Bud Hastings did not relish the new assignment and wanted his boss, R. J. Colby, to give it to someone else. But R. J. Colby was an old-fashioned editor, and a determined one; he did not rescind orders, and took a hard attitude when asked to do so.
"What the fuck you hemming and hawing about?" R. J. asked, leaning back in his chair.
"It's just that I despised Jonas Wilk," Bud said.
"Who gives a shit whether you liked the guy?" R. J. growled, rapping the desk top with his knuckles. "I'm running a dirt magazine-not a Love-in. Besides, I got nobody else who can handle the interviews."
Bud Hastings shifted from one foot to the other. He ran his fingers through his hair, nervously gulped air and exhaled it, and said:
"Listen! I've been dating this girl-"
"Good for you!" R. J. snorted.
"-and she used to be quite friendly with Jonas Silk," Bud went on. "In fact, she was his girl for a while."
R. J. glanced up sharply, and narrowed his eyes.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "You got an inside track. If this cunt goes for you, she'll talk. Find out everything you can."
"She isn't a cunt," Bud retorted, unable to restrain his anger.
"R.J. Colby stared in surprise at his employee. Then he smiled and shook his head.
"No need to get your bowels in an uproar, Bud," he said. "There was nothing personal in my remark-you know that. If you're hung up on this ... er ... a ... young lady, I apologize; but I hope she talked to you about Wilk."
"Of course she talked to me about him!" Bud said, agitatedly. "And that's the problem. I don't want the assignment because I can't betray her confidence-"
R. J. pursed his lips and nodded, his gaze shrewd and calculating.
"I'm not asking you to betray the confidence of anybody," he said. "All I'm asking is that you do your job Bud. Keep your girl out of it, if she objects-but don't avoid an assignment merely because you know someone who played a part in the story. There are plenty of other people from whom you can get material, you know."
"Yes, I know," Bud replied, without mentally retreating. "But I also know you. R. J. I know the kind of story you want, and I don't think I can give it to you."
"Look!" R. J. said, standing up. "Give it a try-that's all I ask. I give you my word that I'll let you handle the whole story, all the way. I won't interfere. Write it just the way you think it ought to be written, and I'll publish it without altering one word. Is it a deal?".
Bud hesitated, thinking. If he refused the assignment R. J. would give it to some one else; and some one else would do a real hatchet job, including Wilk's affair with Mia Costello. The only way to protect Mia was for him to accept the assignment on Colby's terms.
"Alright," he said, finally, "it's a deal."
"Good!" R. J. said, rounding the desk and slapping him on the shoulder. "Good boy! I knew I could count on you, Bud. Now bring me in a good story."
"Where do you think I should start?"
"Start with that fairy songwriter," R. J. said. "His name is Carl Smithers. If my information is correct, he knew Wilk longer than anybody else around town."
"Uh-huh," Bud answered. "I've heard Mia speak of him."
"Mia? Is that your girl?"
"She's not my girl-not yet," Bud grinned, "but I'm working on it. What if Smithers won't talk?"
"He has letters written over the years," R. J. said. "Borrow them if you can. Buy them if you must. I understand that Wilk really let his hair down in those letters."
"And how do you know that?" Bud asked.
"I know only what Smithers told me," R.J. shrugged. "He has no reason to lie. He said the letters date back nearly ten years-before Wilk started on a singing career. If nothing else, the letters should give you an insight into Wilk's character."
"Character!" Bud exclaimed. "What character?"
"His mind, then," R.J. conceded. "Yon can't deny that he had a mind."
"Oh, he had a mind alright!" Bud said. "But it was all screwed up, from what I hear."
"Who'd you hear it from?"
"Never mind."
"O. K., lover," R. J. chuckled. "Now get your ass outta my office and take it where it will do us some good."
And that is exactly what Bud Hastings decided to do. He went directly to Mia Costello's apartment, where he found the new-found object of his affection still in bed. She answered his impatient buzzing with sleepy eyes and irritable temper. As she opened the door to admit him, she said:
"Jesus Christ, Bud! It's the middle of the night!"
"Aw, honey-it's eleven-thirty in the morning," he said, feeling disappointed at her lack of jubilation. "What time did you go to bed, for crying-out-loud?"
"We went overtime in the recording session," she said, tonelessly, and yawned, "I didn't even get home until three o'clock. What are you doing here so early, anyway?"
Bud enfolded her scantily clad body in his arms, tremendously aware of her physical attractiveness, and lightly kissed her chin.
"I came to take you to lunch," he said softly, kissing her lips as lightly as he had kissed her chin. "I wanted to tell you about my new assignment"
"Assignment? Oh, well! I may as well stay up, I suppose," she murmured, and managed a little smile. "Give me time to shower and dress, and then you can tell me all about it"
He followed her into the bedroom. She removed her robe and stood before him covered only by a sleeping gown of flimsy material. This sudden view of her intoxicated him, set his blood to flowing warmly, and sent his thoughts on a whirlwind journey of hope and speculation.
Mia was a honey-blonde with fair, delicate skin. Her five foot-four inch frame was medium-boned but with an ample saddle that seemed invitingly appealing to men. Her breasts, even covered by the sheer material, were globes of beauty-high, round and soft, with nipples as large as giant strawberries. Her waist was narrow, which gave an added largeness and appeal to her hips and bust. She had long, fine shaped legs, with gorgeous thighs. Her mons pubis was delicately outlined beneath her gown, and looked as if it were crooning an invitation to never-never land.
Bud gazed at her exquisite body and felt himself slipping into that state of pure desire and admiration he had always felt when alone with her. He stood literally entranced, drinking the exotic ambrosia of her feminine presence.
Mia turned and saw his glazed, longing eyes feasting upon her. The warmth of his desire, the sincerity and hunger of it, generated slow rippling waves of response in her and she felt important. She moved toward him, and reached out with her arms toward him.
"I could shower later," she said, as he wrapped his arms round her. Then she pressed her body tightly against him and offered up her lips. He kissed her hard, then harder, and she thrust her tongue into his mouth, moving it to and fro with a motion so pleasant and slow that it at once suggested another and higher form of enjoyment Without breaking away Bud moved her slowly backwards, stopping only when blocked by the bed from moving any further. Now their lips came apart, and he said:
"I'll take my clothes off."
As he was quickly divesting himself of his clothes, Mia removed her gown and fell upon the bed-waiting for him to join her there.
He finally removed his shorts and stood naked, his cock fully erect and ready for action. A translucent drop of liquid formed like a tiny pearl on the livid, red tip, as he looked down upon her waiting body.
She drew her legs up until she could grasp her own ankles. When this was accomplished, she spread her knees so that the small, furry little sex came nearly open, inviting him to enjoy its passion.
So aroused was Bud by this display of her charms that he could no longer restrain himself. He placed a knee on the bed and plunged his face into that warm, wet, yielding softness-kissing, caressing, and lapping hungrily at her clitoris. She responded with churning hips and arched back, crying out now and again, straining and panting until his gentle tongue brought her to orgasm. He quickly mounted her, driving his thundering cock fiercely into her juicy channel of joy.
Bud remained in her to the balls, his cock throbbing with passion. He raised his torso on his hands and looked down at her face. Her mouth was slack with excitement-a strange, twisted expression on her delicate features; her eyes blazing with a feral light.
"Fuck me, darling!" she begged, lifting her legs and circling his sides. "Oh, fuck me! Fuck me!"
She took him in her arms and pulled him onto her body. Her breasts were pressing against his chest, and he felt the hardness of her large nipples upon his flesh. He started pumping, driving into her with long, hard thrusts, and she began to moan softly each time he drove home. She locked her legs over his back. She squirmed and writhed on his hot member, giving herself to pass like a wild animal. She could feel herself bursting out toward her release. He felt hidden muscles deep within her vagina clutching and manipulating his cock. A falling sensation started below his testicles and climbed up along the shaft of his sex, growing in intensity like a series of small explosions until it reached the very end of his member.
"I'm going to come!" he panted. "Are you ready?"
"I'm ready," she gasped. "I'm ready!"
He felt his insides gush out into her, warm and sticky in long, hot spurts. Her legs trembled and her face contorted; she bit her lower lip and moaned, long and loud, and then began to shudder. Suddenly she was kicking and thrashing wildly with release. He buckled and melted into her arms and legs, her hair, her caressing lips and darting tongue.
It was over. Their breath came slowly and labored, and their bodies dripped perspiration. Finally, and with some reluctance, Bud withdrew his cock and rolled off her, and lay quietly beside her staring at the ceiling.
"That was good!" she sighed, and kissed his shoulder.
"Better than that!" he answered, palming her breast and gently squeezing the soft roundness with his fingers. "You sure know how to make love, honey."
"You said something about a new assignment," she said, snuggling close to him. "What is it this time?"
"Jonas Wilk," he answered without hesitation.
Mia seemed to stop breathing for a long time, her body motionless. He braced himself for her reaction to his surprise announcement, wondering what he could say to her when it came. After taking several long breaths her breathing returned to normal, but still she made no comment.
"Didn't you hear what I said?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, "I heard. You've been assigned to write a story on Jonas."
He raised up on his elbow and looked at her, concern etched upon his features.
"Are you angry, Mia? I don't have to write it, you know-I can always quit."
"Why should I be angry?" she asked. "It won't be the first time some one has written about Jonas."
"Then you don't mind?"
"Of course I don't mind! What has it to do with me, for Christ sake? Write anything you like, Bud."
"Would you help me, Mia?" he said, studying her closely. "If I promise to keep you out of the story, I mean?"
"I'll help you on one condition," she replied, looking him straight in the eyes. "Name it," he said.
"If you will promise to write the truth as you find it, not as your editor or your readers would like it to be."
"But," he protested, "if I promise that-shit! That means I can't keep you out of the story."
"I never asked you to keep me out of the story," she said, hotly. "I haven't done anything I am ashamed of, for Christ sake! I didn't do anything different with Jonas Wilk than I just finished doing with you."
"But you loved him!" Bud said.
Mia laughed. "Is that what you've been thinking?" she asked, searching his eyes for an answer.
The laughter startled Bud, caught him unprepared. He didn't know what he had expected from her, but laughter certainly wasn't it.
"You lived with him!" he said.
"For Christ sake!" she exclaimed, no longer laughing. "That doesn't mean that I loved him. Anyway, I wasn't in love with him which is what you mean. I liked him, yes-and why not? Jonas was easy to like. And I'll tell you something else," she concluded seriously, "Jonas Wilk is not dead!"
Now it was Bud's turn to stop breathing. He stared at her in bleak amazement. The idea that Jonas Wilk might be alive seemed too ridiculous to contemplate. He tried to laugh, but what came out was nothing like laughter; it sounded more like sputtering.
"How can you say such a thing?" he said. "The plane crashed, and they found the bodies-Wilk and the woman with him! Both bodies were identified."
"I know all about that," Mia told him calmly. "I just don't believe that Jonas was the man in the plane."
"But his own brother identified the body, Mia!"
"He identified a body!" she argued. "I saw the pictures on television, in the newspapers, and in that rag you write for, and I still say it wasn't Jonas."
"Who was it, then."
"I don't know!"
"What about the woman? Who was she-another mistake?"
"The woman was Nina Tollivar-everybody knows that!" she said as if disgusted with him for asking the question. "Her father and mother both identified her body, for Christ sake! Besides, her face wasn't as crushed and burned ... "
"Alright!" Bud said, now irritated for some reason he could not explain. He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor. "Suppose you tell me where you think Jonas is now?" he went on, turning his head to look at her. "Why hasn't any one else been reported missing? After all, the corpse must have had some one who wondered about his sudden disappearance! And another thing," he said, having suddenly remembered, "how do you explain away the wallet?"
"What wallet?"
"The one found in the pocket of the pants worn by the corpse who wasn't Jonas Wilk."
"What about it?"
"It belonged to Jonas Wilk-that's what about it! God, Mia-but I'm surprised at you! And why haven't you said anything about this strange belief of yours before?"
"Because of the way you are reacting to it right now!" she answered quickly. Then she paused for a moment, just looking into his eyes, and added: "The truth is that I believed Jonas wanted everybody to think he was dead. Otherwise he would have come forward. I saw no reason why I should say or do anything that might ruin his plans, whatever they may be."
"Then why did you mention it to me?" Bud wanted to know.
"Because you asked me to help you with the story," she said, placing her hand on his thigh, "and because you promised to write the truth as you found it."
"And I intend to keep my promise," he said, reaching out to her. "But I must act on facts, honey, not beliefs-yours or anybody's."
"That is all I ask," she smiled at him, and rose up behind him and put her arms round his shoulders. "I'll help you all I can, and in any way I can-but just remember that I told you he isn't dead."
Bud chuckled and, turning, tussled her onto the bed.
"I won't forget," he said, kissing her lips. "Now what do you say we get dressed and go have lunch together?"
"I'm ready," she laughed. "I've worked up quite an appetite."
As she got up to take a shower, Bud said: "How well do you know Carl Smithers?"
She made a face. "I know he-likes boys better than girls," she answered. "Why?"
"He has kept all the letters that Jonas has written him through the years," he explained, "and I'm supposed to make a deal with him concerning them."
"What a horrible thing for him to do!" Mia exclaimed.
"Then he does have the letters, you think?"
"Of course he has the letters. Jonas never wrote to any one else, you know. Not even to me. But for some reason he would write these long, rambling letters to Smithers. He got a kick out of doing it, I think."
"Will you come with me to see Smithers?" Bud asked hopefully. "Perhaps you could identify Wilk's handwriting?"
Mia said she would go with him and that she could identify Jonas Wilk's handwriting. Then she disappeared into the bathroom and started her shower.
It was three-thirty p.m. when Bud rang the bell at Carl Smithers' apartment. He smiled at Mia, as they stood waiting for Smithers to admit them.
"What's he like?" he asked.
"He is quite nice, really," Mia answered. "In your case, Bud, he will be exceptionally nice."
They were both laughing softly when the door opened and a mellow, almost feminine-sounding voice greeted them.
"Come in! Come in!" Carl Smithers enthused. "Mia! Heavens, but it's been ages-simply ages! And you must be Charles Hastings, the writer-Well! Well! how do you do! Your Mister Colby told me all about you. Yes, in-deed-ee-die!" Smithers fussed like a mother hen over her chicks, got them comfortably seated, served them wine (chilled, of course), and kept up a running stream of remarkably trivial chatter. Now he turned to Mia again, saying, "He didn't tell me about you, darling! No, in-deed-ee-die! But it is good to see you again, lammie-pie! And I'm really impressed-really!" (he glanced at Bud as he said this, then returned his attention to Mia.) "You still know how to separate the men from the boys, Mia, my precious."
"We have come about the letters, Carl," Mia said, not caring to waste any more time on trivialities. "I understand that you are willing to sell the letters Jonas wrote to you?"
"Sell the letters! Sell my letters!" Carl Smithers leaped to his feet and seemed genuinely outraged. "I merely offered use of the letters, and that only if they were not quoted directly in the story!"
Bud and Mia quickly exchanged looks of surprise, though Mia was actually relieved to hear Carl's declaration. Bud was surprised, nothing more. He realized that Smithers could be putting on an act for Mia's benefit, but somehow he doubted it.
"Lammie-pie," Smithers rushed on, excitedly, "you should know I'd never sell anything I got from Jonas! Poor dead darling! Why, I loved him!" He paused, threw up his hands in a gesture of exaggerated despair, and turned to face. Bud. "Mister Hastings," he said, "the letters are not for sale! If you are under the impression that I would part with them for money, I am truly sorry. No, indeed-ee-die! I have plenty of money, darlings-but even if I were starving, the letters would not be sold!"
"Then you are willing to give me the letters?" Bud said, baiting him to a commitment
Carl Smithers calmed down considerably and changed to a shrewd, cautious approach.
"I am willing to do precisely what I told your Mister Colby I would do," Carl replied, more of a masculine tone to his voice.
"And what is that?" Bud asked, pressing for a resolution.
"That," Carl Smithers said, "is nothing more than permitting a competent author to read the letters, in the hope that he would gain an insight into the character of the man he would be writing about However, the letters are highly personal, and I could not, under any circumstance, allow them to be quoted direct."
"Does that mean I shall not be allowed to remove the letters from the premises?"
"That is a condition of the arrangement, yes."
"How many letters are there?"
"Three hundred thirty seven, to be exact," Carl announced proudly. "And they span the years between 1951 and 1968."
Carl walked over to a desk and picked up a handful of letters. He returned to where Bud was sitting and handed the letters to him.
"These were the first letters," he said. "He wrote others, when we were boys, but unfortunately I didn't have the foresight to keep them. You may start with those, and read as many as you like-but I can't allow you more than two hours today." He smiled, apologetically, adding: "I have guests coming this evening. You're welcome to stay, if you like, but I don't think you'd enjoy yourselves too much. My guests are all homosexuals and lesbians."
"Thank you," Bud said, smiling at Mia, "but we already made other plans. By the way, is there any doubt in your mind that Jonas Wilk is dead?"
Carl Smithers opened his mouth to answer before the import of the question reached him; then he stood with mouth open, startled, uncertain, and doubting his own hearing.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but I don't think I heard the question correctly."
Bud repeated the question. Carl Smithers seemed aghast He sputtered a bit, and then sat down.
'heavens! Mister Hastings-you can't be serious! I was at the funeral," he said. "I saw him buried."
Bud handed the letters to Mia. When she said the handwriting was positively that of Jonas Wilk, he took the letters back and began reading the first one.
CHAPTER 2
Dear Carl:
You complain of the scarcity of my letters. What would you have me write, except that I am well, and that I have the same affection for you that I had when we were boys together, jerking off in the woods or elsewhere. You went away-not I; and I am still here in the same old place, doing the same old things. Today is followed by tomorrow, just as yesterday was followed by today; and, without being so conceited as to play the prophet, I can in the morning boldly predict what will befall me in the evening.
Although I have apparently accepted this kind of existence, it is nevertheless scarcely suitable for me, or at least it has very little resemblance to that of which I ream, and to which I consider myself adapted.
You know what an overpowering attraction strange adventures have for me, how I worship everything that is singular, extravagant and perilous, and how greedily I devour novels and books of travels. There is not, perhaps, on earth a imagine more foolish or more vagrant than mine. Yet, so far as I am concerned, the circuit of the world is the circuit of the town in which I live; I touch my horizon on all sides; I rub shoulders with the real; my life is that of the shell on the sand-bank, of the ivy round the tree, of the cricket on the hearth; in truth, I am surprised that my feet have not yet taken root.
I have a friend-the only one, and he came into my life after your recent departure for greener pastures; he has roved as much as the wind. He has seen with his own eyes all those things about which I have formed such fine ideas, and he cares no more for them than he cares for a drink of water. I make him talk sometimes, and am angered to think that all these glorious things have befallen one who is good for nothing but barely earning his own keep and sucking my cock.
Ah! but he knows how to suck a cock, alright. Perhaps not with the finesse that you bring to the act, but surely with a dedication and love of object that is seldom encountered. His name is Lonnie Ansel, and he is thirty-four years old. I think he is fond of me because I am cooperative and don't have any prejudices; and besides, as you are well aware, I enjoy having my cock sucked.
I admit to a certain concern for the future of such gentlemen, including you, my friend. Lonnie, for instance, is forced to admit that his exploits are yielding diminishing returns. The young boys don't come around much anymore-voluntarily, I mean; they have to be bought. Lonnie, like you, cannot accept having only prostitutes as partners-which is, I think, another reason why he is fond of me. I give to him as I gave to you-remember?
The strangest part is my own-for I have no homosexual inclinations whatever. I have never been tempted to suck a cock myself, but it is tremendously pleasurable when it is being done to me. I know that you think I am wrong in my attitude-so does Lonnie; but I contend that every human has an inalienable right to be wrong, and it is folly and cruelty to deny him this right. After all, no one is fauldess in this world of ours.
But I will never forget the first time I had my cock sucked, Carl. I still imagine it in my imagination now and again, especially when you come to mind. Remember that day, Carl?
You invited me to your place after school, telling me your parents were not at home. I think I suspected your motives, but I can't be sure-because at that time I had no previous experience. I was too shy to approach the girls I knew, though I often wanted to approach them. I used to walk round with a hard on for hours at a time.
We got to your place and you immediately gave me a glass of your father's wine. It tasted so good that I took several more glasses, drinking them far too fast, and found myself relaxed and wanting to sleep. So I just laid down and relaxed. And you started playing with my penis; and I thought, "I don't know. He just-likes that." And then you went down on me. I was horrified at first-Remember? I said, "How can you do that sort of thing?" Then you said, "Don't be silly !I'm just wetting it, before I jerk it."
By the time you had finished wetting it, I had shot off in your mouth. Horrified or not, Carl, I thoroughly enjoyed you sucking my cock that day. I enjoyed it every time afterwards, too. I still enjoy it with Lonnie, but I can't bring myself to suck his cock any more than I could bring myself to suck yours.
All this is not very interesting, and is scarcely worth the trouble of writing it, is it? But since you insist on my writing to you, I must relate my thoughts and feelings, in default of events and actions.
I will continue to write to you from time to time-for which you must blame yourself alone. I will tell you more of Lonnie Ansel, and other people, in future letters. As for my coming to New York, as you suggest I do, I am afraid it is out of the question at present. Besides, you will find many young men with anxious pricks in the Big City.
Your friend, Jonas Wilk
Bud Hastings re-folded the finished letter and passed it over to Mia Costello. She fell to reading it with avid interest, while Bud opened the next letter and addressed himself to Carl Smithers.
"Were all his letters this explicit?"
Carl Smithers giggled like a school girl.
"Not what you expected, hey, Mister Hastings? Well, I don't wonder. Jonas was never what people expected him to be. Do you know he never sang a song or walked on a stage until he was twenty-three? It's a fact; and he was a sensation in less than five months! Yes, indeed-ee-die!"
"No offense, Carl, but the homosexual activities come as a surprise to me," Bud said. "I was under the impression he was quite a ladies man."
"He was, Mister Hastings!"
"Call me Bud, please."
"Delighted, Bud. Yes, indeed-ee-die! Jonas was a ladies man. Mia can testify to that-can't you, Lammie-pie?"
"I never had any reason to believe otherwise," Mia admitted. "But I prefer that you keep me out of the discussion."
"Who inherited all Wilk's money?" Bud asked.
"I don't think he had any," Carl answered. "Oh, he earned a tremendous amount, but he never invested-just lived on income. And he handed out most of that to people he liked. Whatever he had when he died, of course, went to his brother, back in North Carolina."
Bud began reading the next letter:
Dear Carl:
You have been my friend from childhood, and I was brought up with you; our lives were passed together for a long time, and we are wont to tell each other our most secret thoughts. I can therefore, without blushing, give you an account of all the acts and all the nonsense that passes through my brain. I have no false pride with you. And so I shall be scrupulously exact, even in trifling and shameful matters; I shall certainly not throw a blanket over myself before you.
One night (last week) Lonnie and I went pub-crawling. Well we went to the only four nightspots in town, and wound up slightly loaded. Naturally. By the time we reached "Daisy's Place" (You remember Daisy, don't you?) Lonnie was already acting like the Queen Mother, and it was all I could do to keep him from crawling under the table to suck my cock. I swear I don't understand you homosexuals, once you get half-way tight; you just don't seem to have any modesty or control. Anyway, I got a little pissed off at his constant grappling and told him to keep his fucking hands away from my crotch-at least in public. (People in North Carolina aren't noted for their liberality in such matters, particularly where homosexuals are concerned.)
My reaction angered Lonnie and he began ogling several other young men, one of which turned out to be Harvey.
You remember Harvey-my brother?
Well, you know how straight-laced Harvey was. He hasn't changed. He is still a narrow-minded, ignorant prude. I don't know what he might have done, but he was fit to be tied when he realized Lonnie was a homo, or, as he put it, "a man so sissy he squats to piss." Of course he isn't as straight-laced as he would have people believe. He reads all the girlie magazines and collects those special postcard-size photographs of naked women in various poses. He doesn't know that I know he stands in front of the wall mirror in his bedroom and jerks off. Incidentally, he is hung like a horse; his cock is much larger and longer than mine. But that's another story, of which I will tell you more at a later time.
Where was I?
Oh, yes! I warned Lonnie to watch himself, that Harvey was my brother, and that there would be trouble-perhaps even a fist fight-if he continued ogling him. So Lonnie stamped out, leaving me to my own devices. I was not unhappy to see him go, and intend to have a long talk with him when he sobers up. I can't afford a scandal here in Pineboro.
Harvey invited me to join him for the rest of the evening, which I did; and he got us a couple of Daisy's prettiest girls for a screwing session in the cabin out back. I wasn't particularly interested, but I was curious to see how he operated with a broad, even a prostitute. The one I got wasn't at all bad-looking. She wasn't a raving beauty either. But she was built like a brick shit-house and had a pleasant smile.
Harvey had a tall redhead, with long, long legs and two of the biggest tits I ever saw. If she ever gives birth to twins, she's amply equipped to take care of them. I know she was a true redhead because even the hair on her cunt was red-almost.
We all got undressed and sat around drinking and talking and fondling, preparing ourselves for the main attraction.
Gladys-that is what my partner said her name was-had clear blue eyes, dirty-blonde hair, sensuous lips and medium-sized boobies with cherry-like nipples. But I don't think she was overly impressed with me at first.
"Are you sure you an' Harvey are brothers?" she asked.
"That's what my mother tells u," I replied. Unfortunately my remark didn't delight Harvey, who seems to be of the opinion that one's mother must never be mentioned in the company of prostitutes.
"Hey!" he snapped at me, "Don't be such a smart ass!" Then he turned to Gladys and said: "He's a little young yet-that's why he thinks he's a comedian."
The redhead (her name was Arlene) put in her two cents' worth, saying: "I thought we came in here to drink and fuck. Never mind the character references."
Then she angled herself to the floor, on her knees, and took Harvey's cock in her mouth and began working it over. He gave me a baboonish grin and closed his fast-glazing eyes.
"You like it that way, sugar?" Gladys said, sliding down in front of me and giving my prick a couple of strokes with her hand.
My rod immediately came to attention, straining to enlarge and lengthen itself beyond my modest eight and a half inches. She kissed it all round with her sensuous lips, bathed it with her mouth, and painted it with her tongue. When she balanced my balls in the palm of her hand and toyed with them in a very dedicate fashion, I felt my cock spasm several times. She felt it, too, and slurped at me:
"Hold it back, sugar-don't rush it!"
But she coached in vain. I had to let it go. I clasped her head between my hands, locked my legs round her waist, and thrust my hips upward. My rod rammed deep into her mouth, shooting my precious creamy come all the way. She nearly strangled when my load spurted down her throat, but I held her where she was and emptied myself before letting her go. It was a thrilling orgasm, Carl, and somewhat different from the orgasms shared with you and Lonnie. I can't explain the difference, but it was there. Perhaps it was simply because she was a female and I knew she had a cunt that I could also get into.
I don't think Harvey had an orgasm in Arlene's mouth, because he was already fucking her when I looked up. He had her on the far-bed, with her legs over his shoulders, and was lunging in her with great power. Every time he rammed her cunt she let out a gasp, as if he had knocked the breath out of her.
Watching him screw Arlene (who seemed able to enjoy that tremendous pole of his) got me all excited again, and grappled Gladys all the way to the bed.
I mounted her with nervous excitement, fumbling at the lips of her slit with the head of my cock. After several misses she reached down and expertly guided me straight to the depths of her juicy joy-pot. She encircled me with her legs and hugged my shoulders, pulling me down upon her breasts and holding me tight She moaned in my ear, and said: "You're good, sugar. I sure like what you've got"
Before I could answer her the room reverberated with a loud, long cry, followed by a torrent of passionate words. It was Arlene in the throes of an orgasm.
"Fuck me, you sonofabitch!" she screamed. "Pour it on! Ahhh! Fuck me! That's it! More! Fuck meaaahhh! Ooooh! Christ! Fuck me!"
I glanced over, without slowing my own pace, you understand, and saw that Harvey was pounding her more furiously than ever-and she was practically bent double!
"Give it to me!" she cried out "Bust me open! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!"
And he fucked her! I saw him suddenly stiffen-body rigid-and heard him say: "This is it, you fucking whore!" Then he violently drove himself into her and collapsed upon her, his whole body trembling from head to toe. She was still moaning and groaning and mumbling, but I could make out what she was saying.
Anyhow, I was excited to a feverish pitch. So was Gladys. She became a furious animal beneath me, grinding her cunt up against me, churning her hips, and gnawing the flesh of my shoulder. With every thrust I plowed in to the balls, until, finally, I felt the load start its journey from my scrotum, and speed up and through my cock. Gladys emitted little animal-like cries, apparently aware that I was coming, and began her own explosion. God! but she must have come at least three times before I could finish coming that once!
All and all, it was a lovely evening.
Funny, but as I write this, telling of our passion bout at Daisy's, I keep visualizing Harvey standing in front of that Sunday school class he teaches every Sunday.
Ah! If the little bastards and bitches knew what sort of hypocritical bastard their big teacher was, wouldn't that make the preacher ring the church bells though? We went onto the other joint, the one operated by Tom Ramsey, on the edge of town, and listened to Matt Langdon sing folk songs. He is quite good, especially at playing the guitar, but I'll tell you about him next time I write.
Take care of yourself in the Big City, and let me hear from you occasionally.
Your friend, Jonas
Dear Carl:
After my last letter I fell into a life of languor and indifference, as I am prone to do, and let the days and nights drift by. You know how I am.
Yet there sometimes stirs a thought, torpid rather than dead, and I do not always possess the sweet, sad calm that melancholy gives. I have relapses, and I fall again into my old perturbations (good word, eh? I looked it up). Nothing in the world is so fatiguing as these purposeless whirlwinds and these aimless flights. On such days, although I have nothing to do any more than other nights, I rise very early, so persuaded am I than I am in a hurry, and that I shall not have the necessary time. Any one seeing me would suppose that I was going to keep a love appointment or look for money. Not at all. I don't even know where I am going; but go I must, and
I should believe my safety compromised if I remained.
I go out with an air of wild surprise, my clothes in disorder, and my hair uncombed. People turn and laugh when they meet me, and think that I am high on dope or something. I am intoxicated, though I have drunk nothing, and I have the manner of a drunkard, even to his uncertain gait, now fast and now slow. I go from street to street, like a dog that has lost his way home, very much on the alert, turning at the least noise, gliding into every group, heedless of the rebukes of the people I run up against, and looking about me everywhere, with a clearness of vision which at other times I do not possess. Then it suddenly becomes evident to me that I am mistaken, that it is assuredly not there, that I must go further, to the other end of the town, I know not where, and I set off as if the devil were carrying me away.
If I were asked why I rush along in this way, I certainly should be greatly at a loss for an answer. I am in no hurry to arrive, since I am going nowhere. I am not afraid of being late, since I have no appointment. There is no one waiting for me, and I have no reason for being in a hurry.
I have no desire to see Lonnie anymore. In fact, I think he has taken up with another young fellow. I hope so, because he and I never hit it off the way you and I did. I can't stand Harvey for more than ten minutes at a time, though he is always willing to have me join him for a visit to Daisy's place. I go with him, now and again, but the kick is gone-you know what I mean?
No, of course not! How could you know?
You cannot imagine the sadness and the deep despair into which I fall when I see that all my days end in nothing, and that my youth is passing away with no prospect opening up before me; then all my idle passions growl dully in my heart, and prey upon themselves for lack of other food, like beasts in a zoo that the keeper has forgotten to feed.
In spite of the stifled and secret disappointments of every day, there is something within me which resists and will not die. I have no hope, for hope implies desire, a certain disposition for wishing that things should turn out in one way rather than in another. I desire nothing, for I desire everything.
I am waiting, and for what? I do not know, but I am waiting.
Nothing comes; I grow furious, or begin to feel extremely sorry for myself.
Oh, well, Carl-that's how it goes. I shouldn't bore you with these personal descriptions of my aimlessness. There is, in fact, always Matt Langdon, of whom I spoke in my previous letter; he has become my nearest friend. You would probably like him, because he is a remarkable young man.
Matt plays guitar and sings folk songs for a living. His home is Charlotte, about a hundred miles from here, but he is appearing at Tom Ramsey's joint on the edge of Pineboro for several weeks. He has become quite popular round the town, and makes out very well with the local virgins. Ha! Ha! That's a joke. Anyway, he is teaching me to play the guitar and I like it. Already I can accompany myself to half dozen old songs, such as "On Top of Old Smoky," etc. Matt says I have a real knack for the folk song, and thinks I should take it up as a profession. How do you like them apples, Carl? Can't you just see it-Jonas Wilk, the Folksinger!
I actually dwelt on the idea for awhile, for the lack of anything better to do, but finally forgot about it. Well, forgot it between visits with Matt; he never gives up.
I had also another desire, more keen, more eager, more continually awake, more dearly cherished, and for which I had built in my soul an enchanting castle of cards, a palace of chimeras, that was often destroyed but raised again with desperate constancy: it was to have a mistress-a mistress all my own. I have had my share of women, I suppose-but that is not the same thing. Besides, consorting with the class of females who afford us pleasure for payment, and are not to be counted any more than a wet dream, I have won over and fucked several virtuous (or nearly virtuous) women, who are to be met with by young bucks who have nothing regular on hand and whose hearts are unoccupied. With a little good will, and a pretty strong dose of romantic illusions, you can call this having a mistress, if you like. For myself, I find it impossible; I might have a thousand of the kind, and I should still believe my desire as unfulfilled as ever.
I have not, therefore, as yet had a mistress, and my whole desire is to have one. It is an idea that torments me strangely; it is not an effervescence of temperament, a boiling of the blood, the first burst of puberty. It is not woman that I want, but a woman, a mistress. I desire one, and shall have one shortly. After all my requirement is just one woman, and nature owes it to every man. So long as I have not attained my end, I shall look upon myself merely as a child, and I shall not have the confidence in myself which I ought to have. A mistress is to me what the toga virilis was to the young Roman.
I see so many beautiful women in the possession of men who are colorless in every respect, and scarcely fit to be their servants, that I blush for them, and for myself. It gives me a pitiful opinion of women to see them wasting their affection and passion on men who despise and deceive them, instead of giving themselves to some loyal and sincere young fellow who would esteem himself very fortunate, and would worship them on his knees to myself, for instance.
I laid a girl just last night. She was a pretty young thing, and had only been screwed twice before-or so she told me. I think she was telling the truth because she didn't really know what to do, except lay there with her legs apart until I mounted her. She wouldn't even remove her dress, though I did finally manage to get her panties off, together with her shoes and stockings.
We were in a secluded country area, having gone there in my car, and she seemed to have a fear that some one would discover us. But, as I say, I finally got her under things off and began fingering her warm little cunt. With glazed eyes and parted lips and deep breaths she showed that she was enjoying it, but verbally said nothing. I gradually eased myself downwards and nibbled at her mons pubis, and casually worked her thighs apart; I crawled between them, probing and flicking her clitoris with the tip of my tongue, until her hips began to churn and little moans breathed from her throat. When she was contorting all over the place, I hastily got out my pecker, which was self-oiled and stiff as an iron-rod, and pressed it against her mons veneris. I pushed the crest into the warm, wet softness and felt her lips give way before the pressure. Her cunt was so unaccustomed to such dimension and pressure that she tightened up and automatically stiffened her body, preparing herself for the great lunge. I decided not to waste time, which would give her time to get too tense, so thrust hard and shot deep into her near-virginal channel with one lunge. She cried out and hit me on the outer shoulders with her fists.
"No! No! No!" she cried. "It hurts, Jonas!"
But I stayed in her, deep, all the way to the balls, and held her completely still until I felt her muscles gradually relax.
"Does it still hurt?" I asked, kissing her cheeks and blowing hot breath on her neck.
"Not as much," she confessed, "But I thought you were going to kill me at first."
Then I started pumping her cunt, moving in and out very slowly to begin with, and increasing the speed cautiously. After a few minutes of easy rocking and driving, she began to react in a most passionate and gratifying manner. However, she never did let herself entirely go-even when die orgasm came over her; she fought down her wild impulses, if she had any, and only sighed and groaned softly. She gasped successively when I felt my own release building up and started pounding her cunt with more power. I ejaculated, naturally, and bathed the neck of her womb with my sperm and hoped like hell she had had sense enough to take pills Afterwards, I took her home and promised to take her out again this weekend-which I don't think I will do.
Heartless? Perhaps. But I do not care much for teaching little simpletons to spell out the alphabet of love. I am neither old enough nor depraved enough for that; besides, I should succeed badly at it, first I never could show anybody anything, even what I knew best myself. I prefer women who read fluently, we arrive sooner at the end of the chapter; and in everything, but especially in love the end is what we have to consider. In this respect, I am rather like those people who begin a novel at the wrong end, ready the catastrophe first of all, and then go backwards to the first page. This mode of reading and loving has its charm. Details are relished more when we are peace concerning the end, and the inversion introduces die unforeseen.
My Cod! look at the time! And here I sit still writing. I'll continue another time, Carl, but for now must sleep. If I ever decide what I wish to do with my life, I'll let you know.
As ever, your friend, Jonas W.
Bud Hastings finished the letter and looked up. Carl Smithers was standing directly before him, smiling down.
"I am afraid mat is all the time I can spare you today," he said. "I must prepare for my party, you know. However, you are free to come here between 3 and 5 every afternoon until you have read all the letters."
Bud thanked him and he and Mia departed, leaving behind a still smiling Carl Smithers, standing in the door to watch them go.
CHAPTER 3
"He was a strange one," Budd commented, when he and Mia reached the street
"Who?" Mia answered, puzzled.
"Jonas Wilk," he replied. "Who else?"
"You could have been talking about Carl Smithers," Mia reminded him. "He's not exactly normal, you know."
Bud laughed. "You're right about that, all right! Well, what do we do now?"
"Go home."
"Yours or mine?"
"Don't you ever get enough screwing?"
"Not with you, no," he said, and encircled her waist
She removed his arm and said, "Well, that's too bad, lover, because you've had all you're going to get from me today. I have to learn two new songs tonight. So I tell you what you go your way, and I'll go mine."
"You're cruel," he laughed. "Come on, I'll take you home and go to the office. I've got to dig into Jonas Wilk's publicity."
Bud hailed a taxi and gave the driver Mia's address. On the way he returned to the subject of Jonas Wilk, now interested for the first time.
"Wonder why he wrote all those letters to Smithers?"
Mia turned her head and stared out the taxi window for a moment Then, without looking at him, she said: "I don't know. I doubt if anyone knows, except Jonas himself. Maybe he didn't know either. Maybe it's just one of those things that defies explanation." She paused, then turned to look at Bud. "Let me tell you something, Bud," she said, softly but seriously, "Jonas is going to surprise you; he isn't at all like his public image."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he was a poet-philosopher in a world of make-believe," Mia answered. "I never felt so sorry for anyone in my life."
"Is that what it was with you?" Bud asked. "You shacked up with him through pity?"
"That was part of it, yes," she said, "but I liked him, too. I still do. He was a very likable man, once you got to know him."
They remained silent until the taxi came to a halt in front of Mia's apartment, and then Bud accompanied her to the door, kissed her goodbye and returned to the taxi. He told the driver to take him to Radio City.
In her apartment Mia sat at the piano staring at the sheet music before her, but without really seeing the notes she was there to memorize. Her mind was on Jonas Wilk, and the thoughts were disturbing. They kept taking her back, making her feel again; feel those things she had tried to forget. like one night when Jonas burst into the apartment and said:
"I'm going to quit this goddam business!"
"What's the matter now?" Mia asked, used to his emotional attacks. "What happened to make you angry?"
"Nothing!" he said, removing his coat and throwing it across the room. "I'm sick of crowds, that's all! I need to be alone, and I'm always surrounded by people."
"Then why did you come here?" she said. "Don't you think I'm people?"
He crossed the room and embraced her.
"Of course you're people," he said, his anger gone. "But you're different-you know that! I need you, Mia."
She laughed and broke away from him' "You don't need me, Jonas; you don't need anybody. I'm just the girl that's here, that's all. Now don't look so hurt-you know it's true, and I know it's true. No need to pretend or lie to each other, is there?"
He went into the bedroom and she followed him. She knew what he wanted when he came to see her, and she was willing to give it to him. She started removing her clothes. He sat down on the bed and looked at her.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm taking off my clothes."
"What for?"
"To fuck you," she said, and wriggled out of her slip. "Isn't that why you came?"
She lay down on the bed and touched his pants' leg with her hand, thus letting him know that she was not displeased at the prospect. He looked down at her, let his eyes sweep over her tits and saddle, lingering for a long moment upon her cunt area. He smiled, then chuckled with relief and happiness.
"You know me better than any one else," he said, leaning forward to kiss her lips. "You're the only woman I ever met who doesn't try to turn a sexual arrangement into a deep, personal love affair."
"Like you, I like to fuck," she said, putting her arms round him and returning his kiss. "Now, if you will remove your clothes and release that snake of yours, we can both satisfy ourselves. I have been hot all day long."
He laughed and started removing his clothes, beginning with his shoes.
"Why don't we chuck the world and run off together," he said, as he lay down naked beside her. "Everybody would think we were dead, and there we'd be-Adam and Eve."
She fondled his cock, feeling it swell and extend beneath her touch; then she said, "We're together now. Besides, nobody would believe we were dead. They would simply think we had run off together."
He gave a sharp bite to her right nipple, which caused her to jerk involuntarily with sudden painful-pleasure, and repeated the process on die other nipple.
"It is easier to die than you think," he said, now working his lips downwards. "I could work it out real easy."
But then the time for talking was over; his tongue was darting in and over her slit, and she was stroking his shaft with one hand and caressing his back with the other. He stretched out with his feet in the direction of her head, and lifted himself above her on elbows and knees. His cock was just above her mouth. She opened wide and received it juicily. His tongue was busying her clitoris and sending thousands of tiny electric pricks over her body. He fucked her mouth with up and down strokes, measured and controlled, and she reciprocated by using her tongue to exercise pressure .up his shaft. As the strength of their passion increased, he moved in and out at a much faster rate; she, for her part, was so carried away that she nearly forgot what she was doing. Her hips churned automatically, while her mouth tightened round his throbbing cock. She felt the first spurt of semen shoot against the roof of her mouth and sucked hungrily, expectantly, swallowing the fluid as it shot from him. At the same time she went over the top and rode the wild roller-coaster of her own orgasm to a scream-stimulating conclusion. But she couldn't scream! Her mouth was full of throbbing cock. She gurgled moans and twisted and jerked her pelvis in a frenzy of ecstasy.
He hastily reversed his direction, mounting her. He rammed into her flesh almost ferociously, and then she screamed-but not in pain. The repeated thrusts, impatient and determined, sent her soaring to the top of the passionate mountain, and she carried him with her by lunging upward each time he drove downward. They exploded together, pinching and gnawing each other, and making loud animal-like noises as their hot juices met and mingled in the womb of life.
They lay together, he on top, their bodies glued by perspiration and exhaustion, and gathered strength to separate.
Later, as he again lay beside her, relaxed, they talked. Or rather he talked.
And now the words he spoke came rushing through her mind and it seemed that she was actually hearing them from his own lips.
"Never had anyone desired so strongly as myself to live the life of others, and to assimilate another nature," he said. "Never has anyone failed so badly in doing so. Whatever I may do, other men are to me scarcely anything but phantoms, and I have no sense of their existence. Yet it is not the desire to recognize their life and to participate in it that is wanting in me. It is the power, or the lack of real sympathy for anything. The existence or non-existence of a thing or person does not interest me sufficiendy to affect me in a sensible and convincing manner."
Mia dimly became aware of what he was saying, having surrendered herself fully to the relaxation following her second orgasm. She did not know how long he had been speaking, and said:
"What are you talking about?"
"Me-I'm talking about me," he said, without raising the conversational level of his voice. "I was saying how unreal my life seems in relation to other people."
"In what way?"
"It's like a dream. About me there moves, with dull humming sound, a pale world of shadows and semblances false or true, in the midst of which I am as isolated as possible, for none of them acts on me for good or evil, and they seem to me to be of quite a different nature. If I speak to them, and they reply to me with something like common sense, I am as much surprised as if my dog or my cat were suddenly to begin to speak and mingle in the conversation. The sound of their voice always astonishes me, and I would be very ready to believe that they are merely fleeting experiences whose objective mirror I am. Inferior or superior, I am certainly not of their kind." He paused for a moment, looking at her, wondering whether she were paying attention. She smiled wanly, and he continued.
"There are moments when I recognize none save God above me, and others, when I judge myself scarcely the equal of mouse in its hole; but in whatever state of mind I may be, whether high or depressed, I have never been able to persuade myself that other men are like, that we belong to the same species. I feel as if I don't belong to the human race. Even my name seems to me but an empty one-and my fame even more so-and not in reality mine."
"You can't really feel like that!" Mia said, an expression of concern shading her features.
"Oh, yes," he replied, "but I can-and do. It is especially when-like this-I have been living with a woman that I have most felt the invincible repugnance of my nature to any alliance or mixture. I am like a drop of oil in a glass of water. It is in vain that you turn and move with the latter-the oil can never quite unite with it. It will divide itself into a hundred thousand little globules which will reunite and mount again to the surface as soon as there is a moment's calm. The drop of oil and the glass of water-such is my life's history. I feel loose, untied, disunited ... " he paused, sighed and blinked his eyes, and waited for her to speak.
"You were disunited a little while ago," Mia said. "We were about as united as two people can be."
"True," he said, placing a hand on her far breast and letting it rest there, "and it would be a wonderful physical experience. It always is-with you, anyway. Yet I am in a constant state of war with myself. A woman's arms, the closest bonds on earth, so people say, are very feeble ties, so far as I am concerned, and I have never been further removed than when a woman is holding me close. That is why I prefer you to other women, Mia-you never try to hold me close, to stifle me with love. Still, I do not love you-I have tried to love you, have longed to love you, but to no successful end. I sometimes feel as if I should apologize to you for having used you ... "
"We have used each other," she answered. "And since we have done so with foreknowledge and consent, why should either of us apologize to the other? You need to come out of yourself, Jonas, and set your feet in the mud. People are not ideals, or dreams-they are people. You want something that doesn't exist in reality."
"I know, I know," he said. "And I have tried, but my efforts are in vain. I cannot come out of myself. I am still what I was, something, that is to say, very wearied and very wearisome, and this displeases me greatly. I have not succeeded in getting into my brain the idea of another, into my soul the feeling of another, into my body the pain or joy of another. I am a prisoner within myself, and all invasion is impossible. The prisoner wishes to escape, the walls would most gladly fall in, and the gates open up to let him through, but some fatality or other invincibly keeps each stone in its place, and each bolt in its socket. It is impossible for me to admit any one to see me as it is for me to see others. You have come closer than any one else, with the possible exception of Carl Smithers-but close isn't the answer. I am famous, and rich, too, or would be if I saved my money; and yet I live in the most mournful isolation in the midst of a crowd."
Mia shook her head and, with great effort of will, forced the memory from her. She kept telling herself that she loved Bud Hastings and, that for the sake of that love, she must forget Jonas Wilk and the short-lived affair they had shared.
But she couldn't put him from her mind. She couldn't forget the photograph of his corpse-
"I mustn't think about it," she said aloud. "Bud is right: I have no logical reason for thinking the corpse in the photograph was not that of Jonas Wilk.
-and yet there was something not right about it all!
What was it? She had the feeling that she had seen something to make her doubt, something in the photograph itself. But what? If she could remember precisely what it was that produced the doubt in her mind, perhaps she could confirm her suspicion that Jonas Wilk was not dead....
Carl Smithers welcomed his guests gaily. They came in pairs, and they came in trios and quartettes. They swished into his apartment for an evening of sexual pleasure. There were six lesbians and seven homosexuals, without counting Carl. He made the number of homosexuals an even eight They greeted each other, drank highballs, ate the food (served buffet style), and danced to the phonograph records.
It was a two bedroom apartment and both bedrooms were perpetually in use by various couples. Carl watched over the gathering and their activities with a pleased and encouraging eye. He practically jumped with glee when two butches got into a physical fight over a younger girl who had been brought to the party by one of them. It seems the young girl felt no particular loyalty and was thoroughly enjoying the amorous advances of the competition.
Nevertheless, discretion was important. Too much noise would bring complaints from other tenants, and complaints would bring the police. Bearing this chain of possible events in mind, Carl, summoning the aid of several others, separated the two wrestlers and broke up the bout
"Darlings, darlings," he cried, "we have come for loving. Let us conserve our energies for something more delicious than angry violence! If you must demonstrate your physical abilities, then compete in an entertaining way. Take the cause of this melee to center stage and perform upon her the rhapsody of love."
This suggestion met with instant and loud approval from the other guests, and the two hutches submitted to the persuasions and agreed to keep it friendly.
The stage was quickly set Chairs and other pieces of furniture were moved to the sides, leaving a large cleared space in the center of the room. Carl and a guest soon brought a mattress from one of the bedrooms and placed it in the center of the cleared space. The guests responded by applauding joyfully.
Carl took a pretty young brunette by the hand and led her to the edge of the mattress.
"Ladies!" he cried, as if announcing a prize-fight, "here we have an object of contention between two friends. As you can see, darlings, she is a most worthy trophy. Now she will submit herself to both contestants, and you shall act as judges."
Again the guests applauded, but not too wildly.
The pretty young brunette was obviously nervous and frightened. She had not counted on anything like this, and she was not happy about it. She began to protest
"You must be crazy!" she yelled at Carl, at the same time struggling to release his grip on her wrist. "Let me go! Let me go!"
"Of course, darling," Carl said, a smirk on his face. He released her and she ran quickly from the room. The guests laughed, and Carl shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, the curse of modesty!" he said. He turned to the Butch who had brought the girl, grinned and said: "You had better see to your friend, darling. I think we have upset her." Then to the others he loudly announced: "Let not the bed be wasted! Who will come forward? Ah, well! perhaps after a few more drinks we shall have a performance."
The guests laughed, squealed, and clinked cocktail glasses, and Carl walked up to a muscular young man and said:
"These bitches don't know how to live it up, Tony darling. You come with me, and we'll talk privately."
The muscular model addressed as Tony smiled sweetly and quietly followed Carl into the far bedroom.
Carl opened the bedroom door and switched on the light. There was an immediate objection from the bed, which was occupied by the pretty young brunette and the 'butch' who brought her to the party.
"Oops! Sorry, darlings," Carl said, switching off the light. "Don't let us disturb you. Tony and I will use the floor."
The two men unzipped their trousers and sat on the floor, backs propped against the wall. Carl inserted his hand in Tony's opening and brought forth his cock, which was by no means a small one. He quickly scrambled to his knees and leaned over it, taking it in his mouth.
The brunette, who had leaped up the moment the light flooded the room, was once again on the bed, having been pushed there by her companion, the Butch. The brunette was supported by the bed from her waist up, but the bottoms of her feet were on the floor. The Butch sank down swooning between the white arches of the brunette's quivering thighs. "I don't ever want to see you talking to that one again, Doris," she said. "I'll beat the shit out of you, if you do!"
Doris whimpered. "Don't be so possessive, Madge!
Nothing would have happened. Now please shut up about it and do something-I'm burning up!"
Madge sank down lower and placed her lips on the mons veneris. Doris felt the soft, quick, warm little animal that was Madge's fervent tongue flick between the upper folds of wet, warm honey pot, closing in on the clitoris, the one center, the spot that tingled and longed to be touched.
At the first swift thrust of Madge's tongue, Doris whimpered and raised her buttocks, every muscle in her abdomen and legs tightening toward the great, joyous release which Madge worked relentlessly to bring about.
When that release swept over her, Doris cried out, gasped loudly, and grabbed Madge's head. She buried her fingers into the sharp-cropped hair of her lover and pulled the woman up and over her, throwing her arms passionately round Made's shoulders and welding her mouth to hers.
Carl and Tony were 69ing it on the floor, each sucking the other's member hungrily. Tony came first-shooting his milky semen deep down Carl's fervent throat This, in turn, caused Carl to ejaculate. He pumped his hips furiously and then stiffened throughout his body as the fluid spurted from him. And he imagined that the mouth receiving his juices belonged to another face-a rather sad, melancholy face that he loved dearer than anything. It was the face of Jonas Wilk. Carl sat up and sighed, telling himself that he had to forget.
"The past is a thief," he thought. "It comes in the present and robs us of the future."
Carl and Tony rejoined the other guests, leaving Made and Doris still entangled on the bed; but the party was over for Carl.
He was bothered by a vague, worried feeling; it had been with him ever since Bud Hasting's unexpected question: "Is there any doubt in your mind that Jonas Wilk is dead?"
Carl had not paid too much attention to the question at the time, but as the evening wore on it haunted him more and more. Now he couldn't put it out of his mind.
His guests were rapidly losing their inhibitions, as he knew they would, but their alcohol-inspired activities did not interest him. They were pairing off, making romantic advances, shouting obscenities, and fondling one another. Some were partially disrobed. On the mattress, totally oblivious to the others, Carl saw Calvin Lowgren, an older homosexual, sucking the cock of Phil Badgely, a skinny, unattractive young fellow with a protruding Adams' apple. Even this scene failed to distract Carl from his worrisome concern.
What did Hastings mean by such a question?" he wondered. "Is there a possibility that Jonas is alive?" he mumbled to himself, shaking his head negatively all the while.
"Impossible!" he told himself. "I was there-at the funeral. I saw him buried!"
His eyes burned, and his throat constricted, and sadness overwhelmed him. He fought to stop them, but the tears came anyway.
"Jonas-sweet, dear, loving Jonas-was dead!"
That same evening in Pineboro, N. C, Harvey Wilk lay on his bed beside Anita Hutchins and rejoiced at his good fortune. No man had received more for doing less, and he was highly pleased with himself. Along with his brother's wealth he had inherited other treasures, such as Anita Hutchins-a vast improvement over the kind of women he had been used to fucking. He looked at her and smiled silently to himself.
Anita was quite young, for him, with a perfectly lovely ripening body. Her hair was a rich brown, shoulder length and extremely wonderful to feel. Her eyes-which he could not see because she pretended to be asleep-were a hazy green. Her lips were full, the bottom fuller than the top, and sensual. He could not resist them. He kissed her gently, then directed his gaze downward, letting his eyes linger on her twin mounds of loveliness, the nipples of which were the size and color of large strawberries. Following the curve of her frame, he saw that her stomach was almost flat-the skin soft, creamy-white, and intoxicating. Her mons pubis jutted sharply out over the V between her thighs, and he felt his pulse quicken as his eyes studied the splotches of semen that had dampened and disturbed the otherwise smoothly curled hairs. The flesh of her inner thighs appealed to him, and her long legs were sexually exciting. She appeared relaxed, unconcerned, but he knew she was tense and would shudder should he suddenly touch her anywhere below the naval.
He thought of the wild abandon with which she committed the sex act, and this thought caused a tremor to run down his stomach. His cock came slowly to life, swelling and extending by degrees until it stood rigid and aching to do its duty. A tiny bead of translucent fluid formed on the crest of his shaft; he looked at it for a moment, thinking how nice it would be to have Anita lick the fluid away.
Harvey placed the palm of his right hand on her mons pubis and fingered the upper-part of her slit. The moment the ball of his finger came into contact with her clitoris, Anita squirmed; she strained upward, and an almost inaudible sigh escaped her lips.
He looked and saw that her eyes had remained closed, but the lids were flickering. He smiled and suddenly caught the nipple of one breast between his teeth. He worried it with the tip of his tongue, felt it expand and hardly, and suddenly brought his teeth together with controlled force. She gasped, and the muscles in her stomach and legs jerked. He repeated the process on the other nipple, and she rippled all over. Her hips were churning slowly, in tempo to the motion of his finger on the clitoris. He knew she expected him to fuck her again-he always fucked her at least twice; but this time she wanted to be fucked again. This knowledge added to the fires of his desire and he threw himself upon her, prying her thighs apart with his legs. He was on the verge of penetrating her slit when the phone rang.
She opened her eyes, startled, and stared at him.
"Shit!" he growled, scrambling above her to reach the phone. "What a helluava time to call!"
He rolled over to his side of the bed, balanced himself in a sitting position, and put the receiver to his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece.
"Hello . ... Yes, this is Harvey Wilk, operator." He smiled down at Anita, shrugged and, taking her hand and depositing it on his rigid cock, said: "It's long distance. You play with that for a while."
Anita squeezed his shaft several times, then stroked it gently. She scrambled round in front of him, eased her head between his legs and lowered her lips until they rested upon the crest of his passionate rod. She accepted it into her mouth and pumped it slowly as he talked on the phone.
"Yes, Mr. Hastings-what can I do for you?. . . .I see ... Well, I dunno about that . ... Saturday? That would be better, if you really plan to come here . ... Yes, I understand, but there isn't very much I can tell you about my brother . ... Nothing that isn't already known, I mean . ... Alright-I'll expect you on Saturday then. Goodbye, Mr. Hastings."
Harvey threw the receiver to the floor and entwined his fingers in Anita's hair. "Ah! woman, you're a demon!"
"Who was it?" she asked, releasing his shaft. "Another writer from New York," he answered, sliding down upon his back and keeping her between his legs. "He wants to know about Jonas, huh."
"What else?"
"You're not going to tell him about me, are you."
"Don't talk like a damn fool!"
Anita laughed, and Harvey rubbed his hot, wet prick over her nipples.
"What about Matt Langdon?" she asked, putting herself into position to resume sucking his cock.
Harvey frowned, glared at her, and snapped: "For Christsake, Anita! Can't you forget that bastard?"
"I can," she answered, "but apparently you can't"
"You really loved him-didn't you?"
"I thought I did," she said, meeting his eyes. "But that was before I met you, Harvey."
"Then shut up about him!" he said, still a little unhappy. "You know I hate his guts!"
She began sucking his cock again, and soon all else was forgotten-where she was concerned. Harvey, on the other hand, was plagued by memories. He inserted two fingers into her cunt and jabbed in and out of her juicy slit with slow, twisting strokes. In die meantime she was driving him up the wall with expert use of her tongue.
"Damn Matt Langdon!" he thought, suddenly visualizing him screwing Anita. "And damn her for reminding me of the sonavubitch!"
He wanted to hurt her, punish her for having allowed Matt Langdon to fuck her. Driven on by the slow madness of envy and jealousy, he scrambled up and forcefully held her on her stomach, face down on the bed. He straddled her thighs and stared down at her contoured buttocks, a glint of viciousness in his angry eyes. He parted the tantalizing mounds of flesh and aimed his prick for the small orifice revealed between them. Before she was fully aware of his intention, Harvey plunged his rod into her rectum-Anita cried out in agony as he drove into her, driving as hard and as deep as he could. Her wild struggle and loud cries gave him a strange but thrilling sensation; it delighted him to realize that he was punishing her for flinging the name of a recent lover in his face. He lunged again and again, ignoring her pleas and curses; he wanted to hurt her, and he did.
"You mean bastard!" she sobbed, feeling as if her rectum had been torn apart
"Shut up, and take it!" he growled, and with a determined plunge he sank the whole of his cock into the unwilling hole. She screamed-and he blasted-off. Anita felt the hot liquid spurting into her and she shuddered.
"Never mention Matt Langdon again!" he said, breathing hard and slumping upon her with all his weight. "He ruined my brother's life! the cocksucker!"
CHAPTER FOUR
Bud Hastings arrived at Carl Smithers' apartment the following day, and was admitted almost immediately. Carl had been expecting him. The cardboard box containing the letters was waiting on a long table, to which Bud was directed and at which he was expected to read and make his notes.
"How was the party?" he asked, sitting down and selecting several letters at random.
Carl threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.
"Oh, God!" he exclaimed, "It was a positive bore! And it was all your fault"
"My-all my fault!? "
"Yes, indeedee-die! Why did you ask me that stupid question? It loused up my whole evening."
Bud shook his head, trying to remember. "Which question was that?"
"You wanted to know whether I was sure Jonas is dead," Carl said, sighing heavily.
"Oh, yes-and that disturbed you?"
"Well, of course it disturbed me!" Carl said, all excited. "Why did you ask such a question-about his being dead, I mean?"
"Someone suggested he wasn't the one recovered from the crash, that's all," Bud explained. "I have to ask all sorts of questions, you know. But why did that particular question disturb you so much?"
"Only that you ask it," Carl answered, thoughtfully. "It occurred to me that perhaps you possessed evidence that Jonas was alive."
"No, nothing like that"
Carl moved to the window and looked out With turning round, he began to talk.
"I can't get accustomed to the fact of his death," he said, the words low and unemotional. "I loved Jonas, and I miss him. It was more than a physical love-the feeling I had for him. Oh, I had that too, of course. And I really believe that Jonas was fond of me. Sometimes I think he would have been happier had he not become famous. That wasn't what he wanted from life-not at all. But he had such a moving voice, and once he used it to sing with . ... Well, the fame was inevitable. He courted it like a man courts a woman. He grew tired of it the same way. Poor Jonas!"
Bud unfolded one of the letters, but didn't attempt to read it. Instead, he addressed himself to Carl, who was still staring out the window.
"Why did he become a professional singer-Do you know?"
Carl turned from the window and faced him. He said: "I can answer that with two words."
"What are they."
"Matt Langdon!"
Bud cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of a choking feeling; he felt a wave of pity for the homosexual. It had never occurred to him before that such men were capable of such deep emotional attachment.
"Did you-you-know Matt Langdon?" he asked.
"I never met him," Carl replied, moving away from the window. "But that wasn't necessary," he added, and pointed at the box of letters. "I know him from those letters. You will too, once you have read them. Now, if you don't mind, I'll leave you to your reading."
Bud watched him leave the room, and dropped his attention to the letter in his hand. It began the same as the previous three, and Bud recognized the even scrawl.....
Dear Cart
I think I mentioned taking up guitar-pickin' and folk singing' sometime back, but, in case I didn't, this is to let you know I am now quite involved. I owe my interest and involvement to Matt Langdon-the new friend I did write you about. Hey! he's got a nice-inch prick! Ain't that something? Doesn't it make your mouth drip honey? If you were here, Carl, I'd get him to let you work it over.
Matt is quite a dingaling with the ladies. If he remains in Pineboro much longer he will screw every broad in town. I tell you the girls throw themselves at him by the dozens. We had four of them last night-two for each of us-and we fucked our brains out. I'll tell you more about that later.
Matt has been teaching me to play the guitar. You may be surprised to hear that I am getting pretty good. I've been learning a lot of the old songs, too, and some of them are really gems. Matt is now insisting that I turn professional and become a "singing star." I admit that I am tempted more than I have ever been tempted before, and I think I'll give it the old college try. Matt knows an agent in Charlotte, says a good one, and I have promised to drive up with him next week and have a talk with the man. I'll let you know exactly what happens.
Back again to the four girls. I'll call them Nancy, Thelma, Joyce and Ellen-which is not their real names. It was quite an experience for me, as you can well imagine. We all crammed our way into one motel room, which Matt had rented that afternoon, and got right down to the business at hand. I was both apprehensive and excited. The thought of fucking two women in the same room, at the same time, is what excited me; but I was apprehensive of what would happen once we all got into the room together.
I soon discovered that I had nothing to be apprehensive about. Matt, an old hand at such shenanigans, quickly set an example for me to follow. He immediately removed his clothes, telling the girls to do-likewise. They hastily stripped themselves, laughing and joking as they did so. The urge to participate grew too strong for my natural shyness, and soon I, too, was in the nude and ready for action. As if by some prearranged plan Nancy and Joyce became my partners, while Thelma and Ellen gave all their attention to Matt.
I didn't know exactly how to handle myself so I watched to see what Matt would do. He pushed the bed against the wall and spread the blankets and the bedspread on the floor.
"We should form a chain," he said, "and get each other in a passionate mood."
He lay down on the floor and propped himself up on his elbows. "O.K., Thelma," he said, "You suck my cock, Ellen will suck your cunt. Then-let's see now! I'll eat Joyce, who will take on Jonas, who, in turn can eat Nancy. That leaves Nancy to eat Ellen, and we have a perfect round. After that, well, every man and woman for themselves!"
And that is precisely what we did, believe it or not!
I was a little self-conscious in the beginning, but soon enjoyed myself more than I dreamed possible. It was genuinely exciting to eat cunt and have my cock sucked at the same time. But most exciting of all was fucking two women together. The daisy chain was merely a warming-up exercise!
Matt was the first to break the chain. He wanted to fuck, and he selected Thelma as his first partner. That is when I discovered the immense size of his shaft. I watched fascinated as he mounted Thelma, even though Joyce was still sucking on my joy stick for all she was worth.
Matt didn't waste any time, and Thelma gasped as he fell on top of her. She cried out sharply as his thick, long, stiff cock was jammed unceremoniously into her slit She continued to moan as he started to fuck her, for he rammed that huge prick in her to the balls. As he pounded away, seeming to increase his speed with every thrust, Ellen fondled his balls with one hand and fingered his ass-hole with the other.
Joyce suddenly ceased, sucking my cock and cried out in an onrushing orgasm. Nancy had continued to nibble away at her pussy, which caused Joyce to orgate so violently that she released me and swooned to the floor, her body shaking and quivering.
Nancy turned her attention to me. She infuriated my lust by holding my prick almost against her lips-breathing heavily on that inflamed stick but not quite letting it touch her lovely lips. She stroked it lovingly, watching closely and intendy as my cock pulsed madly.
She slipped her fingers down the shaft until they came into contact with my balls. She touched them gently, pushing the sack so that it swung lightly. She stared at the loosely swinging balls in fascination-holding my prick up, out of the way, while she amused herself with them.
I endured her teasing as long as I could. ... .. Then, inflamed beyond logic or consideration, I planted my hands on Nancy's head and forced her mouth to accept my cock, and-holding her head steady-pushed my throbbing member between her teeth and deep into her mouth.
Nancy clamped her mouth round my long stem, making loud smacking noises as she commenced to suck it in earnest. In less than two minutes I was spurting spunk down her throat, and she was swallowing it with relish. When she had relieved me of the final drop, she sank back and reclined beside Joyce-both on their backs, with their cunts in plain view.
I wanted to fuck both of them, and my only problem was: which one should I start with?
As I was trying desperately to decide which girl to mount, I was distracted by an ecstatic scream. I glanced to the side and saw that the scream had come from
Ellen, who was still writhing and moaning beneath the busy body of Matt. I was a little surprised because the last time I noticed he had been fucking Thelma. I wondered whether Thelma had had an orgasm? Then I remembered my own unsolved problem.
I looked down at the pair of young, pouting cunts before me, and mentally flipped a coin. Nancy won. I lowered myself on top of her and quickly slipped my cock into her juicy cunt. Then I let myself go completely, pulsing my shaft into her hot channel, my lust gathering itself forcefully as I felt Nancy's clinging hole tighten passionately round my driving rod.
Feeling myself ready to come, I forced myself to withdraw from Nancy's writhing cunt and scrambled onto Joyce's body. Falling between her thighs, which she immediately widened to receive me, I slid my prick easily into her eager pussy! I pumped her hot, squirming hole for nearly five minutes and, then, I changed holes again. Nancy welcomed me back into her honey-pot with subdued cries of passionate pleasure.
I kept this up for half an hour, swapping cunts regularly at frequent intervals, trying to decide which of the girls I should deposit my load in. At last, exhausted, and straining in every muscle, I emptied my loins deep into the belly of Nancy.
You have by now gotten the picture, I hope; it was one hell of good-fucking night!
Take care of yourself, you old fag. And good luck with your new song!
Your friend, Jonas W.
P. S. I almost forgot, but you inquired about Lonnie Ansel in your last letter. So far as I know he is still here in Pineboro, but I haven't seen him. I've been too busy preparing for my new career.
* * *
Bud Hastings refolded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. He became uncomfortably aware of the stiffness in his crotch. The letter's description of an actual orgy had set him aflame, and his cock was throbbingly erect and ready for some action of its own. He looked up to see Carl Smithers staring down at him across the table, a strangely turned smile on his face.
"Is anything wrong?" Bud asked, stirring in his seat.
Carl walked round the table and stood beside Bud. He just stood there, looking down, and Bud knew that he was staring at the bulge in his crotch. "My God!" he thought, a wave of self-conscious heat washing over him, "he wants to suck my cock!" Surprisingly, Bud did not find the idea as distasteful as he thought he should. In fact, the more he dwelled upon it the more the idea appealed to him. He could stand an orgasm about now, and getting Carl to generate one was preferable to jerking-off.
"Jonas sure went into detail, didn't he?" Carl said, sinking down on one knee. Casually, but deliberately, and confidently, he reached for Bud's zipper and unzipped his trousers.
Bud sat absolutely still, wanting Carl to get on with it; he did not speak until he felt Carl grip his cock and withdraw it from the prison of his shorts. Then he said: "He sure does!"
Carl squeezed Bud's shaft gently and stroked it slowly. Bud braced his feet and pushed the chair that held him further away from the table. When he did not rise following this action, Carl knew that there would be no objection to his proceeding with the act he had in mind. He moved in front of Bud and pressed his chest between the tense, nervous thighs.
"You have a beautiful, beautiful stem of manhood," Carl said, and licked the tiny crevice of the crest with the tip of his tongue. Bud sucked in his breath as the thrilling sensation lashed his loins, and slid forward in the chair, his cock standing rigid and covered with pre-orgasmic juices.
"I'll pretend you are Jonas," Carl said, his voice soft and feminine-like. Then he covered the waiting, anxious cock with his mouth and tightened his lips around it. Slowly he raised his head and lowered it again, pausing for a moment to tongue-lap the crimson crest each time he came to the top. Bud could barely sit in the chair-the sensations of pure physical pleasure repeatedly attacking him. Suddenly, following a tingling in his scrotum, he was borne upward on a giant wave of sensation until in one long, torrential rush he emptied himself into the mindless, demanding fury of Carl's enveloping mouth.
Carl sucked until the last drop of fluid had been extracted, and then he delicately wiped the glistening cock with a handkerchief and stood up.
"That was delicious," he said, simply. "Thank you."
"Thank you!" Bud said, inhaling strongly. "May I use your bathroom?"
Carl showed him to the bathroom. When Bud returned, Carl was sitting in a cushioned arm-chair sipping a blend of scotch and water. .
"I took the liberty of mixing you a drink," Carl announced, nodding toward the table.
Bud crossed the room and lifted the glass. "Thank you very much," he said, sipping the drink. "By the way, would you happen to know where I might locate Matt Langdon?"
"No," Carl said, his eyes clouding over, "no, I don't know where Matt Langdon is these days. Wherever he is," he added bitterly, "he's living on money he got from Jonas. You might ask Harvey-that's Jonas' brother; he's still in Pineboro. He may know where Matt is."
"I have an appointment with him on Saturday," Bud said. "I'm flying down to Pineboro to get hometown background for the story. Is there anybody else I should see?"
"Well, it would be helpful if you went over to Charlotte and had a talk with Wade McKinley, the agent He managed Jonas, you know."
"No, I didn't know," Bud answered, "but thanks for telling me. I'll certainly want to interview him."
Conversation ceased abruptly, though not awkwardly, and Bud selected another letter to read.
Dear Carl
Since my last letter to you I have launched a professional career as a folk-singer. Matt and I drove to Charlotte, where I auditioned for an agent named Wade McKinley. He said he was quite impressed with my voice and the way I handled myself while performing. Then he arranged for me to appear on the stage of a local theater, so he could watch me in front of a real audience. I was naturally quite nervous-No! I was scared shitless!-but the audience seemed to like my little contribution. Anyway, I signed a contract with Mr. McKinley's agency, and he is going to get me some "bookings"-that's show talk for jobs.
Matt has been a good companion and a real friend. If anything worthwhile comes of this venture, he should receive all the credit Without his teaching and encouragement I should never done anything of this sort in a million years. He has even agreed to remain with me until I securely launched on my career. Of course he is to be paid, if I succeed-I have insisted on that point
You would probably love Matt; he has a great deal in common with you. He does exactly what you used to do with me: he is always trying to get me to commit myself to someone. Especially since I told him of my secret ambition to have a mistress all my own.
All the way to Charlotte and back, Matt kept going over the girls I have met, naming them, discussing them, and saying of each one: "What about her? She would make an excellent mistress!"
I told him I could not possibly choose my mistress from among the girls mentioned. He finally got disgusted, and said:
"You don't make sense, Jonas! There are only so many types to choose from, and you have already rejected all of them. Whom will you take, for Christsake? What kind of woman do you like?"
It is the answer to the charade, and if I knew it, I should not torment myself so much. Up to the present, I have never loved any woman, but I have loved and do love, love. I have not loved this woman or that, one more than another; but some one whom I have never seen, who must live somewhere, and whom I shall find, if it please whatever gods there be. I know well what she is like, and, when I meet her, I shall recognize her.
I have often pictured to myself the place where she dwells, the dress that she wears, the eyes and hair that she has. I hear her voice; I should recognize her step among a thousand, and if, by chance, some one uttered her name, I should turn round; it is impossible that she should not have one of the five or six names that I have given her in my head.
She is twenty-four years old, neither more nor less. She is not without experience in the bedroom, and she is not yet satiated. It is a charming age for making love as it ought to be, without childishness and without libertinism. She is of medium height. I like neither a giant nor a dwarf. I wish to be able to carry my lover by myself from the sofa to the bed; but it would be disagreeable to have to look for her in the latter. When raising herself slightly on tiptoe, her lips should reach my own. That is the proper height.
As to her figure, she is rather plump than skinny. I am something of a Turk in this matter, and I should scarcely like to meet with a corner when I expected a circumference; a woman's skin should be well filled, her flesh compact and firm, like the pulp of a peach that is nearly ripe: and the mistree I shall have is made just so.
She is blonde with dark eyes, white like a blonde, with the color of a brunette, and a red and sparkling smile. The lower lip rather large, the eyeball swimming in a flood of natural moisture, her breast round, medium, and firm, her hands long and artful, her walk undulating like a snake standing on its tail, her hips full and yielding, and her shoulders broad; a style of beauty at once delicate and compact, graceful and healthy, poetic and real-a subject of Giorgione's wrought by Rubens.
It will be in the evening, during a beautiful sunset, that we shall meet for the first time; the sky will have those clear yellow and pale-green orange-colored tints that we see in the pictures of the old masters; there will be a great avenue of flowering chestnut trees and venerable elms filled with chirping birds-fine trees of fresh dark green, giving a shade full of mystery and dampness, and, quite in the background, a mansion of brick and stone with long narrow windows.
At one of these windows, the mistress of my heart, looking as I have just described her, will be leaning with an air of melancholy on the balcony. You see that nothing is wanting, and that the whole thing is perfectly absurd. The fair one drops her handkerchief; I pick it up, kiss it, and bring it to her. We enter into conversation; I display all the wit that I do not possess; I say charming things; I am answered in the same way, I rejoin, it is a display of fireworks, a luminous rain of dazzling words. In short, I am adorable-and adored. As if it were meant to be, she allows me into her bedroom. We make love, kissing each other all over; and when our bodies are joined, and I am deep in her precious cunny, we have several simultaneous orgasms. We sleep, exhausted, until morning, when we again give ourselves furiously to passion's dark and stormy rage.
Is not this well conceived, Carl? Nothing in the world could be more simply, and it is truly very astonishing that it has not come to pass ten times rather than once.
You will, at all events, admit that when I go in for romance, it is not by halves that I do so, and that I am as foolish as it is possible to be. It is always so, for there is nothing in the world more disagreeable than folly with reason in it. You will also admit that when I write letters they are volumes rather than simple notes. In everything, I like what goes beyond ordinary limits. That is the reason why I am fond of you, and of Matt Langdon; it is the reason why I am undertaking a career as a performer in show business.
There you have it, Carl-another thing I am determined to have. Perhaps the career will lead me to the mistress I seek. I don't know what will happen, but I must do two things-attain fame as a singer and attain a mistress all my own. I bid you goodbye that I may commence my quest.
I have been dreaming long enough: to action now!
Your friend, Jonas W.
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
Bud made a change in his plans. He suggested to R.J. Colby, his boss, that it would kill two birds with one stone if he left on Friday, so he could stop off at Charlotte and interview Wade McKinley. R.J. had no objections.
"Handle it any way you want," he said, gruffly. "Just get me a hot story."
"I don't think we need worry about the story being hot," Bud answered. "Jonas Wilk was a real cocksman, according to his letters. But I'm getting interested in a friend of his, a man named Matt Langdon."
"Have you talked to him yet?"
"I don't know where he is," Bud said, scratching his elbow. "I hope to locate him through Harvey Wilk."
R.J. picked up a folder of paper from his desk and handed it to Bud.
"I got this from our files," he said. "It's research on Jonas Wilk. We gathered the information for a story several years ago, when he hit his peak, but for some reason or other never used it."
Bud took the folder and put it in his briefcase. "Thanks," he said. "I need all the help I can get."
He left the office and went directly to Mia's apartment. Bud had no intention of leaving town without first getting a farewell lay, and this was his last chance to be with her before take-off.
Mia was just as anxious as Bud, so, when he arrived, she wore nothing more than a wrap-around robe. She flung her arms round him and melted into him, exploring his mouth with her tongue. In a wordless, passionate greeting, and one that suited him. He tossed the briefcase onto a nearby chair and without releasing her, or breaking their kiss, he started slowly walking her backwards to the divan.
Realizing that he was going to make love to her, and wanting him to do so, she allowed herself to be lowered to the cushions without resistance. As she sank backwards the robe parted, revealing her saddle and thighs. He fumbled clumsily to unzip his fly and withdraw his already hard and pre-lubricated cock. Mia widened her thighs, letting one leg dangling from the divan, and felt for his instrument of pleasure. She deftly guided his rod into her wet softness and tightly wrapped him in her arms and groaned as he thrust furiously into her channel.
"Oh, babybabybaby!" he uttered passionately, as his cock buried itself in her warm, moist flesh. "How I love fucking you! You're the most precious fuck on earth!"
She arched her back and, using her foot for leverage, lunged her hips upwards, forcing his cock still deeper inside her now heated vagina. She churned her hips and dug her nails into the flesh below his shoulders. "Fuck me, darling, fuck me!" she cried. "It feels so wonderful I could scream! Faster, darling-harder! I want to feel you come in me . ... .Ooooh! more, more, more!"
Her squirming and pleading inspired him to a high pitch of excitement, and he rammed her repeatedly, long and hard, until he could restrain his fluid no longer. He gripped her buttocks with his hands, held her up from the cushion, and fiercely pumped her creaming joy-pot, bringing her, as well as himself, to long, body-shuddering orgasm. Bud could feel the muscular contractions of Mia's cunt closing upon and releasing his throbbing cock and he fervently enjoyed each contraction.
"You are really going down South?" Mia asked, as they adjusted themselves on the divan, following his withdrawal.
"Tomorrow morning," he answered, using several tissues to wipe the creamy film from his member. Putting it back inside his trousers, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, adding: "I'll be home again on Sunday night. Will you be working, or what?"
"No, I'm not working. Shall I meet you at the airport?"
"Yes. I'll wire you the flight number and scheduled arrival time," he said, squeezing her hand in his. "I wish you were going with me, Mia."
"Thanks-but no thanks!" she replied, and stood up to rush for the bathroom. The hot, thick liquid he had spurted so powerfully into her pussy's channel was returning, and dripping from the lips of her slit. "I'll be right back," she said, quickly disappearing through the bedroom door.
Bud chuckled. Then his eyes came upon the discarded briefcase, still precariously balanced on the chair, where he had thrown it. He got up and returned with it to the divan. He opened it and withdrew the folder R. J. Colby had given him in the office. He lay the folder beside him and reached again into the briefcase. This time he brought forth several letters which Carl Smithers had permitted him to take. The letters reminded him of his sexual experience with Carl and, for a moment, he wondered what Mia would say if he told her of it. But it didn't take him long to suffocate that idea. No need to experiment with trouble. He flipped open one of the letters and began to read:
Dear Carl:
Well, my friend, here is another missile of inconsequential information from the companion of your golden youth. As you know the career is progressing rapidly, though, for the life of me, I can't understand why. The records I have made are selling by the hundreds of thousands and my weekly salary is now $6,000.00! Think of that, Carl! $6,000.00 a week for singing songs and picking a guitar! And you want to know something? I'm no more interested in being a public personality than I am in being a dairy-maid. But don't misunderstand-I'm not complaining; it's all very interesting.
Matt Langdon is quite a promoter. He not only taught me (he still teaches me) but he manages everything; all I do is make an appearance and sing a few songs. I sometimes get the feeling that it should be Matt, not me, who is famous. I once asked him how he felt about it. He said, "What the fuck is the difference who is famous as long as the money rolls in, and as long as I get my share?" Well, he gets his share. I see to that; it's only fair. I'd give him even more of a share but he flatly refuses to accept it "Twenty-five per cent is more than enough," he says.
There is always plenty of women around, of course; and I seldom pass up a piece of ass, but I still haven't got a mistress. Yet I had taken myself by the hand and sworn my greatest oath that I would go to the end of the world-and I have not even been out of the country. I don't know how it is, but I have never been able to keep my word to any one, even to myself; the devil must have a hand in it. At least that is Harvey's opinion, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Thus I believe that my resolve to have a mistress is what prevents me from having one.
Nevertheless I occasionally set forth to find one. I must give you a detailed account of my expedition, which took place in Charlotte. After looking at myself carefully in the mirror in different lights to see whether I had a sufficiently handsome and gallant appearance, I went resolutely out of the hotel, with lofty countenance, chin in air, and chest out, looking straight before me, elbowing the townsfolk, and with quite a victorious and triumphal mien.
I was like another Jason going to the conquest of the Golden Fleece. But, alas! Jason was more fortunate than I: besides the conquest of the Fleece he at the same time effected the conquest of a beautiful princess, while, as for me, I have neither princess nor fleece.
I went away, then, through the streets, noticing all the women, and hastening up to them and looking at them as closely as possible when they seemed worth the trouble of an examination. Some would assume their most virtuous air, and pass without raising their eyes. Others would at first be surprised, and then, if they had good teeth, would smile. Others again would turn after a little to see me when they thought I was no longer looking at them, and blush like cherries when they found themselves face to face with me. One or two openly flirted with me, letting it be known that they were open to suggestion.
The weather was fine, and there was a crowd of people on all the streets, walking. And yet, I must confess, in spite of all the respect I entertain towards that interesting half of the human race, that which we call the fair sex is devilishly ugly: in a hundred women there was scarcely one that was passable. And generally, what fatigue was there on these faces! What expressions of envy, evil curiosity, greediness, and shameless sensuality! And how much more ugly is a woman who is not handsome than a man who is not so!
I saw nothing good-except several Negro women. But they were no more interested in me than the man in the moon. But I think I'd like to love a Negro woman, even if I got her into bed only once. Do you suppose they really are more passionate than white women? I should very much like to find out for myself, but perhaps I had better wait until I am out of the narrow-minded Southland.
In truth, old friend, I believe that man, and by man I also understand woman, is the ugliest animal on earth. This quadruped who walks on his hind legs seems to me singularly presumptuous in assigning quite as a matter of right the first rank in creation to himself. A lion, a tiger, is handsomer than man, and many individuals in their species attain to all the beauty that belongs to their nature. This is extremely rare among men.
I am greatly afraid, my friend, that I shall never embrace my ideal, and yet there is nothing extravagant or unnatural in it. It is not the ideal of a schoolboy. I do not require globes of ivory, nor columns of alabaster, nor traceries of azure; and in its composition I have employed neither lilies, nor snow, nor roses, nor jet, nor ebony, nor coral, nor ambrosia, nor pearls, nor diamonds; I have left the stars of heaven in peace, and I have not unhooked the sun out of season. It is almost a vulgar ideal, so simple is it; and it seems to me that with a couple of dollars I might find it ready made and completely realized around most any corner-but it eludes me. I am beginning to feel that I shall never find what I seek, and already am railing against my fate.
As for you-you are not so foolish as I am, and you are fortunate; you have simply given yourself up to your life without tormenting yourself to shape it, and you have taken things as they came. You have not sought happiness, and it has sought you; you are loved, and you love. I do not envy you-you must not think that, at least-but when I reflect on your contentment, I feel less joyous than I ought to be, and I say to myself with a sigh that I would gladly enjoy similar satisfaction.
Perhaps my happiness has passed close to me, and in my blindness I have not seen it. Perhaps the voice has spoken, and the noise of the storms within me has prevented me from hearing.
Perhaps I have been loved in obscurity by some humble heart that I have disregarded and broken. Perhaps I have myself been the ideal of another, the lode-star of some soul in suspense, the dream of a night and the thought of a day. Had I looked to my feet, I might perhaps have seen some fair Magdalene, with her box of ardors and her sweeping hair. I passed along with my arms raised towards die heavens, desiring to pluck the stars which fled from me, and disdaining to pick up the little Easter daisy that was opening her golden heart to me in the dewy grass. I have made a great mistake, Carl; I have asked from love something more than love, and that it could not give. I forgot that love was naked; I did not understand the meaning of this grand symbol. Love can offer itself alone, and he who would obtain from it aught else is not worthy to be loved.
But why has love come to me before the mistress? Why am I thirsty, yet without the spring at which to quench my thirst? The world is to me a Sahara without wells or date-trees. I have not a single shady nook in my life where I can screen myself from the sun: I endure all the fervor of passion without its raptures and unspeakable delights; I know its torments, and am without its pleasures. I am jealous of what does not exist; I am disquieted by the shadow of a shadow; I heave sighs which have no motive; I suffer sleeplessness which no worshipped phantom comes to adorn; I give to the winds kisses which are not returned; I wear out my eyes trying to grasp in the distance an uncertain and deceitful form; I wait for what is not to come, and I count the hours anxiously, as though I had an appointment to keep.
My friend, to you alone could I relate such things as these. Write to me that you pity me and that you do not reckon me mad: how enviable are those who have a passion they can satisfy!
Your friend, Jonas W.
Bud re-folded the letter and only then became aware that Mia was once again sitting beside him on the divan. He smiled awkwardly at her, with the look of a small boy who has been caught with his hand in a cookie jar.
"I didn't hear you come in," he said, apologetically.
"You were too interested in that-whatever it is you were reading," she said laughingly. "Another of those letters Jonas wrote, I suspect. But I thought Carl refused to let you have them, to take away-you didn't steal them, did you?"
"Don't talk nonsense!" he said, color rushing to his face. "He knew I was going to Pineboro and let me take several of the letters to read on the way. I had to swear on my mother's grave I'd return them on Monday."
"Have you gotten any information of value from the letters?" Mia asked, tucking one leg beneath her.
"I've learned three things from the letters I've read thus far," he said quite seriously. "For one thing, Jonas Wilk had a terrific imagination; for another, he had a remarkable talent for putting words on paper. He may have done much better had he chosen to write novels."
"Yes, he was very good with words," she said, "and his imagination was quite colorful. But you said three things and named only two. What is the third?"
"He was a sadistic bastard!"
Bud said the words with such cold emphasis that Mia gave a start, then blinked her eyes and asked: "What makes you say that?"
"The contents of the letters," Bud explained, now speaking in a more normal tone. "He did not write the letters through affection; he wrote them to torture Carl Smithers."
"Of course I haven't read the letters, except for those two that first day," she said. "But don't you think that is more of a personal opinion than a fact? Certainly Carl doesn't think the letters were written to torture him."
"Perhaps you're right, but-" He paused, wearing the look of a man debating with himself. Then, suddenly making up his mind to proceed, he said: "You knew him, lived with him-made love to him! Suppose you tell me whether or not he was sadistic?"
She stared at him in silence for several minutes, each of which seemed to him to be an eternity, and when she finally spoke he regretted having asked the question. He tried to stop her from speaking by apologizing, but she placed an affectionate hand on his thigh and insisted on having her say.
"You must not involve me in any of this," she said. "I have told you that I did not love Jonas Wilk, and he did not love me. I doubt that he ever loved any woman. We made love-yes; but we were not in love. I think I understood him-perhaps not, but I think I did. But I love you; and for that reason you must not involve me in your story. I refuse to be put in the position of defending Jonas to you; it isn't fair of you to expect me to do it I will not interfere with the story you write, regardless of what you write; but I will not help you by defending or criticizing Jonas, or by discussing him with you on a personal basis. If you ask me to confirm or deny something that you have head I will do so, provided I have personal knowledge of the thing in question. But I will not argue with you, Bud, about mere opinions. Bearing in mind all that I have just said, I tell you now that I never once thought of Jonas as being sadistic."
"Look, I'm sorry!" he said, meaning it. "You're absolutely right, and I was a damn fool. Forgive me, Mia. I swear to you I'll never put you on that kind of spot again."
He put an arm round her and kissed her. She kissed him back. "You're forgiven," she said. "Now-while I make us some coffee, you get on with your reading."
Mia stood up and went to the kitchen, his eyes following her retreat until she disappeared from view. Then he unfolded another of the letters and began to read.
Dear Carl:
I am sorry we missed each other on my recent stopover in New York, but I hardly had a minute to myself. Matt had a full schedule of interviews and we took off for Hollywood directly afterwards. I didn't even get a chance to see Mia, though I did speak with her on the phone.
Hollywood is something else! They really rolled out the red carpet for me, and I've been to a dozen parties and met "everybody who is anybody," as the saying goes.
At one party (given by the studio) I met Nina Tollivar, of whom you will hear more and more as time goes on. She is not an actress. Her father is the shipping mogul, Titus P. Tollivar, and she is filthy rich. She is also a gorgeous hunk of female. Her eyes are a bright, sparkling gray, and, unless she had lied to me, her hair genuinely red-reddish gold, to be exact. Her complexion is heavenly and her figure more so. I had a hard on all evening, just from looking at her. Matt also had the hots for her but, for once, I beat him out. She preferred my company, and I was delighted.
Nina and I laughed as much as we spoke. We made fun of all the women there-No: she did! For my part I listened and approved, for it would have been impossible to draw a more lovely sketch. In spite of the exaggeration, one could see the truth underlying it.
Nina is charming and sparkling with wit, yet beside her one thinks of only base and vulgar things. While speaking to her I felt a crowd of desires incongruous and impracticable in the place where I was, such as to call for champagne and get drunk, to place her on one of my knees and madly kiss her, to raise the hem of her skirt and see whether or not she wore panties, to sing a dirty song at the top of my voice, to squeeze tits, or to break the windows-in short, to do anything. All the animal part, all the brute, rose within me: I would willingly have spat on the Holy Bible; and I would have gladly eaten a string of shit a mile long just to bite it off as her ass-hole. I can now quite understand the allegory of the companions of Ulysses being changed into swine by Circe. Circe was probably some lively, sexy creature like Nina Tollivar.
Shameful to relate, I experienced great delight in feeling myself overtaken by passionate brutishness. I made no resistance, but assisted it as much as I could-so natural is depravity to man, and so much mire is there in the clay of which he is formed.
Yet for one moment. I feared the canker that was seizing upon me, and wished to leave my corruptor; but the floor seemed to have risen to my knees, and it was as though I were set fast in cement
Somehow I knew that this was the mistress I had dreamed of and longed for, and I meant to have her-come hell or high water, and cost what it may.
Matt warned me against getting involved with a girl like Nina, but he wasted his breath. Anyhow, I think jealousy prompted him to speak: he cannot look at her without panting!
She readily accompanied me to my suite, and let me know that she was a woman who craved action. We went directly to the bed and began the warming-up exercises, although I needed no such stimulation. My cock was already so friggin' stiff I thought it would break off if suddenly thumped.
Nina put both her arms around my neck and pulled my face down onto hers. She kissed me, working her lips against my mouth until I wanted to devour her. Her fingers caressed my cheek, curling around the lobe of my ear and tickling gently at my neck. She drew her mouth away at last and softly said:
"You know, I like you! I could get to like you a lot more ... "
I put my arm around her and cuddled her into a warm, tight embrace. A feeling of great tenderness stole over me, a feeling of belonging. I kissed her again, then said:
"I want you to stay with me, to be my mistress."
"You do, huh?"
"Will you consider it?"
"Perhaps-I'll think about it
We kissed deeply, tongues meeting in a wet, intimate merge. I grappled at her breasts, but she squirmed away from me. "Not with our clothes on," she said.
Three minutes later we were stretched out together sans clothes, sans restraint, sans everything but a compulsion for physical gratification.
Nina's cream-colored breasts were round and firm as large grapefruits, and my fingers sank eagerly into both of them. I alternately squeezed the nipples and caressed the almost flat stomach. She ran her long, skillful fingers across my flesh. The sudden tingle as she scratched her nails into my nipples caused me to twist and gouge into her snowy-mounds with sudden, renewed fury. Then she slid her caressing fingers up the inside of my thigh, finally closing them over the throbbing bulge of my prick. She used it gently, riding the loose foreskin up and down.
I released one of her breasts so that I could feel her bottom. I worked my hand underneath and closed it over the cheek of one proudly jutting buttock. She gave an audible sigh as I rubbed all over the muscle-tightened cheek.
"Aaah! Mmmmm," she whispered into my mouth. She moved her lips a fraction of an inch away from mine and murmured: "Your cock feels so big and hard, darling. Mmmmm! What would you like to do with it?"
I let one finger steal into the crease of her butt, rubbing along the indent with firm, lusty strokes. With the fingers of my other hand I worried the clitoris of her joy-hole.
"You know damn well what I want to do with it!" I answered her. My voice seemed to be coming from a far distance; it didn't belong to me at all.
Nina made her thumb slide smoothly over the very tip of my prick. She caressed the crest in a tantalizing, slow-motion action; rubbing across the lubricating pinprick hole.
"I guess we better do it then," she whispered.
She put my shaft between her thighs and squeezed them firmly over the passion-aching weapon. Gyrating her hips in a slow, maddening grind, Nina made my cock leap heatedly against the wet, soft flesh of her crotch.
I pinched the cherries of her breasts between thumb and forefinger. She moved against me, squirming her mouth onto mine, and darting her tongue deep between my lips. All the while I could feel my shaft sliding backwards and forwards against her cunt. Fires burnt brightly in my brain, and I felt myself beginning to lose all control. Pushing furiously at her body, I withdrew my cock from her thighs.
Nina, realizing that I was impatient to fuck her, spread her thighs wide, giving me clear entrance to the channel of my desire. She raised her hips to meet my cock as I guided it straight to the hot, moist lips standing guard over her well-hole of passion. My buttocks clenched and unclenched as I began to drive the crest into the tight, resisting passage.
Nina offered no resistance; she merely pushed her cunt up onto my striving prick-siding me as much as she could.
"Don't worry about hurting me!" she gasped. "It doesn't matter. Just get it in! Get it all in!"
I bore down, forcing the walls of her cunt cruelly apart. My prick stuck ... I worked it up into her a little more, inching my way into her gripping channel. At last I penetrated her completely! With an unrestrained moan of pleasure, I drove my cock into her clinging hole, feeling the tip of it press against the womb. I was almost dizzy with the heat of the battle. Then, slowly, I began to climb back, easing my prick carefully out of her slit, pausing, then driving deeply into her again. And again, and over and over again.
"Oh, darling, darling," she whispered. "It's terrific! But fuck me harder, darling!"
Obediently, I urged my cock even more savagely into her cunt. I could feel her breath, hot and sweet on my face. My cock was suddenly anointed with her creamy juices. I could feel my own spunk bubbling up in my balls. The desire to explode my spermy cream into her belly was overwhelming! I launched myself violently on an unstoppable trip to ecstasy. The liquid boiled out of my cock and into her waiting cunt. Loads of it came gushing, jetting, and shooting out of my prick ... foaming ... filling her belly ...
She lifted her buttocks right off the bed to receive every drop of my tribute. And when I finished she still wouldn't release my shaft, keeping it securely jammed into her cunt with a tense locking of her muscles.
Yes, dear old friend, I have found the mistress of my dreams in Nina Tollivar. I shall never let her go, if I can help it. I wish to enjoy forever the beauties and the merits that she possesses.
Now, Carl, it is once more time to cease writing and say good-bye. But please drop me a line and tell me how your love-life is going.
As ever, Jonas W
CHAPTER 6
Wade McKinley was in his sixties; a skinny, good-natured man, with a full head of snowy-gray hair and lively blue eyes. He sat behind his desk and gave his undivided attention to Bud Hastings, the young writer who had come from New York to talk to him about Jonas Wilk. He surveyed the young man carefully, paid close heed to the tone and method of his speech, and then decided he liked what he saw and heard. Yes, he told himself, he's a nice young fellow. I'll talk to him, and tell him what I can.
"Is there anything in particular you wish to know?" he asked. "Or is this going to be just another post-mortem story?"
Bud ignored the second question and answered the first. "I want to know whatever you can tell me, sir. I've got all the publicity on Jonas, and many conflicting rumors. What I really need is an honest evaluation of Jonas Wilk from people who knew him intimately, such as yourself and Matt Langdon."
At the mention of Matt Langdon's name the agent made a wry face, then, as if something struck him as amusing, he chuckled throatily.
"Have you spoken to Matt Langdon yet?"
"No, sir. I am going over to Pineboro from here, and perhaps Harvey Wilk can tell me how to contact him."
McKinley ran his long, wrinkled fingers through his snowy hair and heaved a sigh.
"Matt Langdon is the one to talk to alright," he said. "I reckon he knowed more about the real Jonas than anybody, including Harvey. He brought Jonas to me in the first place."
"I know that, sir," Bud cut in, "I've read letters that Jonas wrote to a friend of his, in which he tells how Matt encouraged him to become a performer."
"Smartest thing Matt ever done," McKinley commented. "Oh, he wasn't a bad performer himself-a pretty good one, in fact; but he'd never have gotten beyond cheap saloons. He didn't have the magnetic spark that Jonas Wilk had. Audiences took to Jonas right from the beginning. Did you ever see him perform, Mister Hastings."
"Only on television."
"Well, that isn't quite the same thing. To really appreciate the boy's talent it was necessary to see him in the flesh. The motion pictures he made never amounted to much. He didn't come across the way he did in person. Same with television. He was always at his best in front of an audience."
"You thought very highly of him, I see."
"Only as an entertainer," the old man said, wrinkling up his already wrinkled face. "As a human being he wasn't very much-that's off the record, of course," he added quickly.
Bud nodded, indicating that he understood. Then he said, "I will not quote you directly without your permission, Mister McKinley; I give you my word. But for my own information, I would appreciate a candid opinion as to what he was like as a human being."
"He was too wishy-washy for my tastes," the old man said. "He was nothing near the man that Matt was, except when he was performing in front of an audience. I always suspected he had a cruel nature-it wasn't anything I could pin down, you understand, but I knew it was there. He just didn't care about anything or anybody, with the possible exception of that girl who was with him in the plane. And I wouldn't make a bet that he really cared for her." He paused for a moment, thoughtfully, and then continued. "Matt cared for her though. If I ever saw a man eating his heart out, Matt Langdon was the man. It was always a mystery to me how she chose Jonas when Matt was around-he was a better man in my book."
"You say Jonas never cared for anyone," Bud said. "Did you mean he didn't care for Matt Langdon?"
McKinley thought on the question for a long time. "That's a stumper!" he finally said. "He was quite generous with Matt as far as money went. But, then, he felt he needed Matt-and he was right. It was Matt who got things done; he handled all the business and kept Jonas in line. I don't think Jonas could have found his way across the street without Matt to guide him."
"Do you know where Matt Langdon is now?"
"Haven't the slightest," McKinley replied. "Haven't heard a word since the plane crashed. He's probably just holed-up someplace, trying to decide what to do now that Jonas is dead. But if you happen to find him, do me a favor: Tell him to get in touch with me. Will you do that?"
"I'll be happy to give him your message, if I find out where he is," Bud told him. "Did you know Harvey Wilk?"
"Met him once, but can't say I know him," McKinley replied. "I remember that he was nothing like Jonas, and that's about all. Maybe I better tell you something of an agent's relationship with his clients. Sometimes it is a close relationship, and the agent knows the client as well as he knows himself. Of course, down here in Charlotte-a small town, comparatively speaking-we don't have so many personal clients to represent Most of the talent booked through my office belongs to agencies in big cities, like New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Jonas Wilk was the exception. He is the biggest name ever under exclusive contract to an agency the size of mine. And he wouldn't have been here either but for Matt Langdon. Anyway, the thing I'm getting at is this: I didn't have too close a personal relationship with Jonas Wilk. The business deals were all handled, like I said, by Matt Langdon. So I can't tell you very much about Jonas under the circumstances, because I seldom had any personal dealings with him. Matt Langdon is the man you need."
"Well, thank you, Mister McKinley," Bud said, standing up and offering his hand. McKinley gave his hand a firm, friendly shake.
"Sorry I haven't been more helpful," he said. "Goodbye, and good luck in Pineboro."
Bud rented an automobile and drove from Charlotte to Pineboro, arriving at approximately seven o'clock in the evening. He would see Harvey Wilk the next day, so he checked into a motel on the outskirts of town and prepared to wait. His plan was to rest for an hour, have dinner and then explore the town. Later on he would visit Daisy's Place. Maybe he would meet someone there who had known Jonas.
He opened the briefcase and extracted another of the letters. Throwing himself onto the bed, fully clothed, he opened the letter and read it.
Dear Carl:
It's getting longer and longer between letters, isn't it? Activity interferes with speculation and reality destroys dreams. Sometimes I think the speculation and the dreams were a better way of life for me. I can't get excited about fame and all the money, and I am far from happy with my lot as a whole. The only joy in my life is Nina. She fills life so agreeably, and makes such an amusing thing of it for herself and others, that dreamland has nothing better to offer me.
What a wonderful thing! I have known her now for nearly five months, and during that time I have felt weary only when I was not with her. You will acknowledge that it is no ordinary woman that can produce such an effect, for usually women produce just the reverse effect upon me, and please me much more at a distance than when close at hand.
Nina has the best disposition in the world, but she is sometimes mean as the Devil. She is gay, lively, alert, ready for everything, very original in her way of speaking, and always with some charming and unexpected drolleries to say. She is a delicious companion, especially in bed, and if I had a few years more and a few romantic ideas less, it would be all one to me, and I should consider myself the most fortunate man alive.
Until she came to live with me I was a fool, an idiot, a veritable scatterbrain wh could be satisfied with nothing, and who was always conjuring up difficulties where none existed. Now, thanks to Nina and Matt, my life has taken on the color of satisfaction-not complete satisfaction, but at least fifty per cent so. Half is a good deal for this world of ours, and yet I do not find it enough.
In the eyes of everyone who knows us I have a mistress whom many wish for and envy me, and whom no one would disdain. My desire is therefore apparently fulfilled, and I have no longer any right to pick quarrels with fate. Do not get the idea that I do not love her, or that she displeases me in any way. On the contrary, I love her very much, and I find her, as all the rest of the world will find her, a pretty and a wonderful creature. I simply do not feel that she is mine, and that is all.
And yet no woman has ever made herself more engaging, and if ever I have understood what voluptuousness is, it was in her arms. A single kiss from her, the least of her endearments, makes me quiver to the soles of my feet, and sends all my blood flowing back to my heart. Account for all this if you can. It is just as I tell you. But the heart of man is full of absurdities, and if it were necessary to reconcile all its contradictions, we should have enough to do.
What is the reason for my feelings, my doubts? I do not know. I see her die whole day, and even die whole night (most of the time). I fuck her when and as often as I please, and she is ever ready to have me do it. Her desire for sex is inexhaustible, and she enters dioroughly into all my caprices, however whimsical they may be. One evening I was seized with an imagine to treat her rather sadistically, and she consented to my whim.
I ripped her clothes from her and slapped her backwards onto the bed. When she saw the whip in my hand she repented of her consent and attempted to elude me. But I dug my fingers into her hair and closed them, and, holding firmly, I threw her back upon the bed. I stood over her with the whip while she looked up at me with frightened and pleading eyes. In my madness I thought I knew what she wanted, and proceeded accordingly. With one hand I jerked her legs apart and lashed her thighs while she squirmed and wept. She twisted and turned, rolled over on the bed, exposing her buttocks. I lashed her quivering mounds until they were crisscrossed with long red weals. She turned back and spread her legs, holding them up and apart, as in intercourse. I hit her soundly on the hairy protrusion of her vagina. She cried out and stretched her arms up to me. I threw the whip down and went to her. She took my cock in her hand and guided it into die frothy, sucking opening of her cunt. Her arms and legs wound tightly around me and sank her sharp teeth into my chest. I shot a load deep into her cunt almost immediately. It was perhaps the most thrilling orgasm of my life. I experienced a mad delight, such as I did not believe myself capable of feeling.
You cannot imagine the tender and proud air with which Nina looked at me, and the manner, full of joy, in which she busied herself about me. Her face radiated the pleasure which she felt at producing such an effect upon me, while at the same time her eyes, bathed in gentle tears, bore witness to the fear I had inspired in her.
I have done all that I could to convince myself that I possess her, that she is mine alone, and yet-yet there is the deeply rooted doubt growing in my loins.
Is it just a fear I have of losing her?
Matt assures me that I am foolish to entertain such thoughts. According to him I am the creator of my own troubles and sorrows. He says I should take myself with a grain of salt and ignore my doubts until they leave me from lack of nourishment.
Perhaps he is right-but one grows tired of being told how wrong one is.
Have you seen Mia recently? I have not heard from her in quite a while, and I am concerned. If you do see her, Carl, please ask her to write me. If she is in love with some one, then forget the writing and wish her well for me. I sometimes think she is the only honest woman in the world.
As ever, Jonas W.
Bud re-read the final paragraph several times. Jonas couldn't have been too ignorant of human character, he concluded, or he would have been mistaken about Mia. She was indeed an honest person; he had learned this since his acquaintance with her. But the thought of Jonas making love to her did strange things to his emotions, and angered him beyond all reason. It mattered not that Jonas had not seen her for a whole year when she started seeing him-the idea still infuriated Bud. He got up from the bed with a smothered curse on his lips, threw the letter onto the floor and rushed out of the room.
An hour later he was among the nightly visitors at Daisy's Place, drinking and watching. On arriving he had asked to speak with Daisy herself. The young woman who received him led him to a table and said she would convey his request to Daisy. Three shots of whiskey later he looked up to see a rather plump, plain-faced woman approaching his table. He guessed her to be in her late forties. She stopped and looked down at him. He rose quickly to his feet and smiled.
"You wanted to see me. Mister?"
"If your name is Daisy, I do."
"That's me. Now, what can I do for you?"
"My name is Bud Hastings," he said, "and I'm from New York."
"You're a long ways from home, Mister Hastings," she replied, still eyeing him suspiciously. "How did you happen to know about me?"
"Won't you sit down?" he said, quickly pulling a chair back for her. "I heard of you through Jonas Wilk, and that's what I want to talk about."
Daisy sat down and waited for him to sit before speaking. Then she said:
"You were a friend of his, were you?"
Bud laughed. "Not exactly. I'm a writer-sort of a reporter, you might say. I'm writing a story on Jonas."
"A reporter, hey? Well, Mister Hastings, you've come to the wrong place. Jonas wasn't what I would call a regular customer. I doubt if he set foot in my place more than half dozen times, and then he came with someone else. Now if it was his brother Harvey you were interested in, that would be different-he used to come in here all the time."
"But you did know Jonas, didn't you?"
"Oh, I reckon everybody in town knew Jonas. Of course he didn't get on too well with most people. He wasn't friendly like Harvey. After he went away and became a big singing star he never came around anymore. He bought that house his family lived in, but he didn't stay there himself. Gave it to Harvey, I think." Daisy furrowed her brow and rapped the table. "Wait a minute!" she said, her jaded eyes lighting up with memory. "Jonas did come back about two and a half years ago! He came in here with that friend of his ... whatshisname? Matt something or other. They took a couple of my girls for a party ... One of the girls still works here. Would you like to talk with her?"
"Very much, thank you," he said. "What happened to the other girl?"
"She quit that same night," Daisy told him. "now she's shacking up with Harvey Wilk, or so I've been told. But Gloria Norton, the other girl, is still here. Do you have money, Mister Hastings?"
"For what purpose?" Bud asked.
"My girls get paid for their time," she answered, looking him straight in the eye. "What you do-how you spend the time-is no concern of mine. If you want action, Gloria will supply it; if you want to talk, the time will still cost you. Are you willing to pay?"
"Lead on, Daisy, lead on," he said, rising to his feet. "I am willing to pay the going rate for her time. What I do with the time depends on how she looks."
Daisy laughed uproariously. "Come with me," she said, getting to her feet and walking toward a staircase on the far side of the club.
Bud followed her up the stairs and down the hall to the very last room on the left. She rapped with her knuckles on the door and called out: "It's me, Gloria. Are you decent?"
Bud smiled at the question. But he smiled for a different reason when the door opened and he saw Gloria Norton: she was really a beautiful young woman! Her hair was shoulder-length and jet black, and beneath a flimsy wrap was the outline of two of the most mouth-tempting mounds he had ever seen.
"Gloria, this is Mister Bud Hastings from New York," Daisy said, and winked. "He wants to discuss something with you. Mister Hastings, this is Gloria Norton. Now I must get back to my other customers."
Daisy left them standing there. Gloria said, "Come in," and stepped back from the doorway to let him pass. When he got inside the room she closed the door and latched it. "Have a seat, Mister Hastings," she said cheerfully, "make yourself comfortable. Would you care for a drink of some kind?"
"No, thanks," Bud said, availing himself of the chair near the bed. "I really want to talk with you."
Gloria stared at him with wide-eyed bewilderment. "Talk?" she asked, carefully sitting on the bed. She arranged herself in a sexy pose and smiled at him. "Are you sure you want to talk?"
"Well, that's all I wanted to do before I saw you," he answered. "Now I'm not so sure. You are a beautiful girl, Gloria-and I find you most desirable."
His remark seemed to please her. She said, "What did you want to discuss with me? You're not a salesman or a bill collector are you?"
He shook his head. "Hardly. I'm a writer, Gloria. I am gathering material for a story about Jonas Wilk. Daisy tells me you once spent a night with him?"
"Good Lord!" Gloria exclaimed. "You ain't goin' to write about that, I hope!"
"No. But I would like you to tell me what happened and what you thought of him."
"Well, Mister, he didn't come here to talk," she said, but without resentment. "He was with another fellow, Matt Langdon-his manager, he said. He was kinda nice to Anita and me-the manager, I mean."
"And Jonas, wasn't he nice?"
"Yeah. Sorta. Hmmm. He gave us fifty dollars apiece."
"For spending the night with him?"
"Extra-a bonus like," she said, smiling. "I reckon he was happy with what he got."
"Which one did he get, you or your friend?"
"Both," she answered. "First I was with Matt, and Anita was with Jonas. Then we switched partners-and I had Jonas. But Anita made out better than I did ... "
"How's that?"
"She went with them when they left."
"I heard," Bud said. "I understand Harvey inherited her?"
"I don't envy her that connection," Gloria said, and shuddered. "Ooh! that man makes my skin crawl!"
"Tell me about Jonas-how was he? Did he make your skin crawl?"
She reclined on her elbow and searched her memory, lips pursed. Finally she spoke, and surprised Bud by saying: "I think it was the other way around, if anything. I don't think Jonas wanted to be here that night. Anita had to work on him a long time before he got it up, and even then he didn't seem to be too interested.
I can't explain how it was, but I know something was missing. A woman can tell such things, you know. On the other hand, Matt was like a dog! Fuck, fuck fuck-all the time. He shot off twice in me and then screwed Anita for an hour or more! He sure enjoyed himself, I can tell you!"
"And didn't you?" Bud asked, amused.
"Didn't I what?" she wanted to know.
"Enjoy yourself ... "
Gloria squirmed her buttocks on the bed. "Oh, yes. Matt was quite a man in bed."
"He did good with me," she said. "Of course, it was Anita that got him going. By the time he got to me he was rarin' to go. I remember how surprised I was at the size of his prick," she added, and giggled. "I was pretty well oiled down there, what with my own orgasm and two loads from Matt inside me; but Jonas was so well hung we had a little trouble getting all of it in. I'm glad he was slow and gentle, I can tell you. And, anyhow, he would rather have been elsewhere, I think."
"With another woman, you mean?"
"Yes. I had the feeling that he wasn't aware of me at all. I was there, of course, and he was inside me, and he had an orgasm, but-well, I think he was pretending I was someone else. Men often do that, you know."
"Did you notice anything unusual that you could tell me?"
"I don't know if it is unusual or not," she said, "but he hated Matt."
"That would be very unusual, if true," Bud said, curiosity fully aroused. "According to everyone else they were the best of friends."
"That may be," Gloria said, "but Jonas hated him just the same."
"Why do you think that?"
"Just little things-you know; the way he looked at Matt, and the sound of his voice when he spoke to him. Say!" she suddenly exclaimed, and raised herself up on her knees, "is that all we're going to do-talk? What's wrong with me? Don't I appeal to you at all?"
Bud smiled. "Oh, yes, Gloria, you appeal to me. And how!"
"Then what are you waiting for?" she said, hustling out of her flimsy wraparound gown. She patted the bed and sank down on her side. "Come on, sugar-let's have a little action. I never had a writer before."
Bud hesitated only for a moment, thinking of Mia. But he couldn't resist the curvaceous body of Gloria; it was too close, too available and too desirable. He disrobed and fairly leaped into the bed, his cock hard and throbbing. Gloria rolled on top of him and began kissing him all over. She started at his chin and kissed her way down his chest, his stomach, and down one thigh and up the other. She sucked his cock and teased his balls with her educated fingers, stopping only when she had him near the popping point.
"That's a man-sized thing, sugar," she said, getting on top of him, in an upright position. Taking his cock in her hand, she held it steady and started descending. "Let's see if it fits," she added, as her cunt came in contact with the pulsating crest.
He felt the moist lips of her pussy separate, caressing his cock and sending tingling sensation up his spine. Slowly, ever so slowly, she enveloped his shaft, sighing loudly as the limit of penetration was finally achieved. She rotated her hips and ground her honey-pot upon his pelvic bone.
"Oooh! Sugar, that's good!" she groaned. "You're goin' to have me comin' all over you in a few minutes!"
"Be my guest!" Bud said between gritted teeth, thrusting upwards and causing her to moan deeply.
Gloria fell forward upon his chest and sank her tongue into the well of his mouth. He matched her rhythm, thrusting upwards and she pumped downwards, and they twisted and twined, grunted and groaned, until, finally, with deep, choking gasps they exploded together. Then they lay glued to one another for several minutes, the sweat from their bodies mingling as the juices of the sexual organs had done.
"I suppose you've got a girl back therein New York?" Gloria said, rolling off his body and stretching out beside him.
"Yes," he admitted, "I have."
"I knew it!" Gloria sighed. "The good ones always do."
CHAPTER 7
On Saturday morning Bud telephoned Harvey Wilk and made a twelve noon appointment Then he read through the information R. J. Colby had given him from the magazine's files, hoping to discover something of value that he could use in the story he had to write. And though the article gave him information of which he was unaware, it didn't give him much; it was all too general.
Jonas Wilk was a show business phenomenon. His career lasted little longer than four years. Yet, in that length of time, he had become world famous as a singer of folk-type songs. He was the idol of millions of teenagers, and had the distinction of being a favorite of their parents and grandparents as well. According to the phonograph company which had him under contract, Jonas Wilk had sold some fifty-seven million recordings. According to Jonas himself he didn't know how many recordings he had sold, and didn't give a damn. He referred the interviewer to other individuals, usually to Matt Langdon, his manager, or to Wade McKinley, his agent.
The writer had kept track of the interview, setting it down in Question and Answer form. Bud read part of it, and felt a tinge of sympathy for the interviewer.
Q. "Mister Wilk, would you say-"
A. "Call me Jonas. I feel uncomfortable when older men call me mister."
Q. "Mister ... er ... Jonas, would you give me your definition of a folk song?"
A. "I don't have one. Ask Matt Langdon, my manager. He's the man with the definitions."
Q. "He discovered you, didn't he?"
A. "He instructed me. I wasn't lost, to be discovered. He talked me into a show business career."
Q. "Has anyone else contributed to your success?"
A. "You call this success?
Q. "Don't you?"
A. "Hell no! I meet people every day who sing better than I do. But if anybody wants to know who deserves the credit for the notoriety and the money, you tell them it's Matt Langdon."
Q. "Did your parents encourage you in your career?"
A. "My parents are dead. My father died when I was fifteen, and my mother died two years ago."
Q. "You have a brother, don't you?"
A. "Harvey."
Q. "And what does he think of your sudden fame?" A. "You'll have to ask him."
Q. "Are you and Nina Tollivar secretly married?"
A. "If we are secretly married, and wanted to keep it a secret, I'd have to answer in the negative. But let me answer this way: only an idiot would marry a woman as beautiful as Miss Tollivar and keep it a secret."
Q. "What are your plans for the future?"
A. "Anonymity."
Q. "That isn't-likely, is it?
A. "Not if people like you keep putting my name in the newspapers."
Bud tossed the article aside in disgust. No wonder R.J. didn't publish the story! There wasn't one fucking thing in it worth reading! Bud had the sinking feeling that he was chasing shadows without substance. It was crystal clear that he would end up without a story unless he could interview Matt Langdon. He came to the unshakable conclusion that Langdon was the important one; that without him Jonas Wilk would have no value. But several things worried him.
"-he hated Matt," Gloria had said.
"As a human being he wasn't very much," McKinley had said.
"Well," Bud said to himself, "maybe the brother will feed me something I can get my teeth into."
He spent more than an hour with Harvey Wilk, asking questions and evaluating the answers. Harvey was cooperative, pleasant and easy to talk to; but he didn't seem to know his brother very well.
"Jonas surprised everybody in Pineboro," he said. "Not me, of course; but everybody else. I always knew Jonas would strike it big. He had a brilliant mind, that brother of mine. The thing that fooled people was his gentleness, and the way he was always in a trance. Not really in a trance, but seeming to be."
"Did Jonas leave a will?" Bud asked.
"No, he didn't," Harvey answered. "And that surprised me! As his closet living relative, I inherited his estate."
"If you don't think it's too personal," Bud said, trying to make the question sound unimportant, "would you tell me exactly how much money he left you?"
"Oh, I don't mind at all," Harvey answered. "It's no secret anyway. Altogether the estate was valued at close to a million dollars, but that included expected royalties from recordings and things like that."
"I would have guessed more," Bud said, "much more."
"Well, so would I," Harvey said, warming to the subject. "But Jonas lived on income and didn't bother with investments. I doubt whether he knew how much he earned. He let Matt Langdon handle all his affairs."
"Do you have Langdon's address?"
"No! I got a letter from him about a week after Jonas was killed, in which he told me where to send his percentage of the royalties. I haven't heard from him since."
"Do you still have that address?"
"Yes. But it won't do you any good. It's a post office box in New York City, and I happen to know Matt Langdon is not living there."
"How do you know that?"
"Because the checks I have sent to him have all been cashed elsewhere."
"Where?"
"Various places. Oklahoma City, El Paso and Portales, New Mexico, and towns like that."
Bud wrote all the information down in a pocket-size notebook.
"Where did your most recent check come from?" he asked.
"The record company," Harvey said. "Royalty checks come in quarterly."
"No, no! I mean where was the last check you sent to Matt cashed-where was he?"
"Oh, that! Well, lemme see," Harvey said, thinking about it. "Yes, I remember! the most recent check was cashed in Canada, at Montreal in fact. But I thought you wanted information concerning my brother. Why all these questions about Matt Langdon?"
"Just curiosity," Bud lied. Then he changed the subject. He inquired about Jonas Wilk's childhood, his schooling, and who his friends were. Then he got around to the accident and the funeral.
"I told him and told him and told he shouldn't fly that plane!" Harvey said. "But he wouldn't listen to me. He wouldn't listen to anybody. Him and Matt would fly across country just to have lunch with somebody. Matt was the better pilot, I think-he never took foolish chances anyway."
"Who identified the bodies?"
"Well, I identified Jonas. The girl with him was identified by her father." Harvey Wilk took on a pained expression, as if the memory was too much for him. Bud saw him shudder, and said:
"It must have been a difficult thing to do."
"Horrible!" Harvey said. "Jonas was crushed and burned beyond recognition."
"Then how did you identify him?"
"Oh, I knew it was Jonas right off," Harvey replied, sure of himself. "I didn't even need to look at the wallet, which was the evidence the police relied on. He was wearing a wrist watch that belonged to me,-he borrowed it the last time he came to Pineboro."
"I want to thank you for seeing me," Bud said, rising to make his departure.
"Sorry I couldn't be of more help," Harvey smiled, and started to show him out.
Bud stopped at the door and said: "Would you mind giving me the number of that post office box? It's the only real lead I've got."
Harvey said he didn't mind, and excused himself. He returned shortly with the box number written on a card, and he gave it to Bud. Bud glanced at the number and put the card in his pocket. The two men shook hands and Bud walked to his rented car and drove away.
He returned to the motel, phoned New York, told R.J. Colby to investigate Post Office Box 99X8, and then sank into a chair with another of Jonas Wilk's letters. He read:
Dear Carl,
Prepare yourself for a tale of woe and disappointment, my friend; the dream has been invaded by demons, and I was walking through a nightmare.
Ah! to be unable to increase one's self by a single particle, a single atom; to be unable to make the blood of others flow in one's veins; to ever see with one's own eyes, and not more clearly, nor further, nor differently; to hear sounds with the same ears and the same emotion; to touch with the same fingers; to perceive things that are varied with an organ that is invariable; to be condemned to keep one's self always, to dine with it, and go to bed with it; to be the same man for many new women; to think the same things, and to have the same dreams: what torment, what weariness!
I have longed for the horn of the brothers Tangut, the cap of Fortunatus, the staff of Abaris, the ring of Gyges; I would have sold my soul to snatch the magic wand from the hand of a fairy, but I have never wished so much for anything as, like Tireslas the soothsayer, to meet on the mountain the serpents which cause a change of sex, and what I envy most in the monstrous and whimsical gods of India are their perpetual avatars and their countless transformations.
I began by desiring to be another man-anyone but who I am; then, on reflecting that I might by analogy nearly foresee what I should feel, and thus not experience the surprise and the change that I had looked for, I would have preferred to be a woman. The idea came to be when I discovered Nina giving herself to my friend and manager, Matt Langdon; I would willingly have changed my part, for it is very provoking to be unaware of the effect that one produces, and to judge of die enjoyment of others only by one's own.
Neither Matt nor Nina are aware that I have found them out, and I prefer it so. Even in such an outrageous situation as this I am a coward! But if I were going to do anything about it, such as fight, I should have done it that afternoon when, quite unexpectedly, I caught them in the act!
I was not spying, understand; I was not even suspicious. Even when alerted by the voices coming from the bedroom, it did not occur to me that Matt and Nina were engaged in anything more than friendly chatter. I put my ear close to the door merely to eavesdrop on their conversation.
"Are you sure it's alright to do it here?" I heard Matt say.
"Why not?" Nina answered. "He won't be home until at least five o'clock. Besides, I can't wait, darling . ... "
My blood rushed hot, burning my face and constricting my stomach! This was no ordinary conversation! My first impulse was to crash into the room and attack them both! But the hope that I was mistaken made me hesitate, and, then, my innate cowardice overcame my ferocity. Still I had to be certain of what I believed they were doing in there. I went to the other entrance to the bathroom, quietly opened the door and crept on tip-toe to the door that opened into the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, giving me a fairly good view of the bed, and I could see as well as hear them.
Nina was naked and stretched full length upon the bed. The room was dim because the drapes were drawn, but I could see them plainly enough. Matt unbuckled his belt, zipped his fly down and fumbled his trousers off. Then he worked his underpants away from his steadily rising cock-the staff not yet at full erection, but getting there rapidly. By the time he was completely undressed, the cock was in full flower and ready for action.
Matt crawled onto the bed and lay beside her. Nina's fingers closed around his shaft and she began to caress it avidly, making the crown rub into the palm of her hand.
The sight of Matt's cock being squeezed so intimately by Nina's hand made me want to rush in and smash his face. Again I was held back by cowardice and a strange curiosity, to see how far they would go. Nevertheless I could feel a steady, heated anger building inside me. I felt I couldn't stand there another second and watch what was happening. And I knew it was not only fear that was holding me back: Excitement, and the need to know just what they were going to do, also kept me standing there and staring at the scene.
The love play lasted interminably. His mouth was sucking at one of her tits and one of his hands was busy between her thighs, worrying her clitoris. They lay there unconcerned with time, and touched the skin of their intimate flesh with timeless fingers, caressing and fondling during an eternity of deeply arousing sensations-not only for them but me as well. My own cock was alive, throbbing, and dripping pre-orgasmic juices.
Then Nina, looking down at the large prick she was holding, decided she wanted to play a more active role.
"Oh, darling! I've got to suck it!" she breathed. "Please let me, darling!"
She reversed her position, so that her head was just above his cock, and he inserted his fingers into her cunt from the rear. Even through the dimness I could see that Nina's cheeks were glowing with desire, her eyes heavy lidded and hot She held his prick in both hands, looking down at it, pulling the loose foreskin back so that she could thoroughly inspect the pulsing crown. She rolled his red, throbbing shaft in her fingers, feeling all the way along it; holding the balls up and caressing them gently.
Then Nina started to bring Matt's cock to her open mouth. Before it slipped between the lovely, waiting lips, she breathed on it-her sweet breath heating the rod and sending spasms of intense pleasure through his body. At last she took it in. She let his prick penetrate her as much as possible, finally closing her lips tightly over the red, large weapon and making it disappear from view.
Strangely, I ached with longing for her, but it was a cold, sharp desire that bore no relation to affection. Suddenly, and hardly conscious of my action, I had zipped my trousers and taken my shaft into my own hand.
Matt, meanwhile, had wormed his way underneath Nina's body. His face was raised between her thighs and he was sucking Nina's cunt, making loud, satisfied sucking sounds as he feasted on the well-parted and oily damp.
My cock was jumping in my hand. I could feel it pulsing helplessly as I frigged it in even, tight-clenching strokes. A great wave of excitement was passing through me. I could almost feel Nina's lips gliding up and down the length of member.
Nina never let up for a second. She was working Matt's prick up to a foaming pitch. She slurped noisily .on his cock as it writhed and throbbed thickly in her mouth. And soon (I could see the moment approaching from the transfixed expressions on both their faces) she abruptly stopped drawing the prick in and out of her mouth. She was holding it tightly between her lips, biting her teeth with quick, coaxing little nibbles around the stem of the shaft. From the twitching of his hips I knew he was erupting his spunk wildly into her mouth. The overflow-the rich creamy substance which Nina didn't manage to swallow-dribbled lazily from between her lips.
When Matt finally withdrew his cock it was still hugely thick and quivering. It showed no signs of melting back to a flaccid state. Breathing sharply, Nina pulled him full length on top of her, reaching between his thighs for the hard implement.
Raising her legs she swiftly positioned it against her wanting, yearning cunt and helped him jam his virile horn into the deepness of her channel. He began to fuck her with a steady, even rhythm, letting one hand close over a breast, thrusting and gripping the willing mound lustfully.
At that precise moment (how vividly I recall it even now), my cock, itching furiously, began to pulse its warning of orgasm. I quickened the strokes but strained to hold back my load until Matt was shooting his load. To my satisfaction, I suddenly saw that Matt was in the throes of his orgasm! The way he was shuddering his body helplessly on top of Nina's told me what was happening. And when I saw her fling both her arms around Matt's back, nails pressing violently into his spine, I knew beyond doubt that Matt was sending his fluid wildly into Nina's clenching cunt.
I felt, at almost precisely the same moment, my own fluid reaching the boiling point. I quickly brought about my climax-frigging my cock in and out-of-control, spastic shaking and squeezing it just tightly enough to urge the fluid out . ... With eyes shut, teeth clenched, I let go. My' mind toppled backwards in a fantasy of pure, unending release. The juice seemed to spurt and spurt out of my shaft, and, in the far distance, Nina's voice penetrated my phantasy, crying:
"Oh, Jesus! Oh, Mary, Mother of God! I feel like a comet, darling! Ooooh! I'm on my way to the moon! Aaah! Oh, Jesus, darling, darling..... ... . ... "
When it was over I felt embarrassed. My eyes dropped to my prick. It hung limply, my fingers still holding it. I quickly wiped it on a towel, returned it to my trousers, and went out as quietly as I had entered.
Nina, who does not realize that I know all this, believes me still deeply in love with her; and to the best of her ability she lends herself to all the experimental caprices that enter my head. I have tried to descend into her heart, but I have always stopped at the first step of the staircase, at her skin or on her mouth. But it is too late, because there is nothing but a barrier between us now. The more she tries, the less I care for her. I do not know how much longer I can endure this situation without informing her of my knowledge. ... . ...
Oh, why couldn't I have fallen in love with lovely Mia!? She is worth a dozen Nina's. But, alas! she is far too honest to pretend a love she doesn't feel. How I envy the man to whom she finally gives herself heart and soul! What a fortunate individual that man will be.
I am scheduled to give a concert at Boston in about three weeks, and I hope to see you then. If I find that I cannot get over to New York, perhaps you can come to Boston? I could send the plane (I have one of my own now) to pick you up. In the meantime I must come to some decision regarding my private life. I will, of course, keep you informed of anything that happens.
Your friend, Jonas W.
Bud re-read that letter a second time, digesting its contents, added the implications to his previous knowledge and thus arrived at a most troublesome conclusion: Jonas Wilk committed suicide! He crashed his plane deliberately, murdering his mistress and taking his own life.
There was a sharp, insistent knocking at his door. Bud sprang from his seat, startled. The knocking continued. He opened the door and stood face to face with a tall, husky man whom he guessed to be in his late forties. The man smiled before he spoke, and said:
"Mr. Hastings-Mister Bud Hastings?"
"Yes."
"My name is Lonnie Ansel. I was told you were in town to gather material for a story on Jonas Wilkis that correct?"
"It's true," Bud admitted, searching his memory to identify the name the man had given him. Then he remembered, suddenly, who the man was-Lonnie Ansel had been mentioned by Jonas Wilk in one or two of the letters.
"Won't you please come in, Mister Ansel?"
Lonnie entered the room and waited while Bud closed the door. Then he said: "I believe I may be able to give you some information hitherto unknown."
"Have a seat," Bud said, as nonchalant as he could manage to appear. And when Lonnie was seated, he asked: "Would you care for a drink, Mister Ansel?"
"No, thank you."
"Who told you I was town and where to find me?" Bud asked.
"I will tell you that only if you promise to keep it confidential," Lonnie said, a softness in his voice that Bud had not noticed before.
"I promise," Bud said.
"A little while ago I received a phone call from Anita Hutchins," Lonnie informed him. "She told me where to find you."
"How did she know? Who is she?"
"She lives with Harvey Wilk-now. She listened in on your interview with Harvey."
"But why should she phone you?"
"She didn't want you to leave town empty-handed?"
"Why didn't she speak to me herself?"
"Because of Harvey, I suppose," Lonnie said, shaking his head. "You see, before Harvey there was Matt Langdon."
"Oh, yes! I remember now," Bud said. "Gloria's friend
-the other girl at Daisy's."
"The same," Lonnie nodded. He reached in his pocket and withdrew an envelope and handed it to Bud. "She thought you should read this letter; it was written by Matt Langdon."
Bud opened the letter and read it quickly. It was a hastily scrawled note, and said:
Louisville, Ky. May 3, 1967
Dear Anita-
I am sorry that I will not be able to keep our date this weekend. We are on our way to Los Angeles, and Jonas demanded that I go with him. He has been a little difficult to get along with lately, probably because of the pressure over this motion picture that he's signed for. I am writing this note while the plane is being refueled and checked. I'll phone you from Los Angeles.
Love, Matt
Bud stared at the letter for several minutes, trying to figure out its importance. Nothing! He looked at Lonnie with the question on his face, and said:
"Is this letter supposed to mean something to me?"
Lonnie uncrossed his legs and cleared his throat: "Maybe you overlooked the date the letter was written, and the place."
Bud glanced at the letter and read the date aloud: "May 3,1967, Louisville, Kentucky. So?"
"That's the date Jonas was killed," Lonnie said, meaningfully. "And he was flying to Los Angeles-two hours after taking off from Louisville."
Bud's brain was whirling with thoughts but he still couldn't relate the letter to anything important. So what if it was written on the date of the plane crash? That fact didn't necessarily mean anything! So Matt Langdon was on the plane as far as Louisville-so what? Only two bodies were found, and both were identified and buried. Probably Louisville was the breaking point between Matt and Jonas, and Matt remained behind. He would know the answer to the questions when he located and interviewed Matt Langdon.
Bud looked down at Lonnie and shrugged. "If you are trying to tell me something, I wish you would say it right out! Frankly, I just don't get it!"
Lonnie stood up and his eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Three people were on that plane when it came down in Louisville. The letter proves that. Only two bodies were found in the wreckage."
"I know that," Bud said impatiently. "Every body knows that!"
"Maybe nobody has noticed the most important thing," Lonnie said, a faint smile curling his lips. "Matt Langdon never reached Los Angeles. Or, if he did, he never phoned Anita. In fact, she never heard from him again. Doesn't that strike you as being rather strange?"
"Not necessarily," Bud replied. "I can think of a couple of explanations, knowing what I know. For one, Matt Langdon probably decided not to follow up his relationship with Miss Hutchins."
"Oh, I doubt that very much," Lonnie said, and he sounded quite sure of himself.
"And why do you doubt it?" Bud asked.
"For several very valid reasons," Lonnie said, "One: Matt did not attend the funeral; two: no one has actually seen him since the crash; and, three: he has never claimed the money he gave Anita to keep for him."
"Money? What money? I mean, how much money."
"Fifteen thousand dollars."
Bud whistled in astonishment "Fifteen thousand dollars?"
"In a shoe-box, in cash!" Lonnie said, and grinned at Bud's look of total shock. Then he reached in his inside coat pocket and withdrew a check. "And you might take a look at the endorsement on the back of this check," he said, obviously enjoying himself.
Bud took the check and look at it. It was made payable to Matthew Langdon, and the sum was $7,000.00. The check was signed by Harvey M. Wilk and endorsed by Matthew Langdon; it bore the stamp of the bank, indicating payment had been made to the bank of the endorser.
"Now might I suggest that you compare the signature on the back of the check with the signature on the letter," Lonnie said, and watched as he alternately stared at the two signatures.
Again Bud emitted a low whistle. "I'll be damned!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get this check-from Harvey Wilk?"
"From Anita Hutchins," Lonnie answered. "She swiped it from Harvey's files. She was going to take it and the letter to the police, but I suggested we let you handle the matter. After all, there is always the possibility we could be wrong about this."
CHAPTER EIGHT
From the moment they were together in her car Bud felt horny as hell. All the way from the airport to her apartment, his prick was beating wildly against his trousers, surging upwards within the confines of his pants.
She saw the straining bulge and laughed.
"Well be there in a few minutes," Mia said, dropping her hand over the throbbing cock. "Mmmmmm! I've missed that, honey."
He was so sexually aroused that the conversation between them meant nothing to him at all; he merely said whatever came into his head, limiting himself to answering her questions as briefly as possible. But he did not mention the check or the letter that rested securely in his pocket Time enough for business after pleasure. He thought he'd come in his pants before they got to her bed, but they made it He removed shoes, shirt and trousers and fell across the bed backwards. She removed only her dress and shoes, and, without bothering with the rest, fell to her knees on the bed. She worked her fingers feverishly at the entrance to his underpants, fumbling his prick out Gasping with desire, she pushed the hard crown between her lips, sucking furiously as soon as she had the tip of his cock in her mouth.
Bud let his hands fall to his side, content for the moment to lay there and allow Mia to enjoy the rich meat of his penis. Her wet lips closed tightly around it, her head going up and down as she urged more and more of the long, thick member between them.
Wildly, passionately, Mia sucked and petted his cock. She held it's base steady with her fingers, keeping the pulsing rod in position, while she ran her tongue over and over the sensitive crest-making it itch furiously with every velvet tickle.
He looked down along his stomach. Mia was making frantic little noises, her eyes staring at the length of the red veined maleness. which kept disappearing between her lips and then slipping half out of her mouth again. The loose foreskin bulged around her lips, overflowing the pretty mouth, as she gobbled greedily on his potent and now spasmodically jerking rod.
With every inward draw of Mia's lips, Bud felt himself getting hornier and harder. He had, more and more frequently, to forcibly restrain himself from yielding to her lusty urgings. But it was increasingly difficult to hold himself back, and he began to urge his prick further and further into her mouth. He felt her trying to hold his cock away; the full length of it between her lips was gagging her and she fought against his efforts to jam it completely inside her.
Ruthlessly, he brought his hands up and drove his fingers through her hair. Then, holding her head in a vice-like grip, he kept her steady while he lunged his prick all the way in.
Right to the hilt it sank-and he could feel Mia's hot, liquid mouth covering every inch of his straining cock!
He withdrew slightly, only to thrust it upwards again with an ever greater determination. Mia put her hands on his hips, choking and trying vainly to push him away.
Her nails dug in and scrabbled his flesh-and then he felt her submission. Slowly, her desire to give satisfaction overcame her initial fear of the immensity of his shaft and she began to lick her tongue along the underside of Bud's hard, pulsing cock.
His cock shivered like an arrow in its target, the nerves feeling raw and vulnerable as Mia extended her tongue as far as possible, repeating the caress.
Then she went much further. Her skillful hands worked their way beneath his underpants and massaged the cheeks of his ass. She eased the staining spheres apart and coaxed her forefinger slowly and provocatively into his rectum.
Insistently and steadily, Mia penetrated his back passage, sticking her finger as deeply into his small orifice as it would reach.
Bud felt himself shivering and trembling with passion and desire. He panted harshly as her finger wiggled around inside the tightness of his anus.
The combination of her attentions was too much to bear for very long. Bud was forced to close his eyes; the room had started to spin crazily and he could scarcely contain himself.
A more insistent itching than he had ever experienced welled up in his cock. It seemed to generate from the pit of his stomach and streak like an electric current through his balls. With a muffled shout, he shot his load-contracting his anus muscles and urging the thick fluid into Mia's mouth.
There was one long gushing-a tremendously powerful spurt-which was immediately followed by several shorter ones.
His fingers clenched into her hair, unable to release her until every drop of his spunk had been shed.
And Mia obediently drew steadily on his cock until she was sure that the last drop had been wrung from its tiny hole. Only when his cock started to wane did she cease her efforts; and only then did he release her and withdraw it from her lips. Then he reached out and pulled her down beside him. He cuddled her tightly, kissing her and tasting the juices on her mouth.
While he rested, waiting for his breathing to become less labored, Mia completed her task of undressing herself. Then she removed his shorts, tugging at them until they came free over his feet. Mia ran her eyes slowly over his naked body. She sighed and moved close to him.
Bud stared for a moment at the naked challenge of Mia's breasts. The aureoles around her nipples were larger than usual; brown circles which strongly emphasized the hard red centers. Bending his face nearer and nearer to her right breast, he kissed the nipple and worried it with his lips. He opened his mouth and the pearl slipped neatly between his teeth, growing suffer as it came into contact with his exploring tongue.
Bud licked across it tentatively. The teat tasted warm and intimate; a delicious drowsiness began to steal over him as he gently sucked it deep into his mouth.
Meanwhile, his hands wandered leisurely over the rest of Mia's charms. They fondled slowly down her chest to the flatness of her midriff. From there he petted his way over her abdomen and caressed the smooth fleshiness of her belly.
She stirred slightly, turning her hips in an exciting though momentary wriggling. Bud's fingers edged downward, until they felt the marvelous flatness of Mia's mons veneris. He stretched his fingers a little further. There is was! The tender opening of her precious cunt! He rubbed at the tiny opening to Mia's slit, coaxing the lips apart; urging them to yield and permit his finger to enter the moist honey-pot which lay behind the sleek petals.
Mia trembled again-and gradually raised her buttocks up off the bed, spreading her legs at the same time so that he could have the easiest possible access to her pussy. She felt a rising pleasure at her cunt and nipple which intensified rapidly; and she relaxed herself to savor the ecstasy.
He was rubbing his finger with the slowest possible movement up and down her slit, not yet penetrating it but giving Mia as much excitement as if the digit was sinking rapidly into her cunt and frigging her wildly. Instinctively, Mia reached between Bud's legs for his shaft. To her surprise she found that his cock was already stiff and thick again! Her fingers closed round its middle and the hard prick pulsed once more against the palm of her hand. She rubbed it meaningfully against her thighs-first one, then the other. Next, she manipulated the foreskin. She felt him shudder with pleasure as she traced her finger right across the very Up of the crest. She churned her hips beneath his finger and said:
"Fuck me, darling! Fuck me now!"
Bud rolled his body on top of hers, maneuvered his hands beneath Mia's buttocks and gripped them firmly. She steered his cock to the juicy lips of her cunt, then gave a long sigh as his weapon sank deliriously to its hilt, ramming its horny way up the tight, liquid channel.
She brought her hands to his back, and he felt her fingers moving urgently up and down, nails cutting at his flesh. He immediately began a fierce, thrusting drive in and out of her cunt. She squirmed like a bitch in heat, lunging her crotch upwards with as much force as she could muster. Once-and only once-their eyes met and exchanged a brief look of mutual understanding. Then they glanced away again, moving into their private worlds of sexual reverie.
Much too soon, Bud felt his orgasm welling up. He tried desperately to hold the load back, but Mia was goading him into a state of terrible, overpowering voluptuousness and her loins meshed so frantically against his that to delay the outpouring for more than a few seconds proved impossible.
His eyes glazed, his entire body thirsted for the release that only a violent climax could give him. With a roar of mingled rage and passion, Bud gave himself up to the irresistible cosmic forces which flooded his being. He exploded instantaneously, thundering his fluid with every atom of his strength into Mia's cunt.
She came almost at the same instant-locking her body to his and making them one animal-like creature, a two backed-beast of creaming, spunking lust. She strained herself in every muscle, every nerve, to throb out her orgasm in rhythm with his own. ... ..
At last he realized he would have to talk with her about her ex-lover, Jonas Wilk; but he still dreaded discussing his recent findings with her. He would rather wait until he had checked out the facts, made absolutely certain that there was no room for error. But Mia was full of questions, all of them prompted by sincere interest; and he could not avoid answering her without hurting her feelings.
They had showered, dressed, and were sitting on the divan discussing where they should have dinner when Mia asked her first question concerning his trip.
"How did you like the bright sunny South?"
"I'll take Manhattan," he said, with a relaxed sigh. "The girls are better here."
"I'll just bet!" she said, mockingly. Then, "Seriously now, did you learn anything?"
"Very little I couldn't have found out right here," he said. "By the way, honey-how well did you know Matt Langdon?"
"Fairly well," she replied, giving him a baffled look. "Why? Have you seen him?"
"No. But I'd sure like to. Do you happen to know where he is?"
"Not exactly," she said. "Last I heard he was on the West Coast. I also hear he quit show business after Jonas died."
"What did you think of him?"
"Oh, I thought he was a good manager and a good promoter."
"Hell! You don't have to tell me that!" Bud said, slapping her arm playfully with the back of his hand. "I want to know what you thought of him as a man, as a human being....."
"I think he was a man alright!" Mia answered, and then assumed a more serious air. "I liked him, I think-Yes! I liked him. He lived and breathed show business. He'd rather promote a deal than anything else. And he knew how to organize and manage things-especially for Jonas."
"What did Jonas think of him? Did he ever tell you?"
"Jonas never said much about him, that I recall," she said. "But I know he liked Matt, and trusted him. Of course, I don't know what happened during the final year, because after Jonas fell for that Tollivar girl I didn't see him."
"Then you didn't know Nina Tollivar?"
"Not personally. Just from publicity, like everybody else. I used to wonder what it was that Jonas saw in her."
"Jealous?"
She gave him a sharp look, then laughed. "Oh, you!"
Bud lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings. As the last ring drifted away into nothingness, he leaned his head back on the divan and asked:
"Do you still believe that Jonas Wilk is alive?"
"Yes. Yes, I do!" she said, emphatically. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I believe it. There was something ... something!. . .Oh! why can't I remember!"
Bud raised his head and put his hand on hers, squeezing it affectionately. Then he stood up and went to his briefcase. He opened the case and withdrew a folder containing photographs. He returned to the divan and set down beside her.
"Look through these photographs," he said, opening the folder and giving it to her. "These are pictures taken at the site of the crash."
She looked at several of the photographs and then at him. "I've seen all these pictures before," she said.
"Look at them again," he urged. "Here, look at this one-See! That is the girl's body, and that one-study it closely and then tell me who it is."
She studied the photograph for several minutes. "I don't know who it is," she finally said. "I know only that it is not Jonas Wilk!"
"For Christsake, Mia!" Bud shouted at her, feigning anger. "If you know it isn't Jonas Wilk, then you must know why you know!"
She seemed startled at his outburst. Then hurt and angry.
"I just know, that's all!" she shouted back at him.
"How do you know?" he growled, still feigning anger. "Look! Look at the frigging picture! You say that corpse isn't Jonas Wilk! Give me one intelligent reason why you can say such a thing?"
Her eyes flared hotly; her face was flushed. He could see that her anger was boiling over in her, and he felt like a dog for attacking her in such a vicious manner. But he had to know.
"Drop dead, you bastard!" she cried.
"That's a typical female answer," he said hotly. "You make ridiculous claims and then weasel out of supporting them with tangible evidence by telling me to drop dead. You know goddamn well that is a picture of what is left of Jonas Wilk! Everybody says so, including his own brother. But not you! No! Well, just show me one mother of a thing in that frigging picture to support your asinine statement?"
"I lived with him you didn't!" She shouted, really furious now. "Here!" (she threw the photographs at him.) "Shove them up your stupid ass! But before you do take a look at the feet and you'll see the corpse is wearing cowboy boots! Jonas hated cowboy boots! He always refused to wear them, even on the-" Mia stopped, eyes wide with realization of what anger had forced from her. "That's what it was!" she said, all anger gone. "The cowboy boots!"
Bud was studying the photographs. It was true! The corpse was wearing cowboy boots. He looked up at Mia and smiled gleefully.
"You see-it worked!" he said, chuckling. "I figured if I got you angry enough you'd spit it out. Now, quick! Without stopping to think-tell me: Who did wear cowboy boots?"
"Matt Langdon," she said, quietly. "He always wore cowboy boots. Jonas used to tease him about them."
"Honey, you're the greatest! Will you marry me?"
"What!" she wasn't too sure she had heard him correctly.
He lightly kissed her on the lips. "I asked if you would marry me," he breathed in her ear.
"Yes, I would-will marry you!" she said, laughing with joy. But suddenly she was serious again. The importance of the cowboy boots dawned upon her, with all that they implied. "Oh, God!" she gasped. "Oh, my God!"
"Hey-hey! Take it easy," Bud said, attempting to soothe her rumbled emotions. " Don't get carried away over nothing, honey. It's just a picture of a corpse with boots on."
"I knew it!" she said, in a state of agitation. "He's alive! Jonas is alive!"
Bud gripped her arms near the shoulders and held her firmly. "There is no evidence of that!" he said, slowly, calmly. "After all, the accident was thoroughly investigated by the insurance company-not to mention the official agencies that examine such things. The fact that Jonas didn't wear cowboy boots when you knew him is no proof that he didn't wear them later-surely you can understand that is a possibility."
"I understand the possibility," he said, heaving a sigh and seeming to regain control of her emotions. "But I don't believe it!"
"All right," he said, still in a soothing voice, "supposing it wasn't Jonas-What of it? Why get upset over the fact that he is not dead?"
"I-I-, " she stammered, and then blurted out: "I was thinking of the police! What will they do to Jonas-put him in prison?"
Actually that was a question Bud had not considered. He did so now, reluctantly. Was a criminal action involved? he wondered. That would probably depend on many things, but most of all on Jonas Wilk himself. Why, if he were still alive, had he allowed every one to think he had been killed in the crash? And how had he managed to remain undiscovered? Who was the corpse-Matt Langdon? If so, what was he doing with Jonas Wilk's wallet and the watch Jonas had borrowed from Harvey? Had the plane been tampered with in some way, thus causing the crash? The answer to these and many other questions would be the determining factor in the case, if, indeed, there was a case.
"I don't know the answer to that," he said, finally, taking Mia in his arms. "But I don't think there is any law against remaining anonymous, so long as one had not committed a crime. In this case there has been no evidence of a crime at all. Even if Jonas was not in the plane, it was nothing but mistaken identity. The crash was still accidental, you see?"
This appeared to set her mind at ease, but Bud himself was more troubled than ever....
CHAPTER NINE
Bud arrived at the office at 9:00 A.M., Monday morning, and informed R.J. Colby's secretary that he wished to see the boss immediately. The interoffice communication system summoned him to R.J.'s office before he could examine the mail on his desk. He walked in without knocking, saying:
"Box 99X8-what did you learn?"
R.J. lifted a sheet of paper from his desk and looked at it As he tossed it across the top of his desk towards Bud, he said:
"The box is rented by Carl Smithers."
Bud grabbed the sheet of paper, read the same thing, and dropped it back on the desk.
"I'll be a son-of-a-bitch!" he exclaimed.
"What's it all about?" R.J. asked, his curiosity sharpened. "Something juicy?"
"Maybe," Bud answered, his thoughts whirling. "I'll let you know later-after I've had another little talk with that fairy."
The intercom buzzed, interrupting them. R.J. flipped the switch. "Yes?"
"Miss Susan Dupree to see you, sir," a crisp, efficient female voice crackled through the box.
R.J. smiled at Bud. "You've got to see this cunt, my boy." Addressing himself to the box, he said: "Send Miss Dupree in."
"Who is she?" Bud asked, regretting the interruption.
"A real luscious beauty I just signed to star in one of our super sex spectacles," R.J. said, grinning and winking. "You come along and take part in the action."
"I leave all that to you," Bud said, lighting a cigarette. "I don't need a camera to get a piece of ass."
"Just wait and have a look," R.J. said, his voice full of confidence. "You may change your mind when you see this lovely."
The office door opened and closed and Susan Dupree stood before them. The moment the girl entered the room Bud knew that R.J. had spoken the truth: he had instantly changed his mind!
Susan was wearing a deep-green mini-skirt that ended some four inches above her knees-a color that matched her wide eyes and perfectly off-set her rich red hair. A pair of skin-colored tights served as both stockings and panties; and she wore a strapless brassiere beneath her cool, crisp blouse. Her firm, fleshy thighs tapered wonderfully into legs that could have been the work of an ancient Greek sculptor. The full red lips, with the lower slightly fuller, appeared to have been designed especially for sensual activity. The tiny, barely visible freckles that dotted her features added to her beauty rather than detracting from it. Those large green eyes swept from one man to the other, lighting with recognition when they were leveled on R.J.
"Mr. Colby," she greeted him, her lips parting in a genuine smile. "You said nine-thirty. There I am-and rarin' to go!"
"So I see, Susan," be smiled, and came from behind the desk. "This is one of our best writers, Bud Hastings; he just arrived back from an important assignment. Bud, this is Susan Dupree."
Bud and Susan acknowledged their introduction, and then she sat down and crossed her legs.
R.J. winked knowingly at Bud as he crossed die room and latched the office door from the inside. He returned to his desk and spoke again into the intercom.
"Miss Thompson," he said, "I do not wish to be disturbed for any reason until I let you know."
"Yes, sir," the box answered. Then R.J. switched it off and turned to look at Susan. "This will be your first sex movie, I understand," he said, smiling at her.
She smiled back. "Yes, it will be," she said, "but the pay is too good to turn down."
"You are absolutely sure that you want to do this?" he asked, sitting on the edge of his desk and looking straight into her eyes.
Her green eyes traveled from R.J.'s face to Bud's, then back again.
"I'm sure willing to try," she said, uncrossing her legs. "I do need the money."
"Perhaps it would be better if we had a little rehearsal before you attempt anything before the camera," he said casually. "Then you would know for sure whether you could pull it off."
"You're the boss," she said, her voice less confident than when she first came in. "Whatever you think best."
"A rehearsal would be best," he said, and nodded towards Bud. "Do you have any objection to rehearsing with Bud here, or myself?"
Bud felt a tiny knot forming in his stomach as she once again leveled those deep green eyes upon him. She surveyed him intently from head to foot, letting her eyes linger for a second on the bulge already forming in his crotch. Her sensuous lips parted in slightly twitching smile. "I have no objections whatever," she said, "to either of you."
Bud swallowed hard; he knew what was coming next. And it came.
"Fine, fine!" R.J. said, rubbing his hands together. "Then well pretend that I am the director and you two are the players. Bud, go over to her," he directed. "Susan, you stand up over there on the polar bear rug."
When she stood in position, and Bud stood facing her, R.J. said: "That's it. Now you are to seduce one another. Ready? Get set! Action!"
As soon as he heard the word "action," Bud took Susan in his arms and kissed her.
Susan kissed him back. His mouth felt both familiar and strangely exciting to her. She relaxed in his tense, strong arms, nudging her body tightly against him, making sure that her tits pushed firmly into his chest
Bud began to enjoy his part. He kissed her soft lips soundly, feeling them become slowly responsive under the pressure of his mouth. Their lips parted breathlessly, and he pushed his tongue gently between her teeth-touching her own and finding it delicious.
Moving his hands down her body, Bud drew her brief skirt up over her buttocks and began to massage the ripe cheeks through the sexy-feeling material of her tights.
Her buttocks were soft and supple, and he pressed them tightly, straining her body even more tensely against his own. Her skirt also rose at the front, and Bud could feel the hard pressure of her mons veneris thrusting ur-gently into his swelling, rising cock.
Their kissing grew steadily more abandoned. Susan's hands were stealing down to his bottom, rubbing his buttocks sensuously, as he was rubbing hers. Her tongue worked violently inside his mouth, dueling with his own. She made funny little muffled cries, moans which were wrung from her lips by the pleasure his hands were giving to her bottom.
R.J., watching intently, eyes hot and shining, could not tell whether she was passionate or acting, but it certainly looked real enough.
Bud, his cock reaching full erection as Susan's crotch writhed against it, slid two of his fingers right into the divide between her ass. He pushed the material of her tights well into the crease, the silky, flesh-colored material no thicker than a piece of tissue paper.
She opened her legs, raising herself on tiptoe to make her cunt-mound press more accurately into his lumpy shaft. Breathing heavily, Bud ended their kiss and started forcing her down onto the thick, soft throw rug. They moved dream-like, slow motion wise, his hands never leaving her bottom, until she was in a sitting position and he was on his knees. Putting an arm round her shoulder, he then lowered her backwards into the softness of the rug.
He kissed her lips briefly and started to snake his way down her body, stopping only when his head reached her slightly parted thighs. His mouth sank firmly into the opening, kissing first one thigh and then the other. She parted her legs even wider, enabling him to see her cunt-lips-completely visible through the transparent silk of her thighs.
Bud could see it all; the bulge of her sex, the deep indenture between the prominent lips-the entire structure of Susan's magnificent pussy. He kissed upward, moving slowly, until his lips were only a few inches from the scantily-protected love hole.
Susan lay quite still for him, though she was unable to keep her legs from twitching with nervous tension as his mouth kissed nearer and nearer to her waiting cunt.
He worked his thumbs into her crotch and fitted them gently into the soft flesh on either side of her vagina. Then, as he pressed inwards, framing her cunt-lips, Susan quickly unbuttoned her blouse and, arching her body, deftly unclasped her bra.
Drawing the blouse over her breasts, she rapidly discarded the bra and lowered her fingers onto the bare thrust of her breasts. The nipples had started to perk already, and it required only a brief manipulation with the tips of her fingers to make them hard and stiff.
Susan closed her eyes blissfully, rolling the hard buds with her thumbs, feeling Bud's lips finally apply themselves to her itching cunt-lips. His tongue darted forth, pushing as hard as possible into the tense stretch of the tights (which had not been reinforced around the crotch) and licked strongly at the precious cunny which his thumbs were causing to bulge out for his benefit The sensation of his busy thumbs and probing tongue made her pinch furiously at her nipples. It required a tremendous effort of will-power to keep her hips from churning, but she managed it,-at least for a while.
Bud raised his hands to the top edge of her pantie-hose, inserted his fingers beneath the elastic and, then, getting a firm grip with both hands, he ripped as hard as he could-and derived a surprising satisfaction from the way in which the material suddenly ripped apart in his hands.
Susan's cunt-lips burst into full view. And as the dank, warm smell shot forth from the unrestricted slit, Bud fastened his lips to it as fast as possible. Her legs came up around him, her knees bent, her ankles locking-keeping his mouth rightly to her cunt As his hot tongue gently lashed at her clitoris, Susan cried out and gave way; her body jerked convulsively as the orgasm swept over her in a frenzy of unendurable ecstasy.
"Now fuck her!" R.J. shouted excitedly. "Take off your pants and roll her on top of you, and fuck her!"
Bud scrambled up and hastily rid himself of his trousers and shorts. He flopped to the rug and flung himself on his back, tugging at Susan, who was already rising to straddle him. The mighty length of his shaft was swiftly guided into Susan's juicy cunt She lowered herself upon that throbbing pole as he lurched upwards; and she took it all in one quick ramming. As the crest shot up her channel she swooned and emitted a long, low moan; it was a moan representing both pleasure and pain. As she fell forward, onto him, she broke her fall with the palms of her hands. Then she released her weight and cushioned herself with her full, firm breasts upon his chest. She tangled her fingers in his hair and began murmuring to him in a sexy, throaty whisper: "I'd have done this for free. Ooooooh!" And she squirmed her cunt round the hilt of his cock. "Oh, that's good-so good! Aaaaah!"
Bud thrust himself up much more furiously, and his mind danced through ecstasy as he felt the greasy tightness of her cunt all about his cock.
He couldn't stand it any longer. The sperm rose in his testicles-and with a roar of maddened fury, Bud surged upward, lifting her high, skewered on his cock. Her breasts squashed down on his chest as his prick spouted great globs of thick, creamy spunk into her tightly grasping, sucking cunt
As she lay clasped upon him, his cock still in her cunt to the hilt, they heard R.J. speaking again. This rime he was standing just above them, looking down. Bud looked up and saw him standing there in his underwear, with his tremendous fat prick jutting out in full erection. R.J. said:
"Now we rehearse the final scene. Hold her steady, Bud, while I ass-fuck her."
Bud saw him descent to his knees and, with one leg on either side of his own, move in close to the waiting buttocks of the girl.
"Jesus!" he thought, tightening his arms across Susan's back, so she couldn't rise up, "I hope he doesn't damage her with that fat cock!"
R. J. spread her buttocks with his hands and shoved their pricks in and out of Susan's cunt and butt-her body firmly sandwiched between theirs. The excitement generated within the girl was intense, and she gave her-pressure upon her anus, forcing his prick into it gradually. She began to squirm uncomfortably, and R.J. said: "Hold her, Bud; hold her. I'm going in!'
Bud tightened his grip and felt his cock stiffening inside her cunt. She was moaning and sobbing into his shoulder now, and crying out in pain. The crest of R.J.'s cock had plowed an entrance and was straining to penetrate deeply, and she was struggling desperately to escape the torture thus imposed upon her.
"Don't-Oh, don't!" she cried. "I can't stand that kind of pain. Oh, please!"
"Don't fight it, honey," R.J. croaked hoarsely. "You're going to love it before I'm finished. Now try to relax, honey. Just think of all the money you're going to get."
As he finished speaking, R.J. tightened his hands on her hips and lunged into her with all his strength.
"Oooh! No-no-no-No-o-o-o!" Susan screamed, but too late; the huge shaft had cut its way through all resistance and was now deeply planted inside her. As it buried itself to the hilt, Susan ceased all resistance and her body grew limp.
"She fainted," Bud said, a little concerned. "Maybe we better call it off."
"Don't be silly!" R.J. snorted. "She'll come round in a few seconds, and then she'll enjoy herself."
Meanwhile, he pumped in and out of her butt, getting it used to the action. Bud could feel R.J.'s tool gliding in and out, separated from his own by a flimsy membrane. Suddenly, Susan began to moan again-very softly at first, then with more gusto. She began to squirm again, but this time there was no struggle in it; she did not wish to escape. Her body was consumed with passion and her desire to satisfy and be satisfied set her aflame.
The two men fucked incessantly, until both were on the verge of orgasm. R.J. spurted first-the white, milky lava spurted steadily; a long, rushing flow which caused his cock to jerk manically and throb like a thing possessed.
And since the frantic orgasm of his prick could be felt by Bud through Susan's filmy dividing walls, and since the man was, in any case, on the point of climax, Susan felt herself suddenly engulfed at both intimate orifices! Her anus and cunt were almost simultaneously flooded with rich male fluid. This produced and brought on her own release, and it felt as if she were coming all over her body.
"You ll do," R.J. smiled at Susan, after the three-way fuck was completed. "Behind that door is a shower. Refresh yourself, and then well get down to business."
When the girl disappeared through the door and closed it behind her, R.J. turned to Bud:
"Can I pick 'em," Bud agreed. "But I've got to get my ass on the move-that is, if you still want to do a story on Jonas Wilk."
"Only if it is sensational enough," R.J. replied, handling himself in the accustomed way. "Is it sensational enough, Bud?"
"It may turn out to be too hot to handle," Bud said, and made sure R.J. knew he wasn't joking.
"Then get on with it," R.J. said, winking his eye. "But keep me posted. Want anything?"
"Yeah," Bud said, checking himself over, "I wanted to be invited to the next rehearsal."
Bud went to his own office and telephoned Carl Smithers. He recognized the feminine-touched voice immediately, and said:
"Hello, Carl-this is Bud Hastings . ... "
"Delighted to hear from you so soon," Carl cooed. "I thought you were down in that gorgeous hillbilly country. When did you get back?"
"Last night," Bud said, grimacing. "I wanted to bring your letters and perhaps have a little chat."
"Anytime at all," Carl said, all sweetness and light. "I'll always be glad to see you, Bud."
"Thanks," Bud said. "I'll be there in an hour!"
CHAPTER TEN
Carl's reaction to the post office box number was not what Bud expected it would be. He registered surprise, a little resentment, and that was all. He seemed neither nervous nor concerned that Bud knew about the box.
"It's mine," he admitted, eyebrows up on hearing Bud say the number. "But how-what of it."
"How long have you had that box, Carl."
"Two-maybe three years," Carl answered, the resentment creeping in. "I repeat: What of it? Why such interest in my post office box ? "
"I'll tell you," Bud said. "Do you remember me asking you if you knew where Matt Langdon could be found?"
"Yes. And I said I didn't know where he might be these days."
"You also said you had never met him," Bud pressed on, "Remember."
"I remember."
"Are you sure you never met Matt Langdon?"
Carl became very agitated. "Now just a minute, my friend!" he said, anger leaping from his eyes. "Why the cross-examination? I don't like your attitude, Bud-you're questioning me as if I were a crook and you a policeman. What are you after anyway?"
"I'm after Matt Langdon," Bud told him.
"I don't know where he is!" Carl said emphatically. "Christ! you went to Pineboro. Why didn't you get his whereabouts from Harvey?"
"That's how I found out the number of your post office box," Bud replied, watching Carl closely. "He said he had sent royalty checks to Matt Langdon addressed to Box 99X8, New York City."
"Oh, that! Why the hell didn't you say so in the first place?" Carl screeched, and then sighed and relaxed. "You didn't have to go all the way to Pineboro to find that out. Shit, Bud! I could have told you about that, and would have if I had thought it was important."
"Tell me about it now, will you?"
"Nothing much to tell, really. Jonas used to have some of his mad sent to my box. In fact, it was his suggestion to rent the damn thing! When we rented it, I put his name with mine-so he would be able to use the box number; and he added Matt's name himself. I was supposed to keep whatever mail came for them until they contacted me. Then I forwarded it to wherever they wanted it sent. It got rather confusing at times, because they moved around so frequently-You know how it is with show people! A letter from Matt telling me that he was expecting some checks at the box, and that he'd contact me later and tell me where he wanted them sent."
"Hand-written or typed?"
"Come again?"
"The letter from Matt Langdon-Was it written by hand or was it typed?"
"Typed. All his letters were typed. Why-does that make a difference?"
"It might," Bud said, convinced that Carl had told him the truth. "Did you keep any of those letters?"
Carl reflected silently for a moment He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and shook his head.
"I don't think so. I saw no reason to keep them. Wait a minute!" he said suddenly, snapping his fingers. "I think I still have the last one!"
He scampered to his desk and rifled through the center drawer. Bud held his breath, waiting hopefully. "Here it is!" Bud waved a standard letter-size paper above his head, and grinned at Bud. "As you can see," he said, handing it to him, "it isn't a letter one would place any value on."
Bud took the letter and read it carefully. It said: Montreal, Canada Feb. 11, 1968
Mr. Carl Smithers P.O. Box 99X8
New York 19, N Y.
Dear Carl-
I expect to be in Canada for the next month or two, so please forward my mail to me at the following address:
Matthew Langdon, No. 573, Des Cartes St. N., Montreal, Canada Incidentally, I will be more than happy to reimburse you the cost of the Post Office Box. No justice in your having to pay; it is sufficient that you do me the kindness of forwarding my mail.
Sincerely yours, Matt Langdon
Bud took from his coat pocket the letter Matt had sent to Anita Hutchins and the check Anita had stolen from Harvey's files. He compared the signatures. It did not require an expert eye to see that the signature on the letter to Anita was scribbled by a different hand; it was in no way similar to the signature on the check and the letter Carl had given him. Yet the hand that had endorsed the check had also signed the letter addressed to Carl.
Observing the puzzled expression on Bud's face, Carl said: "What is it, anyway?"
Bud explained the situation, permitting him to compare the signatures.
"I see what you mean," Carl said, quickly selecting the one signature that was different. "This one is not the same as the other two. But what does it mean?"
"I don't know," Bud answered, folding the check inside the two letters and returning them to his coat pocket, "but I intend to find out. By the way, Carl, did you ever know Jonas to wear cowboy boots?"
"Not to my knowledge," Carl replied, amused at the question. "Of course, he could easily have done so without my knowledge. Why? Are a pair of cowboy boots missing?"
"No. Quite the contrary. There are a pair I'd like to account for. Did you know, for instance, that Jonas had on cowboy boots when they recovered his body ? "
Carl saw nothing unusual in that circumstance. But he was curious about Bud's reasoning. First the Post Office Box, then the letters, the check and the signatures, and now "Cowboy" boots! He wondered what could be next, and what it all added up to in Bud's mind.
"Has all this anything to do with Jonas?" he asked. "For the life of me, I can't see what you're getting at"
"I don't know myself-yet," Bud explained. "But I know something is wrong. The signatures don't match, so it's obvious that Matt couldn't have signed all three. Either he signed the letter to the Hutchins' broad, and the signature on the check and the letters to you are forgeries; or he signed the check and the letter to you, and the first is a forgery."
"I can solve that for you," Carl said." The letter to the girl is a forgery."
"I don't think so," Bud told him. "The letter to Anita Hutchins was written and mailed on the day the plane crashed. Moreover, it was mailed from Louisville, at the airport Jonas landed his plane at Louisville for refueling and took off for California. The plane landed at Louisville with three people aboard, but when it took off there was only two people aboard-a man and a woman. One of me men got off at Louisville and never got back on."
Carl was getting very excited again. "What are you talking about a man and a woman? That was Jonas and Nina Tollivar-their bodies were identified!"
"Yet no one who knew him has actually laid eyes on Matt Langdon since the crash. Now how do you explain that?"
"I can't, and I wouldn't even try to explain it," Carl said, gesturing wildly with his hands. "You're off your rocker, Bud! Yes, indeed-ee-die! You've collected together a few insignificant items and are using them to fabricate a mystery."
"Maybe," Bud agreed. "But there is one little insignificant item I haven't told you about. This girl in Pineboro has in her possession a shoe-box. It was given into her keeping by Matt Langdon. And-no, don't interrupt!-and in that shoe-box is the tidy little insignificant sum of fifteen thousand dollars in cash!"
"Oh, we are a real Sherlock Holmes!" Carl giggled. "Since when has it been illegal to keep money in a shoe-box, or to leave it with a friend?"
"I can buy all that," Bud said, following his case. "But you must concede that one is not-likely to forget an amount so large."
"I concede that I couldn't," Carl said, more serious now. "But what makes you think Matt has forgotten it?"
"The girl has never heard from him since the crash."
"Never?"
"Not a word," Bud went on. "Yet, for a lesser amount, he keeps in touch with you. I find that difficult to explain-most difficult indeed."
Carl stared silently at him for a considerable time, licking his lips with his tongue. Finally, he spoke. "You know what you should do? You should turn those signatures over to a handwriting expert and get his opinion. "That's what I would do. Yes, indeed-ee-die! I certainly wouldn't jump to conclusion that Jonas got off the plane in Louisville, and that it was Matt Langdon who died with Nina Tollivar in the crash."
"I didn't say I had reached any such conclusion," Bud said.
"Granted. But you've done everything except say it," Carl argued. "Well, you're wrong-dead wrong! Neither of those signatures were written by Jonas Wilk. I can recognize his handwriting a mile away, and those signatures are nothing like it. Besides, if you knew Jonas as well as I knew him you would know how silly your reasoning is. Shit! You don't even know that the girl was telling the truth! Maybe the letter arrived unsigned, and she herself signed Matt's name. Ah, hah! I see from your expression that that's a possibility that never occurred to you! Look here, Bud," he said, pausing, and putting his hand on Bud's arm in a friendly gesture, "you can get to the bottom of this simply by doing one thing."
"What is that?" Bud wanted to know, doubtfully. "Go to Montreal and have a talk with Matt Langdon."
Bud murmured a curse and said: "If I thought he was in Montreal, I'd go there. But you yourself said you hadn't heard from him in several months, and didn't know where he was now."
"Easy enough to check," Carl said, smiling again. "I'll send a telegram to that Montreal address. I'll say I have just received mail for him, and inquire whether to hold it or send it on. If he is still there, he'll get in touch with me. If I don't hear from him, then we'll know he's gone. How's that?"
"That's just fine!" Bud exclaimed. "Go on, and send the wire. Do it right now! Call me the minute you get a reply."
"Yes, indeed-ee-die!" Carl said happily, and went directly to the phone. "While I employ Western Union, you pour us a drink."
* * *
Bud asked Carl to let him read the very last letter Jonas Wilk had written, saying he would get around to reading the others later on. Carl fingered through die box of old letters and found the one he was looking for. He gave it to Bud, saying:
"He never dated his letters, but this is the last; it came about two weeks prior to the crash. The date is on the envelope."
Bud opened the letter and sat down to read. It began just as the other letters had begun, with the personal salutation:
Dear Carl:
These are the words of a man at odds with himself and the world at large. The love affair is over, the mistress is decomposed in the bitterness of betrayal, and my life, for the little it is worth, is swimming in the whirlpool of muddy indifference. It all began with my witnessing Matt making it with Nina.
The other day some one called while Nina and I were together, and instead of being furious, as I used to be at the beginning, I experienced a kind of joy. I was almost amiable; I kept up the conversation which Nina was trying to let drop so the visitor would leave, and, when he was gone, I accused her of deliberately acting disagreeable to embarrass me. Nina reminded me that two months before I had thought the same person stupid, and the biggest bore on earth (which, in fact, was true), and that I was simply trying to intimidate her.
Such is our position now. It is a grave one. I am in great perplexity. Although I no longer love Nina, I have a strong desire for her, and I should not like to do anything that would cause her deep pain. You see, Carl, I am still the simple coward.
But I pretend that I am not a coward, that I behave the way I do because it is the right thing, the wise way, that it is a matter of honest gratitude.
I shall never have the courage to tell her that I witnessed her deception, or that I do not love her. The vain shadow of love on which she feasts appears so substantial to her, she embraces the pale specter with such intoxication and effusion that I dare not cause it to vanish; yet I believe that in the end will perceive that, after all, it is but a phantom. This morning we had a conversation, which I am going to relate to you just as it occurred, and which makes me realize that we cannot prolong our union very long.
We were in bed, and I was feigning sleep. She had one arm beneath my neck, and did not move for fear of waking me. From time to time she raised herself on her elbow, and, holding her breath, bent her face over mine. I see all this through the grating of my eyelashes, for I have been awake for some time. She is as pretty as a woman can be when you do not love her, although she is by your side. Our conversation began in the following manner:
Nina (with her face above and very close to mine): "Wake up! Wake up! it's time for love!" Myself (yawning): "A-a-ah!"
Nina (having nibbled at my lips) "It seems, sir, that you do not think love very important?"
Myself (taking hold of her wrist and forcing her hand to my sleeping cock): "Yes, I do."
Nina (her fingers toying with the relaxed shaft): "How indifferently you say that! Very well-for the next week I shall not touch your dingy with my lips." Myself: "Aw, now!"
Nina (now slowly pumping my aroused prick) "I have spoiled you long enough."
Myself (feeling hornier and hornier) "The week is up, and the time has come for action."
Nina: "No!"
Myself (stealthily inserting my hand between her thighs and fingering her slit): "You'd rather be raped, I suppose?"
Nina: "At least I'd know you had overcome your indifference towards me. You do not love me."
Myself (wanting only to screw) "Now we are getting complicated."
Nina (still pumping my prick) "You no longer love me, and you have never loved me."
Myself (enjoying the tingling sensation in my balls) "You talk in contradictions. How can I no longer do a thing which I have never done? You don't know what you're saying, so why talk? Do what you do best with your mouth-I'll fill it with cream."
Nina: "You want to cut short a conversation which is inconvenient to you; but, if you please, my horny friend, I would prefer to talk."
My self (inserting my forefinger into her cunt and frig-gin' it) "Fuck now-talk later."
Nina (squirming her bottom) "Leave me alone!"
Myself (quite determined to get my nuts off one way or another) "Stop pretending you'd rather talk than fuck. I know you too well for that."
Nina (sitting up, but holding onto my cock) "I surrender on condition you love me a great deal. No quick orgasms."
Myself (forcing my finger deeper into her channel) "It is too late to surrender when the enemy is already inside the fortress. You have been defeated, and are, therefore, subject to my commands."
Nina (mock servility on her face) "What do you command, Oh Master?"
Myself (putting my hand on the back of her head and urging it downwards) "My rod needs relief and is awaiting the touch of your magic tongue."
Nina moved, rising to her knees and leaning above my shaft. She held my prick stiffly upright, her eyes riveted to it. She leaned completely over, letting the nipples of her tits brush softly against the head. Then, using her hand, she made her breasts close around my prick, squeezing them tightly together over the shaft until they held it firmly and securely in their hot embrace.
I felt beside myself-a furious lust possessing me. I knew I could hold back my juice much longer; she had aroused me to a pitch which could no longer be denied.
"Your mouth, baby!" I gasped at her. "Put it in your mouth! Quick baby-hurry! I can't hold back much longer!"
Nina, sensing my need, swiftly pulled her breasts away from my prick. She darted her head down to within a fraction of an inch of the bobbing, pulsing penis. Her tongue came out from between sharp, white teeth. She paused. Her head bent a little nearer. The glistening crown came into contact with her tongue and she licked tentatively over it.
I groaned loudly at the exquisite ecstasy of the sensation. I thrust my hips up, urging my cock to enter her soft, warm lips.
Nina pursed her mouth in readiness. She slowly closed her lips over my succulent hot shaft, drawing the pointed meat into herself; savoring, I think, the thrust of my manhood.
She pushed down on it, making her lips suck its fleshiness deep into her wonderful mouth. With a technique that was more instinctual than anything else, Nina sucked me off. Her wet tongue licked hotly at the supple foreskin of my cock, moving around the bumpy ridge.
Then she took my tool in, gradually, slowly letting it fill her mouth. I tensed myself. The delectable pull of her sweet mouth was agonizing in its ecstatic sucking. I could feel my "boiling sperm-juice gathering itself.
Nina prepared herself to receive my tribute. She reached down and touched my balls again, holding diem tenderly but firmly. She played with them gently, then slid one finger beneath diem until it found my ass-hole. She poked her finger slowly into my anus, turning it round and probing delicately. As I felt her finger penetrating me, I could withhold my orgasm no longer. Clenching my eyes shut, I gathered myself for die final plunge through nothingness.
Thrusting my buttocks off the bed, I jammed my prick as deeply into Nina's mouth as I could. She gagged helplessly as the shaft lunged forward and filled her. She felt it start to shake spamodically. Then the thick, lumpy cream issued from the tiny slit in its crown and Nina gobbled hungrily at die raw male sperm. Satisfying herself that I had no more juices for the moment, she carefully licked my cock from top to base and back again. Then she fell backwards on die bed, legs apart, breasts rising and falling, eyes hazy and partially closed.
"Fuck me, darling, fuck me," she murmured, her ass undulating slightly.
I put myself between her thighs, lifted her legs straight up, catching and holding die calves with my chest and shoulders. I drove my still erect member directly into her unprotected slit, forcing her legs back and down, with the weight of my body, until her thighs crushed her breasts. My cock sped home, sinking into a world of yielding flesh-all my sap and juices boiling.
Nina gave herself to intercourse with the abandon of an inspired fanatic, groaning and gnawing at my shoulders. She murmured, emitted little cries, and churned her cunt as best she could under the circumstances. Suddenly, with a throaty moan, her body entered into a twitching convulsion. Her orgasm spurred me on, and I drove harder and deeper into the juicy goodness of her frothing cunt. I opened my eyes and looked at her. Her mouth was slack with excitement. There was a strange, twisted expression on her delicate features, her eyes, wide and unseeing, were blazing with a feral light. I rammed her ruthlessly, making her gasp loudly with every thrust; and I continued to do so until the sperm from my balls erupted and spurted from my maddened cock in a thick white stream. I lay on top of her, gasping for breath, and knowing that I did not love her; that I would probably never love anyone.
I shall not attempt to describe my sadness. How speak the unspeakable? There she lay, sweaty, satisfied, with both her arms above her head, her mouth smiling and partly open, one leg stretched out and the other slightly bent in a posture of grace and ease. She looked so well, so lovely, that I felt mortal regret at not being in love with her.
I knew that I would soon leave her, and I was happy with the knowledge. And I had an intimate conviction that when I did leave her, at the end of a month (perhaps sooner) I should no longer be able to tell whether I had known her or not!
I am weary of love and tired of life, and to never sing another folk song would be most pleasant. I can't even continue this letter.....
Your friend, Jonas W.
When Bud had finished reading the letter he returned it to Carl Smithers. Then he said "good-bye" and departed, leaving behind him a very disturbed homosexual.
CHAPTER ll
Bud Hastings sat at his desk staring down at the typewriter keys. Copy paper was properly inserted in the machine, its whiteness taunting him. On either side of the typewriter were stacks of voluminous notes, all deal with the life and the short but fabulous career of Jonas Wilk, the Folksinger. Bud had studied those notes a dozen rimes, practically knew them by heart; yet he didn't know how to utilize them. They contained all the ingredients necessary to tell the Jonas Wilk story, but Bud Hastings didn't know how to begin.
His thoughts kept drifting to the end, the most recent of his memories.
Three days after sending the telegram to the address in Montreal, Canada, Carl Smithers received a reply. Matt Langdon was still in residence and requested that all his mail be forwarded immediately.
Bud Hastings was on his way to Montreal on the first available plane. Four hours and fifteen minutes later he was eagerly and nervously rapping on a door located at No. 573 Descartes St. N. He waited anxiously until the door partially opened and a man's voice said, "Yes. What is it?"
"Mister Langdon?"
The door swung inward, revealing a rather disheveled man with blood-shot eyes. He was dressed in pajamas, wrap-around robe that needed cleaning and seam-broken bedroom slippers. Bud stood staring and the man, the tension lading: Whoever had answered the door one thing was certain: it wasn't Jonas Wilk!
"Whatta yuh want?" the man said, staring through painful eyes.
"I want to see Matt Langdon," Bud replied. "He does live here, doesn't he?"
"If yuh can call it livin', " die man grunted. "I'm Matt Langdon. Whatta yuh wanna see me about?"
"My name is Bud Hastings, Mr. Langdon. I just flew in from New York. I came to talk to you about Jonas Wilk. May I come in?"
Matt Langdon's face turned darker. He started to close the door. Uncertainty overcame him and he stopped. He stood in a state of indecision for a moment, his hand still gripping the door. Then he breathed deeply, exhaled with a sigh and stepped back.
"Oh well!" he said, nodding for Bud to enter, "it was bound to come to this sooner or later. Come on in."
He waited until Bud was inside, then, closing the door, he shuffled down the hall, motioning to Bud to follow him. They entered a rather spacious room that was somewhat cluttered and in dire need of cleaning. Matt motioned him to a chair as he himself flopped down in another.
"You're not with die police are you?" Matt asked, lifting a near-empty fifth of whiskey from a coffee table beside him. He waved the bottle before him. "Want a slug of this?"
"No, thank you," Bud smiled an unfelt smile. "And if it will set your mind to rest, I am not with or from the police. I'm a writer."
Matt grunted, unimpressed, and raised the bottle to his lips and gulped down at least half of its contents. Then he wiped his wet lips on the sleeve of his robe and said:
"One of those, eh?"
"Yes," Bud chucked, "one of those."
Matt replaced the bottle on the coffee-table, sitting it down with a careless thud, and then relaxed, sprawling in the chair.
"Now don't tell me," he said, rubbering his eyes over Bud, "Let me guess. You're writing a story about Jonas Wilk, and you want me to tell you what he was really like! Ain't that the truth?"
"Almost," Bud said, hedging. "I'd like your viewpoint, as well as any other information you would pass along. After all, what kind of story could I write without you? You were with Jonas from the beginning-first as his teacher and then as his manager. I'm sure you know much that no one else could possibly tell me about him. And since I want to write a factual story, in depth, I felt it necessary to seek you out."
"And how did you manage to seek me out?" Matt inquired, interest showing in his eyes for the first time.
Bud saw no point in not telling him. The man was sure to find out himself in a few days, since the telegram concerning mail had been nothing more than a deception. When he finished relating the details, Matt Langdon laughed and slapped his leg.
"I'm sorry about the deception," Bud said. "But I wasn't sure you were still in Montreal; and less sure that you would see me, even if you were. I hope you understand."
"Aw, I don't mind," Matt said, wiping his eyes with the knuckles of his hand. Then he laughed and slapped his thigh again. "Damn clever ... er ... Bud, did you say your name was?. . .Well, Bud, forget the whole thing. I appreciate smart people. Suppose you just fire away, and ask whatever you come to ask."
"If you really mean that you will answer my questions," Bud said, mentally crossing his fingers, "there are one or two items that cry out for clarification. To begin with-" Bud withdrew the check and the two letters from his pocket and gave them to Matt-"I should like you to look at the signatures on both letters and the check, and then tell me why one is so different from the other two."
Matt glanced at the three items and said, "You have been busy, haven't you?" He seemed to study the signatures with interest. Then he gave them back separately. "These two were signed by me," he said. Bud saw he was identifying the letter to Carl and the check from Harvey. "This is not my signature," he said, handing back the letter addressed to Anita Hutchins.
"You didn't send this letter?" Bud asked, sensing that a mystery was near solution.
"Oh, yes," Matt said, and again reached for the bottle. "I sent the letter-but I didn't sign it. I dictated that letter to a public steno at the Louisville airport. I told her to type it up, sign my first name and mail it."
The explanation was so direct and simple that Bud was forced to accept Matt's word; but there still remained much more that he was anxious to know. He approached his next question carefully, uncertain as to how to phrase it-but ask it he must!
"Did you give Anita Hutchins a shoe-box to keep for you?" he blurted out, despising his own apprehension.
"You found out about that, too, did you?" Matt chuckled, and proceeded to swallow all the liquid contained in the bottle. He set the bottle down and coughed harshly.
"Excuse me," he apologized. "Fifteen thousand dollars, wasn't it? Don't tell me that cunt didn't spend it!"
"I think not," Bud informed him, wondering how anyone could so carelessly dismiss that amount of money. "Did you intend for her to spend it?"
"Me?" Matt snorted. "What the hell do I care! She can shove it up her cunt a bill at a time as far as I'm concerned! Stupid cunt!"
"I think she expected you to come back and get it," Bud said, puzzled at Matt's attitude.
"Why should I?" Matt said casually. "It wasn't my money."
"It wasn't?" Bud was truly astonished.
"Of course it wasn't my money!" Matt explained. "It belonged to Jonas. He liked the idea of keeping large sums of cash hidden away. After the crash, I decided to forget the money. Anything was better than letting it fall into Harvey's greedy hands. He inherited everything, you know," he added making a sour face. "Boy! Jonas must be spinning in his grave!"
"Are you saying he didn't like his brother?"
Matt laughed a bitter laugh. "Jonas didn't like anybody. Oh, he liked Jonas-conducted a love affair with himself all his life. No-he didn't like his brother. He didn't like me either, for that matter. But that's all right, that's all right."
"He must have liked Carl Smithers," Bud said, encouraging Matt to continue talking. "He kept in touch with him over the years."
Matt grunted in disgust "Carl Smithers! That poor cocksucker! Jonas used to write him long rambling letters, and they didn't mean a fucking thing! Not to Jonas anyway. He got his kicks out of writing those letters. Oh, that poor cocksucker! Jonas couldn't stand him.
You know something?" Matt leaned forward, lowered his voice as one passing along the hiding place of some secret treasure. "I'll tell you something! A lotta people loved Jonas-until they got to really know him, that is. Then they didn't love him no more. You know why? I'll tell you why' Jonas didn't love nobody-couldn't! That was his trouble. And since he couldn't love anybody, he couldn't believe that anybody could love him ... know what I mean ... ? " Bud nodded his head, not wanting to interrupt; and Matt talked on ... "There was one girl-a few years back-that might have turned him into a humane being, given the chance. Her name was Mil ... no, no ... Mia! Yes, that was her name: Mia! Never knew anyone named Mia ... Never knew her either, except through Jonas. He used to talk about her all the time. I think he came as close to loving her as it was possible for him to love, but did he give her a chance? Hell no! Got involved with Miss Rich Bitch, and made an ass of himself as usual ... " He stopped abruptly and tilted his head, and said to Bud: "Did you say something?"
Bud decided to take advantage of the situation and ask another question.
"I was wondering if you would tell me why you got off the plane at Louisville?"
"You wanna know why, do you?" Matt said, staring disappointedly at the empty bottle. "That's all right-I'll tell you. I got tired of Jonas Wilk. Couldn't take his bullshit anymore ... He was always trying to get me to ball that Tollivar broad ... Yeah! He wanted me to fuck her and let him watch! Did you ever hear of such a screwy thing in your life? Listen! Let me tell you some-thin'! I did screw her once ... Maybe she told Jonas-I don't know ... Wouldn't put it past her though! Anyhow, he kept making snide remarks about us, as if he knew what we'd done ... Say! Let me tell you somethin' else: You gotta unnerstan' the kind o' person Jonas was; and I can tell you. Listen! he was great on the stage ... Everybody loved him on die stage! Men, women, an' even children-And yuh know why? I'll tell you. He was always somebody else on the stage ... Yuh know who he was? He was me! that's right, pardner-he was lil' ol' me. That's why he hated me ... He couldn't stand me knowin', an' it made him hate me ... Now, where was I? Oh, yeah-yuh wanna know why I got off'a the plane ... We argued all the way to Louisville, an' I couldn't take it any more. So when we set down at the airport I jus' tol' him I wasn't gonna go no further, that I'd had it up to here and he could get another manager ... Yuh know what he done? Well, I'll tell yuh! Cried like a fuckin' baby! Said he was sorry, an' all that kind o' crap ... Begged me not to quit ... Said he couldn't keep on without me ... What kind o' shit is that, I ask you? I tol' him to knock it off, that I was finished an' nothin' he could do or say could change my mind ... " He stopped talking again, and once more looked at the empty bottle. "God! but I need a drink!" he said, and struggled to his feet. Bud watched him wobble across the room and disappear through the door. He lit a cigarette and waited. In a little while Matt returned, a quart of beer hugged tightly to his chest. "All I could find," he said, and flopped into the same chair. He gulped the beer thirstily and held die bottle in his lap, caressing it lovingly.
"What happened then?" Bud asked.
"Nothin' happened then," Matt said, taking another swig from the bottle. "I quit, like I tol' yuh. He took off with that Tollivar dame, an' that's all. Yuh know the rest. The whole world knows the rest. Caput! He raised the bottle again, but lowered it without drinking.
He sniffed and looked at Bud through bleary eyes, trying desperately to focus them. "I'll tell you somethin' else," he said, and sounded as if he were about to cry. "They say it was an accident, but it wasn't. There wasn't nothin' wrong with that plane ... It was as clean as a whistle ... "
Bud was on the edge of his seat, body hot and tense. He waited as long as he could for Matt to continue, and then gave in to the strain.
"If it wasn't an accident, what was it?" he asked.
Matt looked down into the neck of the beer bottle, breathing with some difficulty. Without raising his eyes, he said:
"It was my fault ... I done it. If I hadn't. If I hadn't quit him in Louisville, he'd ... he'd still be alive. Yuh see, Jonas wouldn't have been a singer in the first place if I hadn't talked him into it. He was the kind o' person that needed to be pushed ... Know what I mean? And that kind o' person needs someone to lean on ... someone to catch 'em when they stumble ... someone to lift 'em up and push 'em on again ... Know what I mean?. . .I shoulda stayed with him ... He wouldn't of done it if I had been there ... "
"Wouldn't have done what?"
"Killed himself!" The words came from him with a sob, and Bud saw his eyes spill over with tears.
"Aw, com'on," Bud said, full of sympathy for the man. "You can't be certain of anything like that!"
"Yuh don't unnerstan' it," Matt said, heaving and drawing in his breath. He exhaled slowly, regaining his composure. "I've been almost constantly drunk ever since the crash," he went on, again speaking in a normal voice. "But yuh wanna know somethin'? No matter how drunk I get, it don't do no good. I keep thinkin': what a waste! A young man like that-an' all for nothin'! Millions of people looked up to him, made him famous and rich; an' a lot of us really loved him-an' it was all for nothin'! He. never understood it. None of it meant a damn thing to him! Not the fame, not the money, and least of all die love: it was all for nothin'! But yuh know what I remember more than anything else? It was the very last thing he asked me to do for him ... Yuh know what it was? I'll tell you ... Just before we parted company he ask me to swap my cowboy boots for his shoes ... I don't know why I done it, but I did. I thought it was a crazy thing at the time, an' still do ... but no matter how drunk I get, I can't forget a silly thing like that. You know what I mean?"
Bud stared at the typewriter. The blank paper stared back. He searched his mind for an opening line, so he could start the story of Jonas Wilk. But the words eluded him. His mind remained as blank as the paper rolled in his typewriter. He squashed his freshly lit cigarette in disgust and futility.
"Fuck it!" he muttered, and reached for the phone. He dialed and waited, thumbing the tips of his fingers on the desk. He heard the click of a receiver lifting and listened for the expected voice. It came to him, low and sexy, saying: "Hello!" He felt better immediately.
"Hello yourself," he said.
"Bud!" Mia exclaimed happily. "I was just going to rehearsal. Where are you?"
"In the office," he answered. "But I'd rather be in bed with you."
"My God! you just got out of bed with me about three hours ago!" Mia laughed. "How is the story coming?"
"It isn't," he said. "I can't get the damn thing started."
"Maybe you're trying too hard," Mia suggested.
"I haven't even come up with a fucking tide yet!" he said, sounding disgusted with himself. "I've never been so all screwed up before."
Mia laughed, and her laughter irritated him. "What's so funny?" he wanted to know.
"You are," she said, amused. "You're beginning to sound like Jonas."
"Whatta you mean by that?" he demanded, his irritation creeping through.
"You said you were all screwed up, didn't you?"
"Yes, but-"
She laughed again. "That's what I was laughing at. It's the best description of Jonas I've ever heard."
Bud got it immediately, and it was the trigger he needed. His mind was racing furiously with ideas. Now he knew exactly how to begin the story.
"Hey!" he shouted in the phone. "You know what?"
"No," she answered, aware of the sudden change in his mood, "I don't know what!"
"I love you!"
"What?"
"I said, I love you!" he said jubilantly. "You're an angel, and I love you. I'm coming home tonight and fuck you till your ears fly off!"
"Idiot!" she said, "I've got to go. 'Bye now."
There was a click and she was gone. He jammed the receiver down and turned to the typewriter. Striking the keys rapidly, he began with the tide:
"ALL SCREWED UP"
If ever a man was all screwed up, that man was the late Jonas Wilk....
