those of fear.
Just then Andronika's command sounded from the hatch above. "Karanella, return and report! Bring your prisoner!"
Astonished, Tommy took the proffered hand sheep-like, and after one futile, frightened glance toward the bushes for his lost trunks, followed Karanella up the steps.
Inside the central control room, Tommy gaped at the crew of Ship 119. The crew gaped back at this earthling who bore the distinguished characteristic of the deceased Exeter. Dizzily Tommy found himself staring at twenty enticingly soft and sinuous female forms. Even in his wildest dreams he had not imagined this!
"Look!" Andronika gasped as she watched the transformation in Tommy's body. The boy was beyond help as his eyes darted hungrily from one bit of red gossamer to another. There was no restraining the scientific curiosity of the crew of 119. They clustered around this strangely-shaped member of the "opposite sex", testing, squeezing, grabbing to see if the sight before them was real. Seconds later Tommy sagged to his knees, groaning inarticulately. The girls exchanged glances of astonished wonder as they watched. "It is the peculiar behavior of the earthling opposite sex."
It was much, much later that the hatch door of the disc swung open and an exhausted Tommy stumbled down the ladder and hurried off to the bushes to retrieve his lost trunks.
"Don't forget, Tawmmy," Karanella liked to say his name. "Come back tomorrow night and help us with our experiments."
"I sure will! There's lots more where that came from. Say, can I bring some of my friends?"
"Of course, Tawmmy."
Karanella closed the door of the hatchway when she saw that "Tawmmy" had been successful in his search. Then she went directly to the laboratory, and taking the test-tube from Andronika, held it to the light.
She shook the tube and watched the way the contents moved sluggishly.
"It's almost of the quality of mucilage," she observed.
"That's because the tube is so full," rejoined a crew-member.
"Did you note the happiness in his face each time the convulsion struck?"
Karanella ignored the excited conversation of the crew as they clustered eagerly around watching her transfer a sampling to the slide.
"I did not understand his words in the convulsion," another interceded. "Did he not say 'yes' three times? What did that mean?" No one seemed to have an answer.
Karanella peered intently at the sampling on the slide. She drew back, quivering with fear.
"I cannot believe my eyes! This fluid is alive with germs. See how vigorously they flash about!" Andronika took a horrified look.
"Throw the tube from the ship!" She screamed the order.
Next morning before Energy Unit 3911 had risen above the horizon, in the fashion ignorant Earth people call "sunrise" the crew was outside Exploratory Ship 119, staring ruefully at the crack in the hull.
"What will we ever do to make the necessary repair, Karanella?" Andronika was surprisingly uncritical of her engineer, for damage to the space craft that was Karanella's fault. Apparently she had gained a new respect for her engineer, or knew the crew's escape from planet Earth depended on her.
Karanella stepped back to study the fissure in the side of the hull and gave an exclamation of surprise as she looked down at the sand. The test-tube lay where it had been tossed from the craft the night before, its contents co-mingled with the sand. Gingerly Karanella bent to scoop up the congealed substance.
"Don't touch it!" cried Andronika.
But Karanella's eyes bore the light of discovery as she stared at the substance firming cement-like from the admixture of sand.
"I think I know how we will repair the damaged hull, Andronika." She explained her plan to the commander.
"If only the rest are like Tawmmy!" The two were standing at the side of the computer in central control.
"I've worked it out to an equation. Now, Tawmmy's contribution will come at five-minute intervals, yielding twenty-two semograms in density. If Tawmmy's friends are as productive, we will need six of them for approximately two hours."
"But, Karanella, what about the danger of infection to the crew . . . those frightening squirmy bugs?"
"I broke down the components of the bugs in the laboratory and happily they are quite harmless, just benign infections in the male Earthlings' body."
Andronika breathed a sigh of relief.
The moon was high over Montauk when Karanella saw the bushes move near at hand. She had volunteered to intercept the boys, since 'Tawmmy' trusted her. In fact, Karanella had been thinking much that day about her sensations of ten years earlier and those she had as she watched Tawmmy the night before. There was some other scientific exploration she had to do before she let the earthling males into the control room.
Suddenly the movement in the bushes materialized. It wasn't Tawmmy; it was his big brother, Bill. Brother Bill had all the same proportions as Tawmmy, and infinitely much more. When his little brother had staggered into the summer cottage the night before, Bill had wormed from him the whole story and had come to see for himself.
"It's okay, Tom, you and the boys go on up," called Bill to the darkness. "Tell them Karanella will be standing guard down below."
Tom and his six companions hurried up the ladder, while Karanella and Bill walked hand-in-hand toward the Montauk breakers.
The next day the crew of the Ship 119 was happily at work on the fissure in the hull. A worried Andronika crept to the top of the sand dune and was peering anxiously up and down the shoreline.
"Where do you suppose she could have gone?"
Then she spied Karanella walking dreamily and starry-eyed back toward their space ship.
Shortly thereafter the door swung closed with 119, now fully repaired, ready to take off. Two surfers along the breaker line looked up startled when they heard the roar.
"Did you see that?" one of them shouted to his companion. "That was a flying saucer, if I ever saw one!"
"G'wan, you're nuts!"
Nine months later, homeward bound for Hystersus, an incredible event took place aboard the Ship 119 in the abandoned nursery. A boy child was born quite miraculously to Karanella. She simply smiled mysteriously when the crew demanded how it could have happened.
"Let's just say that some benign little angels got mixed up inside of me."
Whatever, she was the immediate heroine of the crew and, of course, acceded at once to command of the spacecraft for her remarkable achievement.
