He was on top of her now. She felt his hot dick against her flaming cunt.
"AAAaaaahhhhhh ... she screamed.
Peter rubbed the length of his brick-hard penis against her somewhat closed vaginal lips until he felt her oils leaking out. Then, timing his action, he drove the stiff tool under her hairy crotch and directly into the palpitating slit.
"Hurts, eh baby? Big, isn't it?" Peter asked.
"Ahhh, how big ... how hard ... and how exciting. Mmmm, it's wonderful!"
CHAPTER ONE
Early dawn. Most passengers on the boat-train crossing the choppy English Channel were asleep, but in the end compartment where Peter and Brigitte were quartered, lust raged. Her hands played all over his naked, muscular body and her hot lips pasted wet kisses on his strong-boned face. Her thighs, still covered in plaid slacks, squeezed together vise-like, imprisoning the bar of flesh shooting out from his crotch.
"Oh, oh, ooooo!" She burrowed in, rubbing her breasts back and forth across his chest, round buttocks grinding. "Now, Peter, now!"
There was barely enough room to turn around in, with two bunks and a washbasin taking up all the space. Peter eased her off, whispering: "We'll make it in the bunk, baby, because there's no way I can take you standing."
He grasped the shapely brunette in a tight embrace, exchanging a last kiss. When she broke free he was left feeling faint and breathless but aware that her fingers had curled around his throbbing penis.
Brigitte released the stiffened instrument, made a pass at his dark, curling hair and inhaled deeply. Her nerves were erotically alert and a liquid warmth was trickling through her.
He looked at her in the feeble overhead light, expressing amazement now as he always did. What a body! She was such a magnificent girl with those long, handsome legs, rounded firm thighs and the full-blown buttocks as luscious as ripened fruit. What a delicious creature! And was he lucky to have her!
A strange feeling of jealousy, unwanted now but nevertheless strong, pervaded him. How many men must have enjoyed the sight of this lusty girl and taken the splendor of her fantastic body. He was tired after all that nonsense over in London, with one party after another, but he had to have her.
First he played with her breasts, so unusually round, like the halves of melons, with pink nipples set dead center like adornments. She groaned as he shaped the globes, squeezing them hard, pinching the tips into sharp points. Her mouth was open, the lips ripe and red and avaricious.
"Take me, Peter. Hard!" Her eyes were closed and when she spoke her voice was almost a purr. She swung her curved body until it fitted flush with his.
He passed his hand along the nape of her neck and into her silky brown hair. Her arms hardened, pulling him closer while her feet took backward steps. Fused, they tumbled into the lower bunk with his hands passing along her breasts, down her stomach to part her willing thighs.
She was already arching, opening her legs wider, whispering for him to be good. "Come into me. And last!" Her partially closed eyes caught sight of his manhood, so long, curving and dark, the base buried in a shaggy mound of pubic hair and her heart stood still!
He was over her, his breath warming her up-thrust breasts. A hand stroked her belly, sending shivers along her spine. Long fingers were on her hairy crotch, prying the wet lips apart, working in forcefully.
Brigitte shuddered, tried to rise and sank back, rights spinning before her and a roar sounding in her brain. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no! His organ was a weapon, a club with bubbles of flesh on it, grinding slowly in.
Peter grunted and struggled, finding the tightness too much. He pushed her back, his length finally buried deep inside her. Hot, searing blood flooded her veins, and her haunches, almost as if they were a separate part of her body, began a lazy rotation.
"Peter, Peter, Peter!" With her limbs twined about him Brigitte twisted and turned, using the muscles in her scalding flesh to hold him while she called his name over and over.
It went on and on and on. They broke and reformed, parted, and came together again. Her breath was hot and coming fast and Brigitte could feel his teeth nipping at her ears.
"Screw me! Ohh, Dieu, do it, do it!"
She twisted her head from side to side and strained under him. Everything was losing substance, the mass of clothing bundled on the floor, the luggage in one corner, the narrow window fogged over with their breath-everything was blending, forming a cloudy mass, and she was only aware of a burning sensation.
"Peter! It is building up ... aahhhh!"
Brigitte tightened her grip on her lover in an effort to cling to reality. But it was sliding away from her while the burn inside her loins intensified. She could endure it no longer and she cried out for him to hold her, to never, never let go.
"Baby ... I...." It was too sudden for him, almost a premature ejaculation, but he was going to make it before she.
Peter's mouth moved over her face and glued itself to her lips where he nourished himself on the sweetness she offered until he felt weak and dizzy. As he rose and fell his hands again sought her breasts, those firm textured globes, and he kneaded them, moulding them. Then desire choked him and he strove for release in her constantly moving body.
"No, Peter, not yet!"
"I can't stop it!"
"Oh, don't, oh, don't!"
She adjusted her rhythm to his, giving herself swiftly, ruthlessly, to reach the finish first. She found herself floating and she sobbed aloud as she realized that she was attaining fulfillment.
Then her body, from her toes to the top of her head, trembled in ecstasy, and with everything out of focus, spinning around before her eyes, Brigitte climaxed. A second afterwards she heard Peter gasping out his orgasm and felt him convulse as the bubbling results of his lust boiled into her vagina.
For a brief moment Brigitte blacked out. When she regained consciousness she could not find the words to express her emotions. "Oh!" She was barely able to move her head. "Thank you, my love," she whispered.
He ran his hands down the girl's wonderful body, stroking the curves. When he withdrew, Brigitte jerked around like a puppet. She felt wetness smearing her vaginal lips, and the slow receding of pain, for he had stretched her, and the chafing now caused difficulty when she breathed.
Peter watched the corners of her lips twitch and form a brief smile. Then Brigitte drifted off into a deep sleep.
He sat up, looking at the superb roundness of her exciting thighs, down the classic length of leg, feeling the desire within him still very much alive. But tomorrow was another day and when they were alone, in the comfort of the small apartment in Paris, there'd be time enough.
There was little he could ask of Brigitte. Love, lust, friendship, she gave her all. But the other part of his life-his career, to be exact-was not going the way he wished.
As a singer Peter seemed to be singing only for a select few. The English music hall engagements he had hoped for were not forthcoming, nor were there any offers from the clubs in London. On the other side there had been far too many people with time on their hands and parties to give, and the endless social affairs left him numb.
He would not reach star status as a singer for a long time, and at the moment the indifference he had just faced proved he was not big enough for London. Come to think of it, he was not big enough for Paris either, but Brigitte, by using her theatrical contacts and working around the clock for him, had opened a few doors. So if he was a small singer in Paris, at least he was not altogether unknown.
The apartment in Paris was on the Bue de Seine, a narrow, twisting street that ran all the way from the Boulevard St. Germain down to the Seine Biver. It was a street filled with butcher shops, fruit and vegetable stalls, book stores, art galleries, some good apartment houses and a few hotels that were little more than hovels.
Peter's place five stories up was furnished in a mismatched way, with no two things from the same manufacturer, everything acquired according to the fortunes of his career. The bed was large but secondhand, as were the armchairs and the book shelves running from the floor to the ceiling of one wall. But the huge closet was new and quite expensive, as were the lamps, the tables and all the kitchen equipment.
His stereo record player was something he could ill afford but that, in addition to the tape recorder, was necessary to his profession. The color television, on the other hand, was quite unnecessary-but what the hell, a man lives only once, as everyone knows.
The morning after their return from London Peter lay in bed, feeling the warm sun pouring in through the opened windows and heating his body. Brigitte, already up, was on the telephone, speaking with the producer Raoul Rotha.
When she replaced the receiver she shrugged. "He, Rotha is, well, indifferent, but at least I have an appointment to see him."
"Look out. I've heard tales about that bastard. He screws everything that crawls as long as it's of the female species."
"As if it's the first time I've met that type! Like everyone else they love money and sex."
"And use their power to get sex."
"Not from me."
He smiled, but he had his doubts; for some club engagements had come too easily, and he recalled how the owners had leered at Brigitte, taking in the melon-shaped breasts, the tight waist and flaring hips with hot, calculating eyes. The thought was disturbing and to banish it he threw the covers aside and beckoned with his hand.
"Come here."
"It is not possible!" She appeared shocked by the sight of the stiff rod standing straight up, the tip wobbling a bit like a snake about to strike.
"Why not?"
"After all I have given you! Peter, you are not human!" She sat on the bed, resting her palm lightly on the top of his member. Slowly she tested the fatness of the instrument with her fingertips.
Peter lay back sighing while she stroked his penis. When her hand closed around it in a crushing grip he cried out with glee.
She said softly, "Why is it that men are always so large in the morning?"
She explored the sac underneath and thought the balls were as large as eggs. Again, as if this were a new discovery, she ran her fingers from the round base up the narrowing length to the bull-like head. A bit of semen escaped from the slit and trickled along her fingers.
"Ohhhh, I wanted to bathe and prepare breakfast and then get out and accomplish some business, but ahhhh, now I must fuck!"
She released him and snuggled close, all warm and naked, twisting against him, her body swelling into wild curves and contours. They kissed, with him moving his lips against her burning tongue, seeking entrance into her opened mouth.
He was on top of her now, going through the same ritual of first grasping the full-blown breasts, then moving down to test the firmness of the rubbery ass. She bent her back, at the same time coiling her arms around his neck, and drew a leg up, locking it around his. She felt his hands pushing her gently revolving buttocks into position, felt his hot dick against her flaming cunt. "AAAaaaahhhhhh!"
Peter rubbed the length of his brick-hard penis against her somewhat closed vaginal lips until he felt the oils leaking out. Then, timing his action, he drove the stiff tool under the hairy crotch and directly into the now palpitating slit.
"Dieu, Peter!"
"Hurts, eh baby? Big, isn't it?"
"Ahhh, how big and how hard and how exciting. Mmmm, it is wonderful?"
The girl became a wild thing he was trying to capture, fighting and twisting under him, her legs shifting up until they encircled his waist to squeeze the breath from his body. But the throbbing, boiling-hot length of penis was so firmly lodged in her that no amount of squirming could ease it out.
"Noooo!" He was so rigid and so long, and he kept going deeper into her, making her gasp. Her pelvis, meeting his, began to ache, but she accepted the ache with a wild pleasure. Her breath became short as his muscle made a chasm of her slit, opening it up.
Brigitte bucked in orgasm, flinging Peter up, but he forced her back, continuing to slide in and out, rubbing the sides of his instrument against her wet, silken walls.
Whining, thoroughly sex-possessed, Brigitte flung about her body in an uncontrolled state. Bending backwards, gaining fresh strength, she carried her lover up, rotated her buttocks, and found herself exploding more violently than before.
At last, when she fell back, smiling and completely at ease with the world, Peter leaned over her, panting like a runner, w-edged his hard phallus deeper, placed his hands over the erect globes of her breasts, strained, and let himself go, pouring his stuff into her.
"There, baby, there, baby!"
More than fifteen minutes later she stirred beside him. "Peter, get up! Today you've got to get to the studio and make that disc."
He groaned, not wanting to cut a disc either now or later. Hell, he had no urge to sing a number that, while comparatively new, had in a short time been played to death over the radio and on every jukebox in the country.
"You mW!"
"Yes, Mama." He patted her on her thrusting buttocks, liking the feel of the twin balls of flesh. I'll get up and get out and get to work."
He looked down at her thighs, knowing that nightfall would find him between them again, his penis pressed against the hairy triangle. But right now he had better get up and get out, or else he would be trying to get back into this poor girl. Because, man, was he getting hard again!
CHAPTER TWO
The session at the recording studio had been altogether too hectic. First the musicians signed by the studio head staggered in late, as if activities of the previous night had rendered them incapable of an afternoon's work. The engineer appeared to be inefficient and would wave frantically from his glassed-in booth at the orchestra leader, complaining that the sound was not clear. To top matters, the numbers Peter had chosen were not those wanted by the company financing the disc. In the end he sang a halfdozen numbers that every other artist in Europe was recording at this time and called it a day.
Dusk had settled over the city when he finally was freed from the session. He looked and felt tired and even a wash-up had not helped. But when he stepped outside and inhaled deeply of this city he loved so much, anger and the general fatigue dissolved, falling from his shoulders like a cloak.
He paused, looking up at the roofs with the tangle of neon lights, television antennas and pipe-like chimney pots, feeling great in the city he adored so much. It was I'heure bleue, when every cafe chair on the sidewalk terrace was filled and traffic seethed along the side streets and into the wide boulevards; private vehicles, taxis, buses, bicycles, and motorcycles forming an unbroken torrent.
It was unbelievable, the way in which drivers and pedestrians a-like defied every rule of safety, seemingly contemptuous of danger. For himself, Peter considered that only a fool used a car and wisely he had left his heap, a used sports car, in front of the apartment building.
He stepped out, attempting to hail a taxi, and narrowly missed a collision with a battered Citroen. In turning to make the safety of the sidewalk he had another similar escape. Figuring that there was no percentage in these risks he started to walk, ignoring people who bumped into him and bumping back in turn.
He had no idea what would be provided in the way of food at Dani's cocktail party and considered having a snack somewhere. But where? There wasn't a free seat in sight. And why the hell did he have to mingle with that whore and her drinkers now when he could use some quiet?
In a corner cafe off the Opera, near the Berlitz Language School, he enjoyed a cold Biere franqaise and pate sandwich. A couple of leather-jacketed types were crowded around the pinball machine. Businessmen crowded the zinc bar, drinking vin blanc or vin rouge and complaining. Secretaries, who were no doubt underpaid and thinking of new fasionable clothing or vacations, saved on dinners by having a creme and melted cheese on toast. One girl fed coins into the jukebox, treating the customers to the songs of Reggiani, Brassens or Mathieu. Peter edged close to her to study the selections. One of his records was listed. There was the gnawing fear that it was seldom played.
I've got to make it, he told himself, I have got to climb higher.
To bolster his sagging spirits he ordered a double cognac, swallowing it swiftly, twisting his shoulders a bit as the liquid tore down his throat in a burning rush. Time passed, not much of it, one hour perhaps, but the traffic had eased and when he went outside he discovered a cruising taxi.
He had to put in an appearance at a cocktail party, a nothing affair. But what the hell, he had promised that idiot woman, Dani Danou he would attend.
Brigitte was always forcing him to agree to these invitations, arguing that one never could tell who would be present. Peter averaged three a week and all he got from these affairs was a telephone number or two and afterwards a hangover.
Dani lived around the corner from the Champs Elysees in an overpriced six-room apartment that was on the top floor and fronted the Avenue Wagram.
Since the lift was not working Peter found himself climbing up the highly polished stairs, all the way, it seemed, to heaven.
Good exercise, however, he figured, and it's preparing me for the drinking as well as Mademoiselle Danou's nonsense.
Blond Dani was a young woman who, at twentysix, had been married three times, each time to a wealthy man. Bumor had it that the first of the husbands had paid her a fantastic sum to have the marriage annulled. The second man, a lad of seventy-three, died shortly after the honeymoon, leaving vast properties, insurance benefits and a Swiss bank account. The third husband, a boy around Dani's age, refused to spend a penny of the money he had inherited from rich parents and figured it was time that some man took Dani instead of the other way around. This smart fellow got a Ferrari and a trunkful of clothes out of the blonde before being thrown out.
Now Dani, lovely with bee-stung lips, a blue-eyed childish expression, and a lithe body, not the least of which were very expressive breasts, was looking for husband number four.
Peter could not admit to anyone, much less himself, that he enjoyed Dani Danou. The blonde tried the damnedest stunts, willing to do anything for a laugh or an orgasm.
Once, in a nightclub, a dump of a place up in Pigalle, minutes before he was to go on and sing before a tough audience, Dani had slipped into the dressing room and jerked him off.
He remembered that he had protested but had made no move to stop her; and as her motions had quickened, her hand becoming a blur, Peter had whined and shot, ruining her expensive gown and the trouser legs of the tuxedo he had rented.
That doubled her up and she laughed until her eyes filled with tears. "Like egg drippings and it shall turn hard on those trousers too. Haaaa!"
But that night he had gone home with her and now he recalled it all in full, startling detail, becoming hard and excited from the memory.
She had shown him the body, the beautiful body that three husbands and countless lovers had seen. Long, sun-browned in places, full-breasted, narrow-waisted, flare-hipped. And those legs, endless, with round calves and very slender ankles.
"You're going to get fucked, you tease!"
"Of course, you came here for no other purpose, didn't you?"
"It's going to be wild."
"We shall see."
Peter wasted no time, becoming as nude as the teasing blond woman and eagerly exhibiting himself, showing that masturbation had not robbed his penis of starch.
"You teasing bitch, you're lucky that I got hard again and can service you well."
"Because my sweet, you are so young. It is the way with young men and I am well aware of it. My dream man, we have a few hours before us. No one will come around to disturb us so I think it is possible we can have a little party for two."
"You are the party-giver and I am the guest."
The girl put several hand tissues on the table next to the bed. Then she took two pillows, punching them into shape. As she bent forward, he saw that the flesh along her belly quivered and writhed, forming a few exciting rolls. With a gleeful shout, she flung her arms out, stating that all was in readiness, including her body.
He looked at her, so gloriously naked, her shapely thighs wide apart, and with a cry Peter pressed his face to her marvelous breasts. He sought the widespread fruit that was her buttocks and spanned the deliciously proportioned flesh with his hands.
"Man, what a body!" His fingers slid down over the rising mounds to stroke her supple thighs and the hard-muscled contours of her calves.
"Eh, eh, eeehhhh!" Her hands were on his head, and she was pushing down, exerting pressure to force his face with its opened mouth lower. Then, she felt the rasping tongue anointing her flesh and she squeezed her eyes closed to enjoy the pleasure that tongue and that warm, parted mouth gave.
"Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmm! Enough now, ooo enough! I want my climax to be brought on the regular way, with your penis, not your ... ahhhh, mouth!"
But he had her trapped and when he raised his head to look up he saw that her swollen breasts were bubbling up as she arched her back to aid the split of her shivering limbs.
Peter went back to the job, paying thorough homage to her lower body. First the stomach, with the tip of his tongue tickling the ringed navel, then the thick bush of V-shaped hair.
"You are a prize, baby!" One of his hands curved around her waist to maintain his balance, the other smacked back and forth against the insides of her thighs to part them even more and then ... he heard her scream as his tongue did a bit of inside exploration.
"You can't do this to me! You cannot!" Ah, no, the boy's mouth was always opening and closing, that tongue going on like a wild snake. She sent her hips tossing as the tumultuous reverie caught her. The lower part of her was so hot, so wet and she could not control the pumping action of her rounded buttocks.
Peter pulled back and held her tightly to prevent her falling as she climaxed. Then, waiting until the tremors ended, he stroked the girl's silken-skinned body. Once again he placed his face against her sturdy legs. His fingers bit into the smooth flesh of her trembling rump as he kissed her hot, quivering thighs.
"Merde! It is enough, I tell you. Ahhh, quelle crapule!"
Peter knew exactly what he was doing, arousing every nerve in her system. He licked all the way up, down and around, past the wet vagina to the sweating navel dimpling her stomach and back to the crisp, pubic hairs, liking how they scratched his mouth.
"Finish me, now, now, finish me off, you cannibal!" "In time, baby!"
The vagina was closed, but his tongue nicked incessantly at the puckered, sweetly odored lips, forcing them to yield. Easily, he wetted down the slippery inner covering and jabbed several times at the tiny clit.
The woman was in no condition to protest, now she could only moan and allow him to have his way. But when the bottom of his tongue, as rough as sandpaper, rested on the swollen bud that was her clit the creature screamed and screamed, going insane.
She shouted and screamed and screeched and cried and smashed his face with her strong thighs and climaxed, dousing the agonizing tongue with hot liquid.
Without a trace of cowardice, he continued to perform, lapping up the oils while the girl's climax achieved full force. She writhed her rounded butt, she worked her curved hips and she whirled her gash around the steadily active tongue, gaining, in the process of her excitement, another orgasm.
She raised her head and yelled and pulled away, freeing herself, but staggered by the flurry of climaxes like a fighter who has taken too many blows. Moaning and sobbing real tears, she dropped heavily on her knees, slightly bent forward, her shoulders quaking.
"No, no, no!"
He stood over her, his hands sliding into her hair and the upper portion of his young torso tensing. There was no urging her on, for she knew her commitments and willingly fellated him.
"Ahhh, baby, ahhh, yes, yes, like there. OOOhhh, baby!" Peter felt the girl's tongue dabbling at his penis, tracing the throbbing veins, nicking like a whip at the underside where the line of muscles was writhing.
"Ooh, ooh, I do to you exactly what you did to me, I shall drive you insane, too!"
"Now, baby, do it now!"
He rammed himself forward. She swallowed the head of his tool. It lay within her mouth heavily, terribly hard but unmoving. Her teeth came down and the muscled penis came alive, fighting for freedom. But her tongue was swift and it was cruel and it lashed the threshing thing into submission.
"Ca va, eh m'sieu?"
"Man alive!" Peter stiffened, pulled his manhood out just as it commenced spitting.
"Hah!" She shouted from pride. "Look what I have caused!"
"Yoweeeeeee!" Sperm shot out of the instrument and he doubled up, spilling a thick portion of his seed on the girl's twitching thighs.
Smiling in a sort of vicious way, she got up and went to take up one of the tissues. Weakened, he fell across the bed, lying there and groaning.
"You see. What you can do to me I can also do to you, as I said." She wiped his still-hard hose clean with the paper tissues.
"Bad ... for ... you, baby.'
"Beally? PourquoiF'
"Because then ... you get nothing more. I am finished."
"Oh, we shall see. At your age, bah, an erection is swift."
She lay down next to him and cupping his chin kissed him hard on the mouth. After that, she sang several songs, all the while gently stroking his back and arms. Between her singing she kissed him, her tongue racing all over his lips. Within a short time Peter was kissing her back and now her kisses were full of real passion. More exciting for him, there was a rather bestial expression tightening her extremely pretty face.
Her fingers played with his manhood, shaping it once more into something hard and formidable. With a renewed lust sparking his loins, his penis again stiff and throbbing, Peter was ready to offer the girl another round in the game of love.
He penetrated her before she was fully prepared, slamming her with a skill that was maddening and all the more exceptional because he would not climax so easily this time. She was compelled to rotate her hips rapidly and shake from the fury of one spasmic orgasm after another.
Afterwards, with her flesh weakened, more the slave than the commanding mistress, she allowed him to ready her for another sexual assault. However, tired as she was, some part of her passion-drugged mind remained clear, willing her to assist Peter.
"Wait! It shall be better with the pillows, for my opening will be brought up higher." She placed the folded pillows on the part of the bed where her buttocks must rest. Shivering from the violent shock of raw lust, Dani arranged herself up the mound.
Peter went between her thighs, his penis shooting straight out, the balled tip glowing. He looked down at her with a sort of possessive glee, knowing she was totally his. One of her arms was over her face, as if to hide him from sight. But while he hesitated, feeling very much the satyr, she whispered for him to please hurry because her limbs were melting like butter over a flame. Already her legs, drawn apart in anticipation, were bent at the knees.
He put his hands on her thighs, widening their split, watching the silken pubic hairs move of their own accord, causing her very female slit to be wetly exposed. "A very pretty pussy," he said, parting the lips with the ball of his cock. Dani moaned as he eased the log of hard flesh through the sensitive gates, touching off sparking currents that raced through her loins.
"Peter, mon river She sighed the words while maneuvering her hips in complete cooperation. She chained his legs with hers and dug her fingernails into his back.
Her passions doused with hot sexual oils were aflame, and his soon joined the fire. Peter laced his fingers under her rapidly rotating butt and lowered and raised her. As before her desires reached the high peak. She sighed, cried, groaned, shouted vulgar words and climaxed. But Dani never stopped moving and gave herself fully; even after she lost count of her climaxes she continued to toss about her pliable body under his.
Hammering her violently, Peter felt his lust carrying him to the heights. He rammed deeply into her, bringing Dani to still loftier levels of ecstasy. Breathlessly, she wound her arms about his pumping back, matching his downward strokes, heaving up so that not a millimeter of hot space existed between their connected privates.
"Now baby, I am giving it to you. Hard!" Throwing any mercy he could know aside, he delved in and out of her, thrilling shivers announcing the arrival of his orgasm. "I am going to come and come and come into you."
"I want you to, ohhh, every drop, every bubbling drop, do you hear?"
Peter heard, and he came, his hard tool, beautifully sheathed at the exquisite moment. The tide of passion could not be restricted now. Uncontrolled, the stream surging with force into her caused Dani to squirm, but she willingly gave herself with a blind and quite blistering vehemence.
"Oui, oui! Ahhh, what a river! Ahhhh!" With her legs locked around his shuddering back, she held him in a ferocious grip, squealing as the flow burned her silken insides. And, ever wanton, ever willing for more pleasure, she soared upward, flying off into another, last climax.
Choking for breath, Peter still accepted her mouth, his tongue curling around hers as she blended with him, pounding up as he pounded down, two joined bodies pounding out the final, ruinous orgasm.
If he had expected a repetition of the episode Peter would have been disappointed. Dani's cocktail party was a bore, and any man present having the intentions of enjoying her body after the guests had left soon had to face reality, as the luscious girl introduced her new fiance, a muscular, curly headed fellow who kept his hand firmly planted on her trim waist throughout the party.
Few present were important in the theatrical field, but Peter mixed freely, chatting with everyone regardless of their position. Dani would fling him a glance every now and then, but no teasing smile accompanied that glance. Perhaps her new lover was jealous.
After a cocktail and one hour had passed Peter saw that he could leave. As he went down the hall to the door Dani did manage to pry herself free from the muscle-bound character and see Peter out.
"So happy you could come, Peter."
"As usual, you made me come, Dani."
"Oh!" She looked about apprehensively. "He may hear you and he's very jealous."
"Husband number five, or is he to be number six?"
"Do not be nasty. By the way, how is Brigitte?"
"Better than ever."
"In bed? Hee, hee. My man is fantastic. We do it everywhere, all over, in all positions. His imagination, o la la. And his virility! Again, o la la!"
"Poor guy. He is headed for an early grave." Peter went out the door. Thus, whatever he had with Dani was now definitely over.
CHAPTER THREE
Wherever he went, to parties, to social functions or ordinary theatrical gatherings where singers, actors, musicians and impresarios gathered, Peter expected to be recognized by someone from the past. Each time he approached such an event, whether accompanied by Brigitte or alone, he shivered with apprehension, thinking a well-traveled man or woman would cease talking, put down a cocktail glass and stare at him, recalling a past situation and trying to attach his name to that circumstance and say: "Well, look who is here! The gigolo!"
It would be the proper name; for indeed, for a brief spell, he had become a gigolo in order to survive.
Many people considered singers lazy individuals, boys who took the easiest way in life, but Peter always took pride in the profession, knowing that a singer was an artist just as painters, writers, dancers, sculptors, actors and musicians were. While he passed through a series of dumps falsely labeled clubs, where men brought girls to get them drunk and feel their bodies, Peter always sang to the best of his ability. The pay was generally bad, the band accompanying him terrible, and the atmosphere in these clubs unbelievable. But he put it all down to experience and, whether his engagement was for two days or two weeks, performed as well as he could.
There had been an offer for a club in Jamaica which he had leaped at. He visualized a club the size of a ballroom filled with the sort of clientele who could afford a vacation in the Caribbean. He imagined white beaches and a blazing sun during the day with a cool breeze and a tropical moon at night. What he received was a bad salary, an open-roofed nightclub where an endless parade of passing cars drowned out his voice, and fifth position on the bill, meaning that he appeared after a dance team, a magician, a mind-reading act and a series of trained seals. There were plenty of white beaches, but not for him to enjoy. The club closed so late that he staggered to his cheap hotel room to sleep until late afternoon.
At the end of the engagement he found himself with less money than when his plane had put down at Palisadoes Airport. Out of disgust with his lot he ventured into Kingston, asked around and got a job on a freighter as an able-bodied seaman.
The old boat crossed the Atlantic and unloaded its cargo and some of the men, Peter among them, at Casablanca. He wandered around for a few days, getting acquainted with the city, and, to his surprise, received the chance to sing in a club that catered to tourists and featured strippers. A week later he signed a contract to perform in a series of clubs owned by a rich Arab that were dotted along the coast of North Africa.
He considered it all experience with every single appearance helping, whether it was before a noisy audience of visiting Egyptians, or disinterested Europeans, or unsophisticated Moroccans who never understood one word of his songs. But each afternoon Peter would study the discs of French singers, listening intently to Charles Aznavour, Gilbert Becaud, Sacha Distel, Georges Brassens and Yves Montand. It eventually paid off for he noticed that at the end of his numbers the audiences would clap and request an encore.
There was a chance to work further down Africa, in Johannesburg, and he eagerly grabbed it. The payment was good, the working conditions the best he had encountered. Under the African sun his body hardened and became brown, and with his boyish looks changing Peter found that he was quite attractive to women.
Peter soon came to know that there were all sorts of girls in Johannesburg, some permanent residents, others just tourists from England, Holland, Germany. They would hang about the club, seeking the sort of thrills that only musicians could offer. And there were the beauties, shapely girls with hard souls who had worked too long in clubs as strippers or dancers but were still all hungry for a little romance.
Then he met a woman approaching middle-age who was aggressive and wealthy. She dropped into the club often and suggested that he visit her at her home in the suburbs for a bit of after-hours entertainment.
The orchestra leader, a sleek-headed man from Naples named Monti, put Peter wise. "Look, my young friend, that woman spends a lot in this club, If she complains to the manager that you disregard her then you are out, on the street."
"What the hell is this? I don't have to prostitute myself."
"She has power, that woman. Besides, are you so rich that you can pass up the little gifts she surely will offer you?"
Peter listened to the advice but chose not to accept it. He continued to avoid the attentions of the woman who was named Mrs. van Damm.
One evening the manager, a white-faced man with a pot belly and a bald head laid it on the line for him. "Listen singer, that woman is wealthy and so are all of the people she brings into my place. Be nice to her, do you understand me?"
"No, I don't."
"You don't, eh? Well, try to get another job in this city after I throw you out."
Peter was annoyed and just a bit humiliated. He spent his money as rapidly as he earned it. He had fully expected to remain a while in South Africa, gathering more experience. But damn it, he sold his voice, not his penis. Damned if he would get between the woman's fat thighs.
"We've a contract wherein I've been hired to sing and I expect you, as a businessman and a gentleman as well, to honor it."
"Smarten up, singer. I'm in this for money and you should be too. If I lose money because of you then you better open the door and get to hell out fasti"
Peter turned on his heels and walked out.
In one week he applied for jobs at every club and was turned down. Out of desperation he sought work as a clerk, going around to various banks, insurance companies, travel agencies and real estate outfits. No one hired him. He decided to perform as a laborer then, using his muscles, but this time his skin color held him back. All menial jobs were held by black Africans and his presence, he was told, would be deeply resented.
In the end, when his pockets were nearly empty, he decided to face facts.
Early in the morning, close to three o'clock, he hung about the entrance of the club where he had been formerly employed. Big, blond Mrs. van Damm emerged with a party of her friends, saw him standing there and beckoned to him.
"What are you doing out here, young man?"
"Waiting."
"For what? Certainly not me? The manager told me you have been discharged for refusing an order, an order involving me, I was surprised to learn."
"I've come to think I must obey that order."
The woman instead of answering him looked around at her friends, two men, two women. "Get in touch with me tomorrow," she told them, "I am too fatigued at the moment to go on elsewhere."
A black Rolls Royce convertible had glided up and a uniformed chauffeur was holding the door open. Mrs. van Damm arranged herself in the rear seat and motioned for Peter to join her. In silence they were driven out of the town up into the hills to her palatial mansion. Inside, Peter stood in the luxuriously furnished living room, checking the Regency furniture, the priceless carpet, the French impressionists on the walls. He knew there was no turning back.
The woman questioned him briefly, then mumbled something about her beaded evening gown being uncomfortable. She left the room to return naked under a sky-blue negligee. Wherever she moved, her strong perfume was left in her wake. Her voice was too calm, her gestures theatrical, not at all in keeping with her age or her appearance. She was big, blond and full-bodied.
She smiled at him, seeing that he was obviously unnerved. "Champagne, my dear?"
"Could I have Scotch, please?" He was terribly shaken, his mind clouded by strange thoughts.
"Of course." She rang a bell and the chauffeur appeared, still dressed in his uniform. She gave orders briskly, saying that the man could go home afterwards and return in the afternoon.
Whiskey and fixing were brought in, the man keeping his face straight, not once glancing in the direction of Peter, who had a face as red as a tomato. Mrs. van Damm plucked ice from the silver bucket with a pair of tongs, filled two glasses to the halfway mark with Scotch and splashed soda from a siphon into them.
"I was interested in you from the moment I saw you."
"Oh ... really?"
"Of course. You are an extremely good singer but also, you are an extremely good-looking young man."
"Thank you." Peter brought his glass to his mouth.
It took two drinks to loosen him, but the woman was at ease, smiling as she conversed, drawing closer to him on the soft couch, always crossing and uncrossing her extremely long legs.
"And how do you like life down here, in South Africa?"
"Much more than I thought I would, at first."
She put a hand to the blond hair that was piled high in the style of the 1890's, swept up on the neck and above the ears into a balled mass. Slowly, she eased herself closer so that now her thigh, round and hot, was pressed to his.
"I am glad to hear that."
Peter now unbuttoned his jacket, loosened his necktie and allowed the hand that she put on his knee to remain there. He knew what was coming next and leaned forward to rest his glass on the table, not wishing to be doused with whiskey.
It was the move the woman had been long awaiting. Suddenly she was atop him, her arms sweeping about his neck. Her lips were hot when he kissed her, her tongue dry, but her large, rounded breasts felt surprisingly good to his touch.
Her body, he discovered, was not fat after all, just a bit soft at the waistline. He cupped the resilient cheeks of her behind to bring her in closer and how kissed her longingly, enjoying the taste of her mouth and tongue.
She broke the kiss and pulled him to his feet with her strong hands. "Come."
The moment had arrived and words would only delay it. Peter followed her out of the living room down a hall -lined on both sides with paintings, into a vast bedroom that was lighted only by a tiny candle.
Her tall body was lithe, he saw, the back straight, the rounded arms swinging and the shapely buttocks rolling effortlessly. Her breasts, he noticed again, were wonderful for her age, two thrusting balls of flesh.
But when the woman stood too near the candle and the flickering light hit her well made-up face, Peter frowned. The crow lines at the corners of her blue eyes were deep. And the furrows that come with age, from the nostrils sharply down to that wide, still well-shaped mouth ... He searched for gray in her blond hair, knowing she was in her early forties, this beauty.
They came together for another, more intimate kiss. His hands started to roam up and down her body. An incredible woman this one, the hips wide, womanly and flowing down to thighs of astonishing roundness, the breasts high and round and full.
"Shall we make love, my dear?"
Peter was more than eager. "We shall'"
She undressed him, then whisked the negligee over her head, shaking loose the mass of carefully piled blond hair, and had him carry her to the broad, fourposter bed. She was quite heavy, but his young arms were muscular and Peter succeeded in resting her gently on her back.
"Now love me as you have never loved any woman before."
He caressed the thighs that were still beautifully shaped and concentrated too long on her breasts, finding them heavy, hanging somewhat but bowl-shaped with thick, rubbery tips. When he reached her hot center of desire and found it already wet he applied his mouth to it, sending his tongue deep inside, lashing the tiny clit and sucking on the outer lips.
The middle-aged woman shrieked, shouting that he was too experienced, that she had not expected this. But Peter nibbled away, bringing her through two orgasms and then pasting his mouth to her pulsing belly before going upward to the division of her breasts. His tongue curled around each stiffened nipple and then, when the woman was rolling her body in agony, he went into her, hard, unpliable, deep into the love nest.
His hands were under the backs of her thighs, his faced rested next to hers so that the sharp gasp she released was intensified. Her buttocks rose up so that she met his first thrust straight on, her bush of hair pressing against his.
"Ahhh there, ahhh there, now move, ohh, move, ohh please move inside me. You feel like iron! OHHHHI"
She was rolling and rolling like a tiny ship on violent seas, her loosened hair whipping about, her well made-up face tightening and the backside, which he had discovered, was splendidly constructed, wriggling.
Peter drove on and on, his instrument at full vigor and buried deep in her juiced-up cave. Each one of her orgasms caused the woman to squirm violently, the first cries soundless, giving way to a horrible scream. It was as if he was hurting her, but he kept on thrusting deeply, his desires as violent as her movements.
"I made it, darling, oohhh, my young lover, I burst but now ... allow me a quiet moment." She tried to rise up but Peter determinedly pounded her back, keeping the action going at a terrific rate until she screamed that there was nothing left in her.
Then when he was ready for his own pleasure he gave a last savage pounding, once, twice, three times and he climaxed, flooding her out.
When it was over he had to rest for more than one hour. He opened his eyes to find the candle had gone out, but Mrs. van Damm was leaning over him, her skin glowing in the darkness and drops of his semen Still dribbling from her wet crotch.
"You are wonderful."
While she knelt, keeping her thighs widely apart, he inched himself lower on the bed, working down until his face was directly underneath her fantastic vagina. She knew his intensions and quickly rubbed first her left palm then her right palm against her pubic bush, wiping away all wetness.
With her blue eyes blazing she bent her back, bringing the shapely mounds on her chest up, stretching her belly as he performed cunninlingus, letting out sharp ecstatic cries. He ate her out, tasting the creamy pleasure flowing out of the pretty slit.
Mrs. van Damm could not believe a young man was capable of giving such pleasure. The happiness she received was priceless, and when she finally fell forward, to lie without moving a muscle, she might have been dead except for the sighs that were barely audible.
They bathed together, with her soaping all parts of his body, fondling his still erect penis lovingly. Peter scrubbed her shapely body, enjoying each curve and round, knowing that this time he was involved with an extremely luscious woman.
Once out of the tub it was back into bed. He inserted himself between the yawning crevice of her long thighs and entered her easily. It seemed, as she wrapped her rounded legs about his waist, hollowing out the cheeks of her rump, that a tightness that had not been in evidence before had shrunk her privates. The stem of his manhood in particular was pinched and there was such pressure along his organ that he was reluctant to move. But the blond woman moved, and each rotation of her behind caused the pressure on his penis to increase.
"Now, now, a last one and then we shall sleep, eh?" Muscles throughout her body tightened and her bottom bounced. He felt the weight of his instrument balanced in the juice-filled opening, but he pounded away, bringing her on.
She went through orgasmic contractions. Her hands found his head, the fingers gripping his hair. He lashed her, driving her crazy, and she screamed and screamed.
Breakfast, served in the late afternoon, was brought in by a maid in uniform. While Peter enjoyed the juice of three squeezed oranges, scrambled eggs and fried ham and tomatoes, and finished off four wellbuttered pieces of toast and half a pot of coffee, Mrs. van Damm beamed at him.
"You treasure, you!"
"You're a treasure, yourself."
"No, no, I'm too old. How can you look at me like this, I need make-up. And you can see that my breasts sag somewhat. Also, there's too much flesh on my thighs and my rear end. It's not the body of a young woman."
"A lot of young women I've seen would die to have that body."
"Peter, you'll remain with me, won't you? Sleeping only with me, I mean, no other girl?"
"After you get through with me there's nothing left for any other girl."
"Good. I've three girls working here, but I'll send them away except for the cleaning girl who I shall have in when we are out. I want to be entirely alone with you. I am capable of cooking for us on those occasions when we don't eat out in a restaurant."
"You can't keep my presence here a secret."
"I won't worry about that now. Come, let's shower together and see if we are strong enough for another round of sex."
Her husband shared strong interests in a gold mine and his business activities were of a nature that kept him away from Johannesburg for long periods of time. Once a day there was a long-distance call from him, from London, Brussels, Amsterdam or New York.
"Gold is his God," Mrs. van Damm would say. "He lives for it."
Gold, Peter reflected, provided her with the type of Me that oil sheiks and ship owners have, too. The gifts she dispensed were gold, too: gold Rolex watch, gold identification bracelet, gold signal ring, gold cigarette lighter, gold pen, gold belt buckle, gold key chain.
There were also suits, cut by the best tailor in Johannesburg of English mohair in black, dark blue, royal blue, gray and fawn, as well as a dozen silk shirts in all colors and hand-made shoes. The selection of neckties was left to her, all black silk.
"It appears more business-like," she would say. "People seeing us together on the street might assume you are my young lawyer."
Sometimes she wished him to be taken for a law yer; on other occasions she wished him to be presented as the chauffeur, for the regular driver was told to take a holiday and Peter took to getting behind the wheel of the Rolls Royce. Also, she made him move to the room above the garage and keep his things there, even though he spent every night in her bed.
It went on for more than two months and then, one morning as they were preparing to get into bed, make love and then sleep off the activities that had kept them up until three o'clock, the telephone rang.
It was her husband, shouting at her along several thousand miles of wire, screaming that he had learned she had a gigolo on hand.
"Do you realize the time?" She checked her watch. "Even if it is afternoon in New York it is not, here."
She listened a while longer, heaved the sort of deep sigh that sent the balls on her chest rising high, then slammed the receiver into the cradle.
"Trouble?"
"People are talking. They just won't mind their own damned business. He wants a divorce and I am not yet ready to give it to him. Supposedly he's got witnesses here in Johannesburg who claim you are a chauffeur who is not doing much chauffeuring."
Peter shrugged. "Well, you have been rather ... open about it."
"The bastard. Ah, well, come on, let's make love and bring me to as many orgasms as you can, because it'll be a long time before I can take another lover."
He took her like a savage, while she was still dressed, ripping her undergarments into shreds to shove his hardened penis into her dry opening.
The scream she let out was music to his ears, and with her nervous system shattered and her entire body trembling he drove himself on, bringing her to an orgasm before she could even give her buttocks a single twist.
Afterwards, however, her blue eyes sparkled and the soft lips stretched back over her large, white teeth. "Ahh, that was primitive, but I loved it!"
Peter felt the warmth pervading from her opening and the tiny muscles therein stiffening. He slipped his hands under her stilled bottom, kissed her gently on the mouth, arched a bit and lowered his body, shoving his manhood deeper into the silken tunnel.
She was dominated by lust, her every rhythmic action motivated by a burning passion. Again and again her well-kept, golden-skinned body came up off the bed, the long thighs tightening, the rotund buttocks twisting around in circles.
Peter marveled at her motions, knowing that as he pounded her she could lash back with her body, making his muscular penis throb and soak in the juices oozing out of her vagina. The orgasm made him liken her femaleness to a soft plum, tender and sticky-wet.
The shudderings passed through her hips, eliciting harsh groans from her mouth. He felt a shivering in the hard breasts upon which he tried to rest lightly, but, with his own desires surging, he thrust in swifter before the tide could flow over him.
She knew he was coming, sensing it from his grunts and the swelling of his penis, and she quickly shoved her hips this way and that, disconnecting her sweating body from his.
Peter's freed penis, filmed over with her wetness, thudded between her outstretched thighs. "Hey!"
"Don't come yet. You know I want this to last as long as possible."
He lay atop her, fighting for control, his hands tightening on her shoulders. Finally he rose up, kissed her throat, chin and ears and said: "I think I have got hold of myself now."
"Good." She started to bring up her knees, but he made her roll over on her stomach.
Then, with her buttocks rolling against his groin, Peter licked the sweat from her shoulders and kissed all the way down her back to the point where her flesh was formed into twin balls. She shivered, sending her blond hair spilling along her quaking shoulders.
"Hold still now." Peter clutched his slippery wet organ, guided it under the buttocks to the thick tangle of pubic hair and into the pulsing slit.
"Ooooooo, you devil!" She stiffened, but did not move.
Peter ran his hands under her armpits to grab her breasts and move deeper inside, holding her tightly, not uttering a sound until he was pasted entirely to her firm back.
She shrieked, but obeyed his request not to move until he was working. Then it went in a perfect rhythm, more perfect than he had hoped for, with her vaginal muscles always in play, squeezing and squeezing his organ.
Her control was wonderful, her inner grip sure, just as if it were a clutching female fist masturbating him. She came, gasping and sighing, but always pulling on his tool, his behind tightly knotting, rotating.
"Now ... I...."
"Yes, darling, yes, yes?"
"I have got to ... I have got to let go."
"Do it, do it, do it!"
He felt it gathering within his groin, the flood of joy bursting, shooting along his pipe in a rapid flow into her. And while his manhood threshed about within her, filling the cave with hot cream, Peter cried out, sorry that the game was over.
He had to hold her, for his brain, like his chest, was on fire, and blackness passed before his opened eyes. It was an overwhelming climax, heightening his sensitivities and producing a sweet pain. He cried out again and again.
"No, no, nooooo!"
"Aiiiii! It is making me discharge again too. Ohhhhh, Peter. P-e-t-e-r!"
It was the best they had indulged in and the pity was that it had to end. Peter made love to her as often as he could raise an erection, but while the enjoyment was keen they never again lived through a similar moment.
He was on his own again, with a fantastic wardrobe and many gifts of gold. The night club re hired him and he was back to singing but sleeping alone at night. But not for long.
The manager forced others on him, all lonely women who found Peter both sexy and exciting. Soon it became a sexual nightmare, with a parade of women embracing him in bed. Some were terribly thin, others big-bodied but surprisingly flat-chested. Many were old, a lot were still young and occasionally there would be a curvaceous girl with the sort of body that won prizes in beauty contests. But they were all eager to sleep with the young singer.
Some were fantastic in bed, threshing about frantically as they went through a half-dozen orgasms. Peter, young enough to be sexually virile, nevertheless soon learned to control himself and hold his climax back until the women were thoroughly drained and extremely satisfied.
At last, with sufficient experience gained, he left South Africa to try his luck again up north, in the clubs of Tunis, Tangier, Algiers and Casablanca. He sang, he drank, he slept around, he gambled and he got into fist fights. When his well-cut suits became worn they were not replaced. Most of the gold gifts, the lighter, the pen, the key chain, the identification bracelet, were pawned to cover his gambling debts and never recovered.
At length, deciding it was time to put this wasteful period well behind him, Peter again went to sea, signing on a pleasure ship cruising the Mediterranean. Then came a moment when he tried his luck as a sing er in a dive in Marseilles, moving on from tfiere to Lyons and finally to the clubs in Montmartre. Then the extremely helpful Brigitte appeared, and finally ... now.
CHAPTER FOUR
A little time passed, with his career occupying him more and more. A film producer, liking his voice, asked if he would not care to dub for a certain star who was unable to sing a note. With Brigitte intervening as middleman a decent price was agreed upon and Peter found himself up in the studios at Buttes Chaumont involved in synchronization. The star, a too-handsome dark-haired man who had been the darling of the French cinema for more than a decade, mouthed the words of some stupid ditty on the screen. Peter, backed by the studio orchestra, went through the number and got it perfect on the first take.
The producer was very grateful, stating: "If you were a little better known, here in France and throughout Europe, you could be in a film."
Peter found the idea appealing. "Why not take a chance on me as I am?"
"No, no. Even if I found a suitable screenplay, film costs are too high. You would have to have a co-star, an actress who is well known here and abroad. Then a good director. And a cameraman to photograph you to advantage. No, no. Later perhaps, according to how you fare as a singer, but not now."
Later, Brigitte concurred. "You see, not only hard work is needed, my dear Peter; when an important person shows an interest in you it is up to you to strengthen that interest."
Peter knew that every talented singer appears not only in clubs but in concerts and films as well. He had a long way to go. "Something else may turn up," he told Brigitte.
It turned up sooner than he expected, one afternoon just when he had finished rehearsal. Brigitte handed him an envelope, remarking that it came from a well-known person.
He studied the name engraved in black on the flap of the envelope. "Marlies Tourme. Who the hell is this?"
"Where have you been, Peter all these years? Or should I say what have you been reading besides the sports pages?"
"Wait a minute! A jet-set member, part of that old group always flying from Rome to New York to London and the French Riviera in the nineteen sixties! Sure. Married about eighteen times. She was a photo model, a bit player in films and something of a painter. Always involved in the arts as a whim."
"She's got money."
"A lot of people have. You and I seem to be the only poor ones about."
"Well, open the letter, see what she wants."
"You know what she wants. Probably wants to be serenaded in bed."
"Peter, she happens to own a small publishing company that has branches in London, Paris and Hamburg."
"What of it; I'm not a writer."
"She is expanding and has even entered the record field. Do you hear me? She makes discs!"
"Oh!"
"Oui. ohr
"She owns all that, a publishing house and a recording firm?"
"Relatives are in it with her, of course. No one gets involved in such enterprises alone, even with money. One must have the knowledge and I suppose that is where her relatives come in."
"I'd prefer the recording company to be a big one. How do you know what sort of distribution facilities her firm has? And why weren't we approached properly, instead of with an envelope reeking of her perfume? No, there is some ulterior motive in all this."
"You need the contacts, Peter. Your voice can carry you just so far, then help is required."
"You know about my life in other countries and the sort of rich women I was involved with. Not again, Brigitte."
Brigitte threw up her hands in a typically Gallic manner. "Eh bien. Suit yourself. I do not make the opportunities. They arrive when unexpected. Throw them away."
He tore the envelope apart and found a card inviting him to have cocktails at the Hotel du Louvre. Brigitte continued the argument, pressing him to accept, and in the end he gave in.
"Remember, I go under protest." Rich women, he knew, were too damned much trouble. If they were not domineering they were bitchy. The memory of that blond bitch still rankled, and he did not want another Mrs. van Damm on his hands.
That afternoon he met the woman who was to be his new sponsor. Deliberately, he had not freshened up and wore the same wilted shirt and wrinkled jacket and pants he had gone through rehearsal with. His hair was snarled and his cheeks were shadowed by half a day's beard.
Marlies Tourme, however, was extremely well-groomed, stepping out of the pages of the latest fashion magazine with her expensive afternoon frock and hand-made shoes. She was tall, with a perfect figure, tanned skin, slanting blue eyes and hair that was probably a natural blond, but which had been dyed almost platinum.
They drank martinis before the bar instead of at a table while, tourists, tired from visiting the monuments of Paris, stormed in a steady stream through the front door. The noise they created did not put Peter at ease, but nevertheless he was able to answer the questions the blonde put to him.
It was practically an interrogation, with him the suspect and her associated with the police; she wanted to know exactly where he had gained experience.
"Is that club you're at now the end-all?" She put a hand to her face and diamond and platinum bracelets rattled down her arm.
He knew if she was interested in his bedmanship he would be capable of taking her on for the night. But something more permanent was out of the question. This blonde was too rich for his blood. Peter tallied up her jewelry, the bracelets, the watch, the rings and shook his head. He knew this type too well.
"No, it's not the end, but it is a welcome port of call after some of the dumps I've worked in."
"Who is your manager, surely not that girl, this Brigitte?"
"She is, and a damned capable girl too."
"Not from what I see. Where are you known? Now really! On a few streets in Paris or throughout all of the city and the country?"
Peter shrugged and finished off his drink. "I do all right."
"Not from where I sit. Do they know you in Denmark or Holland? How about Germany?" He decided to give as good as he got. 'Take me over, as you are surely about to suggest, and I can give concerts in all of Western Europe."
"Correct. That's why I requested a meeting. I've a few girls under contract making discs for my firm. And I've also got a group, soul singers, four black kids from America. But I want a young man like you. A couple of young men, preferably, but that can wait until later." I see.
"I should like to start with you, Peter."
"Contracts are supposedly made only to be eventually broken, but I do not like them. I've got one, with Brigitte and it's quite flexible. It's good enough."
"Would you care for another cocktail?"
"No," he glanced at his watch. "I've things to do before tonight's appearance at the club."
She showed her perfect teeth in a wide smile. "Come, don't rush off yet. Have another cocktail. We'll talk about something other than business."
In the end he had two more drinks, followed by ah offer to meet after the show. The offer was made with her stool closer to his, her hand resting heavily on his thigh, with the fingers edging like red bugs closer to his covered manhood. The breast that she pressed into his arm felt solid and upright on its own, proving not to be bound by a brassiere.
The cocktails put him into a pleasant frame of mind, but Marlies, he knew, was out to start a big fire in the region of his groin. His sex life was more than adequately cared for by Brigitte; in fact she overwhelmed him so at times in bed that he could not go with another woman if he wanted. But this blonde was something else, damned tantalizing, and if he had another cocktail he would proposition her.
"Till tonight then," he said, and drew money from his wallet.
Her fingers closed over the hand gripping the money. "No. This all goes on my bill. And it won't be tonight, it will be more like morning, but I can wait."
Three o'clock in the morning found Marlies outside, tapping her heel on the deserted pavement. Peter considered it fortunate that Brigitte had not shown up, for the excuse he was prepared to give was too thin to deceive her.
"Tired, Peter?" She offered her cheek to be kissed. Her perfume stung his nostrils and was inhaled straight to his brain.
"No, I am not." He noticed that the doorman, who liked Brigitte a lot, was watching him.
"Shall we have the doorman hail a taxi for us?"
"I've my car."
"But then you must concentrate on driving."
He knew what she meant, but was determined not to allow her her way so soon. Deliberately he led her past the entrance of the club to the side street where his car was parked. Just then, however, a cruising taxi stopped, and the driver sent the door on the passenger's side sliding out.
"Voila, madame et tn'sieu."
"You see." Marlies, laughing, tugged him toward the cab. "He understands."
They were no sooner seated than Marlies sprang upon him like a cat upon a mouse, snapping her arms about him, digging her sharpened nails into his neck and pressing her hot, wet mouth to his.
The kiss was held for a long time while she encouraged him to palm her breasts, those breasts that were so full, so curved and so dynamically up-thrust. Again, he inhaled deeply of the intoxicating perfume while enjoying the taste and roughness of her sliding tongue.
At length the driver coughed discreetly, forcing them to break. "Pardon, but you have not told me where to drive."
"Oh! I did forget!" Marlies gave him the address and returned to Peter. "Maul me! Treat me rough!"
He did, nearly tearing the expensive black chiffon dress from her chest as he sent a hand within the opening to grasp one of her luscious mounds. She moaned, closed her eyes and fought to unzip his trousers but with a jerk the taxi stopped, flinging them apart as they realized that they were in the vicinity of her hotel.
"Short trip," said Peter.
Marlies gently removed his hand and took a deep breath. "We can continue this upstairs."
Once in her room she kicked her shoes into a corner, thus lowering her height, and gripped the pleated ends of her gown. Peter stood with his back to the door just watching the dress inch up over her shapely thighs and seamless panty hose to the trim waist and higher, where it was snagged momentarily by the rigid peaks of her thrusting breasts.
"Man, oh man!" He revealed his surprise, thinking that the sight she offered demanded even stronger language.
Marlies shook her thick platinum hair out and carried the dress over to one of the wall lights. "It is ripped," she said simply.
Peter groaned inwardly. Probably a designer's original, costing easily double what he made in a week bawling his head off in the club. "My blunder."
"Why? I've had it over a year and everyone has seen me in it." She draped the dress over a hardbacked chair. "You'd care for a drink, wouldn't you?"
He was fascinated by the shape and color of her breasts. How old was this woman, his age certainly, considering the years she had been on the scene, or possibly older. But those breasts belonged on a well-developed sixteen-year-old. Not only were they a creamy white and free from any blemish, but also solid-fleshed and tilted, actually cupped upwards.
He ceased staring long enough to find a row of liquor bottles lined up near one of the wide windows. He decided on Scotch, needing something to steady his nerves. Marlies opted for vodka.
"With water?" A glass in each hand, Peter was heading for the bathroom.
"For you, if you wish. Water spoils vodka." She was now tackling the panty hose, bending forward to peel them down the flaring hips and over the delicious rounds of her rear cheeks.
"Mine'll be straight too." Peter splashed a little more Scotch into his glass. He felt rather ridiculous, standing there, holding the glasses while she stripped down to the skin. There was no wasting time with this platinum-haired creature. What she wanted she expected to get, and now!
He turned away as she removed her panties, showing the thick, V-shaped bush of pubic hair that, while light in shade, lacked the brilliant whiteness of her head. She padded over the rug, took her drink and clinked glasses with him.
"Cheers, Peter."
He acknowledged her toast with his own and swallowed the fiery liquid, thinking he had never gotten laid so easily in his life.
Marlies rested her empty glass on a table next to her handbag. "My relatives have warned me to pay more than a little attention to business."
"You're in publishing too, I understand."
"Yes, but as I said this afternoon I'm currently more concerned with the recording company. Business before pleasure is the rule, but I think it is a little too late now for business."
Peter finished his Scotch and put the glass next to hers. "So we better get right down to pleasure then."
"Right. And you can start by removing your things." She came close to him as he disrobed, unknotting his tie, opening his jacket and pasting a hot kiss on his mouth.
Nervousness set in and his arms became entangled in the sleeves of his jacket. She had to assist him, even to the extent of unbuckling his belt and zipping down his trousers.
Her blue eyes, slanting upwards, narrowed to see the strength in his arms, the breadth of his chest, the flatness of his stomach. Her eyes, still roving, dropped below the line of his striped underpants and saw that he was bulging with manhood.
A smile hovered about her shapely lips. Her unbelievable breasts rose and fell, making him swallow a lump in his throat, and her hand reached out to grasp his. T think a wonderful future is before us."
"Maybe."
Marlies' smile grew wider. Her eyes were shining, her hand squeezing his harder.
It was to be a one-night stand, he told himself, because he still belonged to Brigitte, and the thought entered his mind that while this woman was beautiful and desirable, she was also dangerous.
Peter tried to free his hand, but she held tighter. Their eyes locked and suddenly, captured by a raging and fiery lust, he brought her hand over to rest on his crotch.
She freed his fingers to squeeze his penis. "It is like stone!" She squeezed tighter. "I better let go or you'll come in your underpants and spoil our fun."
"Not me. I am an old hand at the game of sex."
They embraced, arms and legs winding about one another. Long moments were spent kissing and tonguing while his hands moved upwards, over the contours of her hips, her fantastically rounded thighs, her belly.
He played with her, using his tongue, employing his fingers until the passion churned like boding lava within her. His head was pressed against her proud, up-thrust breasts when Marlies suddenly stiffened, squeezed her eyes tightly shut and climaxed. "Oh, oh, ohhhhhh!"
Peter had to use all his strength to hold the naked, shuddering woman.
"Not even in me ... and ... and I came!"
Her hips went from side to side and her rounded thighs pulsed against his with a fierce intensity. His mouth and tongue that had so enraged her desires went to find hers and engaged her in a burning kiss.
She shuddered for the last time, twisting her silken, shapely body against his provocatively, and then she broke free. "One thing I ask: just make me come again. Please!"
The woman's lusts might have been stored up for an age the way she unleashed them, becoming a female animal under him while he sought to press her into the bed. The cheeks of her buttocks were aflame, her parted thighs were rounded columns of heat and the organ below her pulsating belly was a cavern leaking bubbling cream that wet and tangled the fair pubic hair.
Crying, she drew up her legs and he penetrated her easily, sending the instrument into the silk-lined, cream-filled opening. But even before he was fully engaged the woman was rotating her buttocks with a terrible force.
"Ahhh, no! Ahhhh, noooo!"
His penis sank deeper into the slit that was clogged with a thick honey, gaining a delightful shock as her inside muscles snapped like elastic against the knob. But then he arched and slammed down, making his manhood run wild in the sheath.
There!"
"OWA!"
"Another!" He repeated the maneuver, coming down much harder.
Her great, cream-colored breasts, so full and heavy, went heaving all over her chest, but as her lower torso accepted his weight her curved hips continued to roll.
"Oooh, you singer!" Marlies sucked in her breath. "Eeee, you two-bit singer, you lousy, lousy singer! Ahhh, no, no, no!"
Her hands went all over his strong back even as he drove in and out of her at a speedier tempo, withdrawing his hard, curving penis to the balled tip, leaving it for precious seconds on the sucking, outer rim that was even more wet now, then slamming it in harder.
"Yes, yes, yes! Eeeeee! Can you do it to me! Ohhh, can you! You sing like a lousy starving cat but heaven can you bang the ass off me!"
He sensed she was arriving by the sudden stiffness in her body, even before the scream was released. Then she bounded up, pasting herself to him, her coarse pubic hair scratching him. The position was held while the orgasm went through her and then, with a whoosh of her breath, Marlies fell back.
Still joined to her, Peter waited. "Maybe you ought to rest for a while."
Marlies spoke with her eyes closed. Her breathing was more steady, the luscious breasts rising and falling with regularity.
"You ... aren't ready to ... come yet?"
"Another two, three minutes and then I am going to let go."
"Good. Let's switch positions."
Now he was lying there while she straddled him, opening her long legs wide and resting the weight of her balled buttocks on his thighs. The globes of her hard breasts swung back and forth like bells across his face.
"Hurry, baby!" His penis went straight up between the tight valley that divided her firm behind. "I can't hold out much longer."
He was squirming, fighting to hold back the inevitable explosion, while her thumb and forefinger guided his tool to the hair-covered spot. The union was made with her balancing her weight on her knees; then she lowered herself, sucking the thing up into her and crying out as the knob separated the stuck-together walls of her vagina.
"No, no, ohh no, it feels so different this time, so much better!"
Marlies' thighs went against his even as her buttocks went around rhythmically, and Peter was pistoning himself up. His hands went to the writhing hips to hold them more steadily as his time drew nearer.
On top she seemed more skilled, was able to churn her buttocks with greater freedom. Thus, with the waves of sensation mounting, with his lust and passion rushing from all parts of his body, Peter gritted his teeth, and without warning he shot! "Ahhhhhhhh!"
Marlies, riding him stronger, flung her head up, sending the platinum hair all about her twisted face as she felt his hot semen. It brought on a tidal wave of her own lust to meet his in a foam of ecstasy.
"Again! I made it there again!"
She threw herself forward, mashing her plump, hot-fleshed breasts into his chest, her fingers tearing at his hair while her knotted buttocks hammered him.
Peter winced, for the woman was frenzied. His hair was being torn out and she was slicing the flesh from his shoulder with her sharp teeth. And damn, much as he held her ass he could not prevent it from continuing those wild gyrations.
"Stop, baby, stop, stop! I'm finished! I can't shoot any more."
With a whine Marlies opened her thighs and fell to one side, her body still shaking. "Ohhh, ohhh, ohhhh!"
Peter caught his breath, thankful for the oncoming rest that would relieve all pain and weakness. This was one of the most turbulent screws he had ever been involved in. This blonde was a beast!
"Baby, maybe you stink in business, but when it comes to pleasure...."
Marlies finished the compliment for him. "I am a fantastic success."
CHAPTER FIVE
In the morning Peter left the bed first, stepped under a boiling shower, switched to ice cold, toweled down and went after his clothing. He had no idea what excuses to offer Brigitte, but he'd think of something. In between screwing all Marlies had gone on about was the severance of his contract, displaying an eagerness to handle him and place his talents where they belonged, on top.
"Aren't you even going to wait for breakfast?" Marlies, stretching in the rumpled bed looked now, as before, sexually appetizing.
Peter picked up the telephone, requesting the clerk to send up the petit dejeuner. He watched Marlies untangle her snarled hair with her fingers. Then she wiped the dried night crust from the corners of her slanting eyes and smiled at him.
"Come back to bed."
He looked at her smooth shoulders and watched the plumped-out pillows of her luscious breasts with their gemmed tips rise and fall. "I've got to get going."
"To report back to Brigitte? Darling, didn't we discuss all this before? Haven't we reached an agreement?"
"Well...."
"Well nothing. I've dealt with little French peasant girls like her before and I know how to make them understand situations like these."
She spoke with the sort of assurance gained after getting in and out of many beds during the decade when she was a top member of the jet-set. And the domineering side was making its appearance just as he had figured.
This woman, Peter knew, was going to be more than a handful of trouble.
The knock on the door came. Marlies did not bother to cover her spellbinding breasts, but Peter placed his trousers to his bared front as a girl wearing a maid's uniform entered, carrying the breakfast tray. Mumbling a good morning to madame and monsieur too,-she placed the tray on the table, keeping her eyes discreetly lowered. As she backed out Peter followed her to the door, offering a five franc piece.
"Merci." The door was closed gently.
Marlies shifted her long, curving thighs, indicating a spot where Peter should place the tray, and immediately bit into a croissant. Speaking with her mouth full, she damned French hotels for not providing her with a decent breakfast.
Peter took his time, smearing his flaky croissant with chilled butter and raspberry jam. There was something about this woman that was too fucking hard. A real commanding bitch, and he never liked that in a girl.
She added sugar and hot milk to her coffee. "I am taking you out of France, Peter, over to the Netherlands, then up into Germany and Denmark."
"Just like that."
"Of course. I am getting you started immediately. Introductions here in Paris are important, but this city is not the world."
"Look, I am not unwilling but I've got to break away from Brigitte easily and not abruptly."
"Is she good in bed?"
"Why bring that up?"
"Well, is she?"
"Damned good."
"So am I."
"No one said you weren't, but I know what she can do when it comes to my career. What you can do is just talk so far."
"It's not bullshit." She put the empty coffee cup down and wiped her mouth with a paper tissue. "Don't you want to make love to me again?"
"I was about to leave."
"Was is right. Now come on!"
"You push things to the limit, don't you, baby?"
"I see we are going to argue about this until the cows come home. Look, lover, I see we can be a great team, in bed and out."
"You've said the equivalent of that before."
"I plan to take you over and make full use of your talents. I know you did some dubbing, putting your singing voice into the mouth of a French film star."
"It's no secret. I was paid for it."
"When I finish you'll be the star, doing your own singing."
"A guy named Dickens wrote a book once, a long time ago. It was called Great Expectations."
"Finish your coffee and come lie down."
"Not again!"
"I told you what I expect. Now stop behaving like a little boy who is frightened of sex but masturbates all the time."
He leaned over her, kissing her hard, responding in the way she expected. But then, the remembrance of past experiences with rich bitches like her had him changing his mind.
"No."
He withdrew slightly from her twisting and demanding body. Her face was stilled for a moment, then her lips twisted into a mocking smile. "Right, you won't make love to me, so I shall make love to you."
He looked at her, his glance rather speculative. Then he laughed. "I doubt that you are the sort to give pleasure as well as take it."
"Don't move."
She twisted about on the tip, pushing her lips against his chest, the tip of her tongue stabbing out. Then, as she kissed him slowly, erotically, Peters stomach muscles tightened, his body trembled and his penis started to rise.
Her head was now between his thighs, the thick mass of platinum hair splashing down on his legs as her lips reached the penis that was now hard and throbbing. Then she mouthed his penis, holding it fast between her sharp teeth. A shock tore through him as her tongue teased the instrument from the hilt all the way to the rounded tip.
He reached under to grab the taut balloons of her breasts, then worked his damp hands around her sides and down the hard back, past the trim waist to the spongy spheres of her grinding ass.
"Stop, baby, now stop ... or I'll blast your mouth open."
Marlies released the throbbing cock and drew back, her eyes glazed, her breath rasping. "Fuck me!"
Another command of hers, but this time he willingly obeyed. But to show immediately who was in charge he handled her roughly, leaning over her to rub his tool between the big tits with their enlarged nipples. He squeezed and pinched the globes and in a moment of maddening lust chewed on them, extracting sweetness from the tips before pressing his face into the rubbery mounds.
"Beautiful, aren't they? Big! Aren't they? Ohhh, They rose up like hills from the platinum-haired woman's chest. Marlies seemed to sink deeper into the bed as he nipped at them. His teeth gouged the silken flesh, his tongue flicked over the hardened gems. And her limbs yielded, going slack when his mouth went to her crack, tasting the oils of her femaleness, "Peter, ohh, Peter!" She tossed her luscious ass with a tortured force when he licked her out.
As she rolled that awesomely shaped ass Peter's mouth opened and closed upon the burning lips with the tiny clit. It grew so, that impudent little nub, but when he sent his tongue past the fleshy gates into the velvety passageway Marlies was wild.
She pounded his back, screaming: "Stop eating me, 'cause I am coming ... I cannot take anymore ... oooo, you son of a bitch! Fuck me!"
Peter rose up, his mouth dripping wet from her come, grabbed the superb body that was writhing so and flung it back upon the bed. But it was she who pulled him on top of her, kissed him ravenously, licking away the juice of her come before grasping his cock, bringing it up past the crack of her grinding ass to the bushy twat.
"There!"
He slammed it, stretching the sides of her vagina, hollowing her out, pushing and pushing deeper.
Marlies arched up, overwhelming Peter with her morning passion, rotating her buttocks, pushing up at him so that he was lifted. His hands tightened their grasp on the well-developed thighs and he attempted to burrow deeper into the wet hole.
"You bitch!"
"I'm coming!" Marlies rammed herself up higher as he kneaded her delicious and always moving ass. He was thrusting so brutally into her that there was a whirling of juice in her loins.
The muscles in his rump worked as he pumped back and forth. It felt like his member was engulfed in soft mud, and while he had at first set the pace, she, coming like crazy, was now dominating the act. Her hips worked, her ass cheeks ground together, she squeezed his body with the sinewy thighs and-climaxed.
Afterwards, she waited until her breath had returned to normal and climbed over him, opening her thighs, lowering her long, curved body until his cock pierced the opening of her cunt and started nudging its way in.
Marlies, impaled, was delighted. She sank, all the time working the hefty cheeks of her rounded rump, swallowing up the rod. His prick in her tightened-up cunt was a metal crowbar attacking. If it was painful she answered wantonly, heaving her great breasts all over.
His arms went about her body, his spread fingers holding her in position. Ahh yeah, baby. Let her do it, all the work, he told himself; let her move that wicked ass around and around like a machine.
But while she worked he felt the sudden pains that signalled a pop-off, a terrific climax. He thrust upward, using a vicious force, digging up into her workable snatch, peeling the stuck-together lips apart with his balled tip on every trip up.
"There, there, you bitch, you'll make me come!"
Marlies did not answer him. The platinum-haired woman could not answer him. "Bitch, I'll shoot it all up into you!"
"Shooot!"
And she took the full flood of his orgasm.
Afterwards she demanded to know when he would return to her arms and her bed. He begged off, truthfully admitting he had to work and...."I'll have to offer Brigitte some excuses too."
"Fuck her!"
"Ah, come on." Peter dropped a hand on her breast, gently squeezing the mound.
"I'm taking you over, Peter. Your body, your voice, your contract. She has got to know it."
"There'll have to be some discussions with her. I just can't pop in and break the news like that. We've been together too long and she's damned helpful."
"With Botha, I'll bet. He's a seducer, that bastard, a man who uses the casting couch."
"Brigitte isn't that way."
"Oh, no! Bullshit. Anyway, after a turn with that producer she won't want you unless of course he causes her pain."
Peter's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean?"
"He hasn't got an ordinary penis, that Botha, he's got a broomstick. He's known all over Paris for his instrument. Poor Brigitte won't be able to walk."
"Stop talking like that, will you?"
"All right, if you don't want to face facts."
Peter looked down at the magnificent breasts, then filled his hands with them, digging his fingers into the luscious flesh, pushing the rounded mass together, making the suddenly enlarging nipples roll. "Ohhh, God, oh God, Peter!"
He released the tits, watching them spring back into shape. But Marlies was bringing her legs up, bending them at the knees, flinging the extremely rounded thighs out so that her bushy vagina was exposed. The lips had thickened and were so wet that an odor floated up, drifting right into Peter's nostrils.
"Hey ... are you looking to be fucked again?"
"Don't go, don't go yet ... ahhh, can't you see I am all wet!"
Listening to her, looking down at her as she squirmed, pushing her buttocks deeper into the mattress, twisting the cheeks around and around stiffened him, making him want to get back again into the hole he had just withdrawn from.
"But ... baby, we'll kill each other."
"Fuck me now, Peter, ohh, please, fuck me. I know you want to ... I can see you getting bigger!"
Back to work. He climbed on top of the crying woman and buried the shaft, sinking all the hardness that she hungered for deep into the bubbling wet opening. "There! Are you happy?"
Marlies welcomed the fleshy stick, her eyes rolling back and the slightest of sighs, more like a sparrow's puff of breath, leaving her mouth. Then she went back, smiling as she gyrated her hips, urging him to plumb the depths of her femaleness.
"Oh, yes, my love, push it all in, now pull it out, slowly, slowly. Do you feel my grease on your prick? Huh, huh, do you?"
"Yeahhhh!"
"Wonderful then, darling. Now, now, not all the way out, just ride the tip around and around, yes, like that. Feel how the top of my vaginal lips slides around the tip of your prick. Yes, yes, ooh, yes!"
Peter knew the woman was not only a bitch, but a nymphomaniac, a destroyer of men and he threw himself at her. His hands tore at her beautiful ass, practically tearing the cheeks off.
"Ohh, darling, darling, yes, yes, be brutal!"
"Bitch! Cunt! Whore!" Thus levered, holding the ball-shaped ass, he penetrated the beautiful woman deeply, shoving his phallus in and out of the greased-up opening.
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"Fucking cunt!"
"I AM and you are FUCKING me! OHHHH! AHHHH! MAN!"
"This is all you want to do, isn't it? Isn't it? Just fuck and fuck!"
"Peter, you wild boy ... ohhh, you fantastic devil what, oh what are you doing to little Marlies?"
She climaxed, once, twice, thrice, delighted as he sweated over her. And each time that Peter thrust his hardness into her he punctuated it with an obscene remark, saying he wished his penis was twenty times larger so that he could tear her apart.
"I ... wish ... the ... same ... thing!"
Marlies quivered, coming for the fourth time, hearing his shouts as the stuff oozed out of him, filled up her hole and dribbled up and out, splashing so hotly down her thighs.
CHAPTER SIX
This was all in the interests of furthering Peter's career, Brigitte kept telling herself, and not to gratify her own sexual needs. True, Peter was neglecting her lately, but sexual abstinence sometimes occurred between lovers, and at the moment she was concerned with pushing him up the ladder.
Brigitte was in the lavish one-storied house of the famed producer, Raoul Rotha, which was situated in the Neuilly section and faced the park, the Bois de Bologne. Botha was supposed to be something of a Don Juan, having slept with half theingenues in Paris, but that didn't bother her. Advancing Peter did. If it meant she had to spread, well, her legs were going to be spread.
She had arranged her hair, applied a great deal of make-up to her lovely face and slipped a tight-fitting black silk sheath over her curving, perfumed body.
The fact that she wore nothing under the sheath should make things easier for Rotha. But the man insisted upon talking, talking. And, he was still talking, about oil and the Arabs, the war in Lebanon and the execution of the five young terrorists in Spain.
Her glass was empty, but he refused to take the hint. "Pardon, m'sieu Rotha, but can't you fill this before you continue?"
Rotha's velvety eyebrows rose. "You are bored, dear mademoiselle?"
"On the contrary, but I did come here to discuss my client. I know the world situation; even those who never read the newspapers know it due to television." Brigitte shrugged. "All merde, I know, but what the hell!"
He was facing her, relaxing in a huge dark velvet armchair scarcely six feet away. "But ... F"
"Politics do bore me."
"I see," he said softly.
"Now you're getting offended."
"Not at all. Right, we shall see what can be done for your client, that young American who is a so-so type of singer."
He rose, standing straight, seeming, in his custom-tailored fawn-colored silk suit, taller than his five feet seven. His hair, while not altogether black, was glossy, but the patch of beard that seemed pasted on his chin was gray. Brigitte found him quite good-looking despite a boxer's nose and a too-large mouth.
"Please do not think that I find your conversation dull."
"I know. Politics." Rotha smiled while reaching for the Scotch and soda. The bottles clinked loudly, momentarily distracting her. He apologized and decided to pull the elaborately carved wooden dolly closer.
"Angry?"
"Please give me your glass."
"Are you angry, I asked?"
"You could have made an appointment at my office. Why did you request the meeting with me here, and alone?"
Brigitte blushed and drank quickly, bolstering her courage.
It did not escape Rotha and he leaned forward. "Forgive me for being indelicate, but you chose the easy way, via the casting couch? No? The girls all do and it helps, but not all the time. However, in your case...."
He was directly above her, his dark eyes closing. I am a prostitute, Brigitte thought, selling myself for a contract. The knowledge was painful, wrenching her heart. She tried to blink back the tears, but they streamed down her cheeks, making crevices in her thick make-up.
"I have tried so hard with Peter, he has genuine talent but ... he is standing still. Another woman is after him, one who might do more for his career, so I must choose any means available."
"I see." His touch was gentle as he stroked her head. "And where is he, this Peter, now?"
"With her, no doubt."
He knew about Marlies, knew that she was a thief, robbing clients from agencies as a whim. But she was a fantastic creature, Marlies. A damned good fuck but, of course he would not mention this now to a distraught girl.
"Perhaps they are merely conversing."
"That cunt drops her panties faster than a coin falls in the slot of a telephone box. Conversing!"
Rotha continued his stroking while his eyes stabbed a path deep down between the out-thrust breasts. Ahhh! Those melons! And later, when he would put the pillow under her delicious ass ... paradise!
"I can offer you consolation in any form." He gestured toward the whiskey bottles and the baby grand piano resting in a shadowy corner. "Music does soothe, and I apologize for the cliche. My varied works of art can also ease the troubled nerves."
Brigitte whisked tears from her ruined face with trembling knuckles. "Forget that merde! Just show me your bedroom."
"And my bed." He reached down to grip the girl's bold breasts, weighing them, judging their shape. "Shapely, if sizeable. Ah-hah!"
Her eyes rolled back in her head. She sank her teeth into her lower hp. "Merde! Do not squeeze them like that!"
"And if your darling Peter finds out?"
"Please!"
She grabbed the hand roaming over her bosom and pulled while hoisting her long legs. The silk sheath ripped up both sides, but she didn't care. Brigitte maintained her hold until Rotha's hand rested on her velvety crotch. The rest of the game was now up to him.
"How bushy it is. And how wet the lips. And of such an intriguing pink shade."
"Play with me," she gasped.
"Of course. But already you are flowing. My dear, the waters are so oily."
"Oh ... I came here to give you something so that ... ahhh, you may give me something in return."
"A bargain. To be sealed with a fuck."
"Then do it, fuck me!" She screamed.
"Naturally. To deny you a penis now would be cruelty, and that is something no one has ever accused me of. Very well, since the garment covering your beautiful body is already ruined we might as well finish off the job. No?"
Brigitte had no idea what he meant. Rotha bent forward, deftly wadded up the silk stuff in both hands and worked his elbows like a large bird flapping its wings.
"Wait!"
"Mais non."
A sound like newspaper tearing followed, and then the beauteous Brigitte was naked, crouching in the chair, staring up at the seductive producer with wide, somewhat frightened eyes.
"Voila!"
Numbly she followed the progress of the destroyed silk sheath as it sailed into the fireplace. "You did not have to do that!"
"The sight of your body ... it has made me so hard, my dear."
"But," her hands went to her naked breasts. "How shall I get home? What will Peter say?"
"Oh, an easy enough matter to arrange. At any rate that problem belongs in the future, nest ce pas? You and I, we must now deal with the moment. Please rise, my dear."
All bravado vanished. She trembled, wondering if the man was a sadist. Men of his age, satiated by ordinary sex, were generally perverts. He might take a whip to her.
"S'il vous plait ... do not mark me!"
"What nonsense! I, mark that body?"
His hand stole around her firm waist and down over the satin-cheeked ass. He stroked the voluptuous rounds while Brigitte remained still. But when he touched her belly she began to squirm, rubbing her hard but fleshy thighs together.
"Ahh, how the juice steals out of your cunt in such thin streams and trickles down your thighs. My dear!"
A lovely creature, with those lust-filled breasts and the granite-firm buttocks. And how patiently she stood. Rotha nodded, knowing she would soon be flowing like a river once he put the sausage into her.
"Ooohh, ooo!"
His fingertips were at the fringes of her bush, working a path to the mound of desire. He had to make some adjustments, twisting her a little, kneeling a bit, for Brigitte was a tall girl. But Rotha had the hands of an artist. His index finger slid down the soaking wet groove and onto the clitoris.
She began to groan and move as if in a trance. Her breasts rose, their stiffened tips pointing high. He used an incessant rhythm to transport the poor girl to a state of bliss. Her thighs opened and closed, the movement repeated while his hand did its work.
"Soon ... soon ... ahhh, sooooon!"
"Come, my dear, come!"
"Ah, ah, ahhhhh!"
Brigitte climaxed, sighing as she did, twisting like a dancer. Rotha yanked a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers, watching her almost objectively. She was doubled up, both hands pressed to her crotch, her shoulders working, her hair flying about her contorted face. When she sank to her knees in the final throes of the orgasm, Brigitte released a keening noise.
"Ca, va, my dear."
He undressed, folding his things neatly in the chair he often sat in. Although he seemed to be taking his time, Rotha was actually hurrying. His penis hurt him so, the blood filling the flesh tube from the base where the balls tightened to the extremely large tip.
Brigitte was now on the rug, lying on her side. "That was good. Sometimes ... I masturbate too ... but the effect is never the same as when a man puts his fingers ... into me."
She expected him to answer and was surprised to find him on the floor with her. They exchanged the first kisses of the evening, each using lips and tongue, and all the while he was rubbing his pelvis against hers. She reached to feel his hardened joint, but Rotha was working his way down her body, licking the upper reaches of her thighs, sinking his stiffened tongue into her vagina and then moving on to her ass, biting and sucking licking the flesh.
She was by turn dazed and lucid, but always the eager partner, ready to do what he wished, to take any position. Her buttocks were fantastic, she knew, shapely, the flesh solid and the feel of his mouth there at the crack was titillating. But-suddenly his prick was there where his tongue had been. Big, terribly big!
"NO!"
"Oui, my dear. Hold still now. Do not squirm."
"Eeeee!"
"Right in it goes, just let me get the tip in and then the rest follows."
"Ah, mon Dieu!"
"Never been fucked in the ass? Good, then the enjoyment of a first time is yours."
"I ... I ... ohh, no, no, your penis is too large ... it hurts!"
"Take it, like it, love it!" He had turned her over and, with his hands pasted to her thighs, stuffed the length of his manhood into the hole, shoving, shoving it straight in until he gasped, knowing there was not so much as a millimeter left out.
"Ow!" Her anus, stretched beyond endurance, hurt, but the man was rising and falling, pumping it in and out, banging against her stilled cheeks. "Take it out!"
"Oui, oui, oui!" He pulled his prick out, found the crumpled handkerchief, wiped the instrument clean, rolled the pained girl over and slid it directly between her parted lips down into her throat.
The moment that Brigitte swallowed the long, slightly curved weapon Rotha sighed, trembled and ejaculated, sending a wad of semen down her throat, squeezing the muscles in his ass as he shot. Brigitte whined as she swallowed deeply, but broke away, quivering, deeply humiliated, f eeling utterly ruined.
"You've dirtied me!"
"Nonsense."
Rotha went over her, caressing her full breasts, licking up the sweat along the insides of her trembling thighs and again kissing the rounded buttocks. Brigitte arched, dripping wet from her cunt, her legs widely parted.
He swiftly penetrated her, stinging her with the swift entry, sliding his length, large and endless as it seemed right into the oiled hole. For Brigitte, the sensation was indescribable. What a prick on this little man!
"But ... ohh, Dieu, it is formidable! How, how can you still be so hard ... when ... you just came?"
"Oui, a mad time, that blow job, but I did not go limp. Au contraire, I am harder than before."
"The secret of your success with women, I would bet." Brigitte sent her legs straight up and locked them around his waist. "Ooooo!"
He rose and fell, riding her strongly, filling her hole with his joy stick. For her part she worked in a tortured rhythm to his pounding prick, liking how his balls banged ever so heavily and heavenly too, against the division of her delicious ass.
"Eeeee ... but now, I have you!" She had muscles in her cunt that were put to use, leaping into play to milk his weapon. And always, with her behind rotating, she was grinding up, rubbing her crisp cunt hair into his while he dug his way down.
"Ahhh, my dear, what a piece of ass you are! The body of a film starlet and the ass of experience. How it revolves!"
"You ... you ... ohhh, you!"
"Steady now." He held her while she climaxed, riding her stronger than before; but at no time did he even approach an orgasm.
When Brigitte, temporarily beaten, was still and sighing weakly, Rotha withdrew his enormous prick and again pushed her into position, determined to enjoy himself with her rear again.
"Please!"
"Quiet!"
He pulled the shapely cheeks apart and rammed his steel-stiff thing into the samll anus. This time it sent lightning-like streaks of pleasure through Brigitte, especially when he shouted, rammed her hard and filled the hole with his bubbling spunk.
"VoiU!"
They talked a bit, drank Scotch mixed with soda and went at each other again. He had a playful time with the young girl, manipulating the lips of her clitoris and occasionally putting his mouth there to suck her out.
Brigitte climaxed, knowing the little producer, while handling her so salaciously, was giving her a first-rate time. Then when she imagined the game was finally over he climbed atop her, grunted and slammed his suddenly stiffened prick into her tightened-up privates.
"Iiiiiii ... eeeeee! That big prick!"
"And your tight snatch! Ahh, my dear, we are evenly matched this night."
They rolled about the floor, hammering at each other, but even though she was spent again and again, coming constantly, she refused to admit defeat.
"Fuck me, fuck me all night because I can take it!" But as the words left her mouth Rotha washed out her insides with sperm.
Whining, Rotha felt his once-large penis shrink. He rested his head on the pillows that were her breasts. "I shall be hard again. One final fuck and then I think, my dear, we must make a stop."
Brigitte slept, her mind fogged, her body ruined. Rotha's hot breath played over her slowly moving breasts, his heartbeat normal, a smarting pain in the region of his balls. He considered that he had neglected to put the pillow under her. Ah, but it mattered not at all. This girl possessed a fantastically shaped ass, the balls always resting firmly on the rug, bouncing at the appropriate moments. A pillow was not necessary.
But-another fuck was! He looked down at his penis, seeing it stiffen by degrees, getting longer, and he shook Brigitte awake. "Come, my dear, the situation calls for another coupling."
Brigitte felt his tongue running along the valley separating her up-thrust breasts. He was also rubbing her belly, twirling the hairs covering her thoroughly used-up gash. Now her blood boiled. She raised herself, shifted and suddenly was split wide open. "Aaayyyyyyieeeeee!"
She screamed, feeling their loins glued together. It was a prick of steel plunging into her, shooting hot joy to the varied seats of sensation. Now she joined in, her writhings and wrigglings giving more zest to the act. His mouth was on hers, sucking up her breath, his dong a cruel and stabbing broomstick. Her stomach convulsed as his hands gripped her ass, spreading each curving cheek.
"Noooo!" She tore her mouth away. The prick was pushing solidly into her opening, widening the passage, stabbing her into a dehrium. Her vagina seemed to open wider and then close tight, then even tighter, and Brigitte was a hysterical creature.
Rotha pumped in and out of the crazy girl, exerting all of his strength to hold her. Her fabulous body bent, her ass bounced, her hips writhed, her arms were tight about his neck and he felt her come.
Brigitte moaned softly as the prick insistently slid between the soft lips to revel briefly in the warmth within; then the swollen weapon leaped about in a final dance and Rotha came, splashing her heated hole with his spunk. He rose up, cried out and fell, totally inert.
"The ... contract ... it is yours! Two contracts ... if you wish!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brigitte had left him a note which stated in one line that she was seeing the producer Rotha about a contract. Surprised that he wasn't jealous, he crumbled the note and went to change his clothing. Perhaps Marlies was right, it was time for him to move on, take on a manager capable of more extensive contacts.
Later, in the evening, when he inquired at the club of those he spoke to, the other singers, and even the waiters, Peter discovered that Rotha was not only a ladies' man but the possessor of an abnormal-sized hose.
He did his stint, lingered in the dressing room, had a drink with a male dancer while waiting for Brigitte to show, then returned to the flat. It was still empty. Despite the time of night he telephoned around, calling his varied acquaintances, asking if Brigitte had visited. After a half-dozen negative replies he bung up.
He undressed, went to bed and tried to sleep but his mind was too disturbed and he sought to examine his conscience, to analyze his motives. Marlies was an exciting piece of ass, far more exciting than Brigitte. And, she was more capable when it came to the advancement of his career. But he could not just walk out on Brigitte.
What was it, guilt?
Peter sat up, tossed aside the bedclothes and went to the telephone directory. Rotha's number was located. A look at his watch-late as hell, but-and he dialed and waited. On exactly the fifth ring a man's voice, quite sleepy, mumbled:
"It's Peter. Is Brigitte there?"
"Ahh, how are you? Listen, my boy, a contract shall shortly be arranged and...."
"Where is she?"
Devil with the women that he was, Rotha was also truthful. "Sleeping. She is ... ahh, quite fatigued."
"Fucked out,-I'll bet."
"If you insist upon employing the vernacular, oui, she is."
Peter hung up, filled a suitcase with clothing and went directly to Marlies' place. The platinum-haired woman, having just gotten in after a round of nightclubbing was surprised, but nevertheless pleased. Her pleasure heightened when he pulled his erect penis out. "Well?"
She clapped a hand over her mouth, attempting to suppress a giggle. "Againl Oh ... youth! Heaven bless youth. I am telling you, you young boys are really a panic."
"I'm overly excited."
She burst out laughing. "That penis?"
His instrument appeared to be harder than before, stoned and stretched to the ultimate limit with the balled tip shining with smears of semen.
"You have me at a disadvantage. Apparently you're satisfied, while I've got a raging fever. What am I to do now, clean this up and call it a day?"
She kicked off her high heels, spread her long shapely legs with a fluid movement, the nipples of her large, matured breasts forming great mounds under her garment. She grasped the hem to pull it up over the full, rounded thighs and the thrusting rounds of her rump.
"I'm undressing. What about you?"
He backed off, his still-extended tool throbbing, and peeled off his things. If he was taken by her body, she was equally taken by his. Clothed he looked smart, but naked the attraction increased. His slender but hard-muscled body grabbed her. That man-sized thing shooting out from the growth of hair like a sapling fascinated her.
He wanted her badly, she knew, seeing his wide, trembling mouth, the mass of brown hair falling rather boyishly over his forehead, and most of all the wounded stag's look in his round brown eyes pro duced an overwhelming feeling of tenderness within her.
Suddenly this woman who was often too self-centered and hard felt an urge to shelter him in her arms and comfort him with soft words of endearment.
Her blue eyes closed like a cat's. "We are going to have ourselves a wonderful time."
This woman stimulated him so! The first sight had been impressive, and during erotic moments his tortured mind contained an image of this woman, who was a whore, stretched naked across a bed.
She was a real beauty, her heavy-lidded eyes slanting, her cheekbones high, her long nose sculptured and aristocratic. Yet anyone examining her closer would see how something of the slut was revealed. I was there when she purposely dressed to accentuate the opulent curves of hips and breasts.
Light shone on her tanned flesh, highlighting the perfectly shaped breasts, the pastel-tinted aureoles and small nipples. She regarded him lazily, focusing her eyes on the swollen penis.
Then they were together, with his hands running down the long column of her rounded thighs. Her hot breath was a splash of heat against his damp face. Before he could speak her mouth was on his, her lips parted, her sharp tongue lashing his clenched teeth.
He had to hold fast to her hips or be swept away in the swift tide of roaring excitement. "I've got to get into you."
"Yes, lover but let's be calm, eh? I don't want you spouting your juice all over my leg before I've had the full benefit of that thing."
Her hand slid down to grip the tool. She fondled it slowly, scorching the balls with her heated palm. Another kiss was exchanged, this one equally passionate, but swift, and she freed her mouth and, kissing him all over, whispered into his ear:
"Now put that into me, all of it."
"Yes, baby, yes, yes I"
She nibbled on his ear, treating the lobe like a delicacy. "Ohhh, you darling boy."
Her breasts, so warm and hard with their rigid peaks, were rubbed against his chest. Again their open mouths fused, and she, grasping the muscled, thrusting bar went up on her toes, brought a leg up high and expertly pushed the penis into her wet gash.
As she sank down, groaning, the vaginal lips formed a ring about the hilt of the penis. Still groaning, she wrapped the leg around his thigh, held him in a stiffened stance and employed her sphincter muscles, using a tormenting but slow and rhythmic fluttering of the walls to build his pleasure.
They were blended and he nearly cried out as he felt lust coursing in many trails from different parts of his body to create a flooding climax. He tried to hold back and convulsed, his thighs hammering rapidly against hers.
"Not yet, lover, please, not yet. Give me a little more time, a few seconds more. Please!"
Heat roared along his shuddering back and he held rightly to her magnificent haunches, everything now wavering before his eyes in a blur. "I ... am ... going to shoot!"
"Nooo!" She unlocked her leg, gave a twist to her hips and freed his sticky weapon. "I just don't want to be left high and dry."
His chest was tight and heaving and there was a burning ache in his manhood. Every step he took was painful, but she had him by the wrist and was pulling him toward the bed.
Somewhat weakened, definitely ashamed because he, the lover supreme, a man who had made many women cry out, was on the verge of ejaculating prematurely, brought on the urge to halt. But the game was unfinished and she wove her fingers into his hair. "Be patient, darling. You'll soon be in me again." He felt rather alarmed at the anger that might erupt due to his inadequacy. Even as he followed her, there was the feeling that he could erupt and spill his seed all over the rug.
But she calmed him down. She was smiling, though her expression was lewd, for her thighs were twitching and her breasts were the pointed globes of an aroused woman. "I need that prick! Whew! I feel even hotter than you now. If you're due for an explosion, just delay it a few seconds, lover. I want the blast to go off in me."
As she swung about to peel the covers off the bed, her heavy, cream-skinned breasts bounced, and he saw the perfectly spherical ass.
His smoldering eyes never once left that behind. It seemed to take on such overwhelming proportions, so massive was it as she bent over. The sturdy spheres were divided by an amazingly deep cleft and he rushed to grab the rounds, to slam her forward on her stomach and paste kisses all over them.
She squirmed and shrieked but allowed him to have his way. Then, when she was tossed over on her back it was he, the aggressive savage who parted her legs, opening the thighs wide, and penetrated her.
"Aghhhh!"
"There, I'm in!"
The fleshy bulb of his cock probed and drove past the wet, pliable lips, drawing a scream from her twisted mouth. Then they began to screw in a sort of a desperate way, she climaxing first. Her body arched and thrusted, creating a wild sensation, and he had to fight to keep her pinned to the bed.
"Okay, okay, now I'm going to make it. It's me, now, all the way!"
"Come, come!"
He speeded up his thrusts while her ass gyrated violently and as she exploded again he burst, his outpouring a liquid flame. She squirmed, keeping him within the enclosure of her long, curving thighs, squeezing and squeezing out the fire blazing within.
But she continued to meet all his thrusts while, as he shot, he increased his hold on her powerful ass. And then they both died, sinking into a stupor and eventually into sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter found himself caught up in another world, verging on fantasy. But it was real enough considering how he felt on some mornings after late night parties. There were rapid drives in his car, or in a limousine rented by Marlies, to country estates outside of Paris where he met high society, fringe-members of high society and spongers who used beauty and charm to associate with high society. Everyone seemed to look the same and employ the same mannerisms. He could not remember, he later discovered, a single name, much less attach a face to a name. He was introduced as an artist, if not an altogether successful one, but Marlies, with her wealth and background, was the key unlocking all doors, and he was eagerly welcomed.
The food and drink were always of the best since money was no object. The conversation was inevitably witty and the background lavish. Peter had occasion to ask himself what he was doing there, he, a poor boy whose somewhat adequate performances had earned him a little money.
There were jet trips across to London and more parties and more people and in between meetings between men in business suits and Marlies while he stood in the back, waiting and listening. Marlies talked about the Eurovision Song Conest, she talked about a film being made in Rome by a famous Italian director and she talked of a musical with an international cast being shaped to be presented on a stage in Hamburg.
Big, Big, Big! Peter thought. Man, did that platinum-haired bitch talk big, but he had not as yet seen a single penny.
The traveling wore him out. The parties left him with hangovers, a pasty complexion and bags under his eyes. The sexual demands Marlies made left him under a terrible strain. Each day the mirror told its truthful tale: he was beginning to look like hell.
Once during a hurried trip to Amsterdam he rebelled. "Look, I can't take much more of this."
They were in the hotel and she, about to get dressed, was stunned. "You're complaining about the life you are leading?"
"Exactly."
"Most young men would give their teeth to be in your position. Listen, lover, have you checked out the economic situation in the newspapers? Do you know how high the rate of unemployment is, in all countries?
People have been cutting down on everything from whiskey to the movies. Guys can't buy a tire for their old Fords. You, you're living as if you just inherited money from a dead Greek shipping magnate and you complain."
"I am a performer, not a playboy."
"You have been performing. In bed."
"That's the sort of thing only a bitch like you could ft say.
She pointed at him. "Just watch it now. I am no bitch when it comes to dealing with you."
"I feel like a damned pet monkey."
"Sweetheart, there is a nightclub in this Dutch town that I may buy. Now let us go and visit it and see if it has any possibilities."
"Sure, maybe you could set me up as the doorman."
That was one thing. The next was his screen test, which took place in the studios of Elstreet in England. The director, recruited from television, seemed more concerned with angling the camera to suit the not too photogenic features of his girlfriend, a girl with watermelon-shaped breasts and two pumpkins for an ass. As an actor Peter was a flop, but Marlies insisted upon his trying again with another director. Fortunately, studio space was limited, as several films were scheduled to be shot.
In Hamburg he sang at a benefit for orphans from Viet Nam, but as known singers and comedians and jazz musicians were also on the bill his performance went unnoticed. The next morning the daily newspapers did not even mention his name, but Marlies was not discouraged.
"We'll try something else. I've booked us rooms at the Hotel Excelsior."
"Where?"
"In Rome."
"Hey, this traveling has knocked me out. I'm on the floor. Look at my clothes. And what about the bills piling up in my mail box at home. I've left my car to be repaired, work has been done on my apartment and I've even got a tax problem."
She requested the name of his creditors, calmly sat down, withdrew her check book, wrote out the appropriate number of checks and mailed them off. Following that she went with him by taxi to the best stores in Hamburg for men, on Jungfernsteig and Ballendamm, kept the taxi waiting while suits and shirts and ties were selected, and paid everyone off with an air that might have appeared to be one of detachment, but actually was one of contempt.
"There," she said to Peter, "you owe me all that. Once you start hauling in money you can pay it back."
His opinion of himself started to sink and was definitely rock bottom by the time they boarded the Lufthansa jet that was to fly them to Rome.
The Eternal City was hot, overcrowded, what with tourists plus the normal population, and expensive. Marlies left him almost immediately to drift about on his own, and Peter, a little bewildered, went out to walk up and down the Via Veneto to the Borghese Gardens and then back. He purchased a map and followed a path down to the Corso, and to the Trevi Fountain, where he watched Italian youths trying to con American girls into a pick-up.
The sun was a fiery ball in the sky and no place caught the shade. He paused too often for liquid refreshments, Coca Cola, beer, Campari and soda or mineral water.
Somehow he found himself at the Piazza del Popolo, a hang-out for film stars, and recognized some of the actors seated at the most famous cafe there. Never a star gazer, he moved to go down the Via Condotti past the exclusive shops and the cafe Greco to the Spanish Steps.
The vast expanse leading all the way up to the Hassler Hotel was packed with young people, drifters, hippies, layabouts and tourists. He parkec near such a group, feeling conspicuous with his well-cut silk suit, silk shirt and broad silk cravat. No one noticed him, however, and he was permitted to rest there in peace.
Transistor radios were blaring and the traffic around the fountain before him was choked with big cars, little cars, taxis, motorcycles and bicycles. He wondered what in hell he was doing here and longed for the comfort of his apartment and the warmth o Brigitte's body.
He would see Marlies through on this last deal, he figured. One last try and if it failed he was out. Off On his own.
He discovered Marlies in a fury when he returnee to the hotel. A half-dozen people were in her room, the men resembling gigolos of a bygone era and a lank-haired girl in jeans, sandals and a cotton pullover. He recognized her immediately as Corny Cort, the folk singer.
"You know how long these people have been here?" Marlies hissed.
"Fuck them!"
Peter noticed that canapes were spread along a table and that several bottles of champagne were resting in ice buckets. Everyone save for the folk singer had a glass in his hand. Corny was smoking a cigarette, but the tobacco she inhaled was not the best blends from Virginia. Instead it had been grown by some Turk in Anatolia; it was hash.
"Hi! Want to light up?"
The girl looked at once both dirty and desirable. Her clothing had probably remained uncleaned from the day of purchase. Her hair needed a thorough shampooing. Her pretty face, brown from the Roman sun, was streaked with perspiration. But her figure was fabulous. Not as good as Marlies'; better.
Peter could not talk to her, he could only stare and long for the impossible dream. To sink his manhood into her flesh. Her thighs were of a fantastic roundness, her buttocks were remarkably structured globes and her breasts two floating spheres. When she moved, everything moved, some parts one way, other parts another.
The men were talking loud and gesturing with their hands. Marlies, involved, smiled with each sentence she spoke, but when she turned to look Peters way she offered a look of hate.
He told the folk singer how much he admired her; in truth he hated her songs, which were worse than an alley cat's wails, strident and ear-shattering.
Corny Cort listened with indifference-or perhaps it was modesty. When one stick of hash was smoked down she lit another. "Listen," she cocked her head to one side, her nostrils funnels of smoke, her eyes dark blue and slitted.
"I'm listening," said Peter.
"Since you came in here you haven't picked up a drink."
"So?"
"So you don't drink. You don't smoke my brand nor anyone else's. So tell me, friend, you don't drink, you don't smoke, probably you don't screw either so what in hell do you do, pick up whatever Marlies here drops?"
"I haven't reached that stage yet, although she thinks it's a possibility. But I do screw. More important, right now, I'd like to screw you."
"You and ninety-five percent of the guys I sing to." Corny shrugged her well-shaped shoulders. "Well, I've an apartment in the Parioli district. Let's grab ourselves a taxi and get there."
He took her arm and led her, still smoking the hash, past a shocked Marhes, out the door, down the corridor to the elevator. They were driven to the lobby by the uniformed attendant who kept his eyes front while Peter enjoyed the exciting thrust of the folk singer's breasts.
In the taxi cutting across the city she gladly played with his exposed penis while he sucked on her bared breasts, not so much biting the rigid nipples as nipping them.
"Something tells me we two are going to have great fun."
The singer's eyes were tiny pools of darkness and her breath was sour from the hash, but her full lips were terribly sweet and she moved her tongue in a sliding, lust-arousing way.
Her apartment, in one of the most expensive districts of Rome, was well-furnished, but he was not interested in the furnishings. He watched her moving cat-like to the bedroom, and he followed.
"Here we are."
His fingertips still tingled from the feel of her perfect breasts and he knew he was a captive in the hands of this folk singer who was sex personified. Right now he cared nothing for Marlies or his career. He wanted one thing.
"Do we start right in?"
"Indeed we do. What should we wait for?"
She pressed her body to his, grinding forward eagerly, mashing the Junoesque breasts against his chest, mating the domed belly with his and opening her thighs lewdly. Willingly he pressed back, churning his pelvis, seeing the appreciation in her eyes.
The folk singer was all curves, sensuous and supple, the sweeping line of her thighs moving rhythmically under his hands. She was tall, yet compact, and he enjoyed touching the fluid contours. "What a body!"
She closed her eyes and sighed. His hands reached around to cup the big, solid cheeks of her posteriors. Man, these symmetrically shaped cheeks weren't just hind-quarters. Oh, no! This was an ass!
"What an ass you've got!"
"I know it, but I'll feel better naked."
He was damned practiced in the art of stripping and tossing his clothes aside, but Corny surprised him. She was swifter, a dazzling Aphrodite, her skin a golden sand color, the thick hair tumbling down her sleek back. Her body, certainly a replica of Marlies' though somewhat heavier, more fleshed on the stomach and hips, was not only excellently proportioned but overwhelmingly curvaceous.
There was strength in her rump, size in her sloping bosom and muscles in her thighs and tapering legs. Her hair and the carpet covering her snatch were of the same shade. Swallowing his breath Peter set right in to work, kneading and stroking the magnetic body.
She quivered, opening her long thighs, and asked him to take her in the stand-up position. Peter dipped, -lined his instrument up along her inner thighs and shot up like a rocket, drilling neatly through the pubic bush to the vaginal lips. It was done accurately, without pause.
Her supple hips swayed and her breathing was for a second suspended. "Ahhhh, like an arrow, true to the mark."
He felt her dripping. The oil poured out of her, soaking up his stiffened tool. She twisted her hips from side to side, ground her buttocks and began to croon. One arm encircled his neck, the other roamed about his back, the fingernails gouging the flesh.
"Hey! Are you coming?" Peter listened to a queer sob that was strangled in her throat.
The heat within her passageway intensified, and then she came, quietly, without a whisper. But as she slumped against him she let out an agonized shriek, followed this with a series of wails like a stricken woman, and pounded on his back.
The tightness following the girl's climax was painful for him and Peter was forced to tug his joint free. Corny threw herself on the bed and lay there, telling him that she needed it badly. "When was the last time, baby?"
"Yesterday."
"Was the guy so bad then?"
"Guys," she said. "Three, all during the day. Good guys, strong guys, but yesterday and today are different times."
Peter was in no position to criticize the folk singer. Apparently she wanted a fast but happy life, men, alcohol and drugs, and the hell with old age.
"Well," he tried to think of an appropriate remark and could not. "When you need it, I guess you need it."
"You caught on quick, but with some men a picture practically has to be drawn before they dig I want the rod."
"Get somebody steady."
"I've gone that route and no thanks. After a while they lose interest in me. But their love for my money increases. No, my way's better."
"A man a day?"
"Or ... three a day."
He knelt on the bed and passed his hand over the wondrous body. "It should be easy for you then, here in Rome, a known person like you. Half the young men here preen themselves like peacocks because when the main chance comes they want to be prepared."
"Shitty little gigolos all of them, and rabbits in bed. Vain, conceited, jealous spongers. Give me you and two others like you any time and my day is made."
"Yeah."
"The little old nymphomaniac, that's me."
In bed he shoved the tangled hair from her fine-featured face, passed his tongue along the sculptured, rosebud lips and kissed her hard. Several minutes had gone by, putting her into a calm state, and her kisses were soft, if lingering.
But Peter was terribly aroused. He climbed on top of Corny, w-edged a knee between her willing thighs, eased himself down and ran his penis right into her wet vagina.
Her scream was suppressed, but her breasts heaved up as if about to burst, and she panted. "You could ... warn a girl!"
"No time."
She clasped him and went into a rapid rhythm, moaning as she threw herself up, becoming more voracious, creating a swifter tempo, her shapely hindquarters rolling like two balls over the sheets.
The girl was rapacious, making him lose his control for a few seconds, but he retrieved it and now began to get to her, hammering her with his body. Again the woman flowed, this time making noise. He maintained the rise and fall, moving effortlessly, without pause, going in, pulling out to the tip, sliding in, oozing out. She popped off once more.
There was a hellish shriek, a ghastly wail, another queer gasp, and her breathing remained hurried. "Oooh, you ... with you, I won't need two other guys!"
"Don't be too sure." He was still rising and falling even as she lay back, her eyes opened wide, her forehead dotted with sweat.
"Don't you ever get your gun off?"
"Sure, now and then."
"Ohhh, if this could only go on forever I would stop for nothing else."
Her hands were hot on his back, her thighs slippery and the room began to smell from the oiled and always twisting action, but they screwed away relentlessly. The folk singer happily pressed her lips to his and sawed her mouth back and forth. He squeezed her tightly, mashing the globes of her breasts against his chest, feeling his instrument gather fresh strength.
T may ... come."
"Not just yet ... oooh, that thing feels as if it is coated with cement. Ahhh, man, keep it hard, keep it in me!"
She would not cease the churning of her marvelous ass and the grip of her cunt on his weapon was bringing him right to the point of ejaculation. He caught his breath, asking the girl to slow the rear action, but she shook her head, letting him know it was not her doing; the superb body he plunged in and out of was doing everything outside her control.
"It's like a button has been pressed, sweetheart. Nothing I can do to make it stop."
"I don't want to come yet."
Finally, Peter pulled out. "Shit!"
"Ohhh, darling, don't, ohh please don't. Put it back into me."
His tool was throbbing, the veins standing out and pulsing, the entire length coated with her slime. His balls were swollen to twice their normal size and there was pain in his groin.
He lay back and blew out his breath. "We'll pick up later."
"It's beautiful, that whang of yours, darling. A lovely shape. Go wash up and I'll go down on you."
"I'm too weak to move."
"Oh, darling I can't do you while you're all wet like that. Man, just look, it's like a cream. Thicker in fact, almost like a cold cream."
"It came out of you."
"It's frothy."
He repeated that he was too weak to get up and start washing. "Later, maybe."
"Okay, just lie back then and let's see if we can't finish this off in proper style."
T feel as weak as a starved mouse."
"My doing, darling. I out-fucked you. But how did I come so often?"
"I should have, on the first hop, then I wouldn't be flat and out"
"All right, just lie there and let the little old nymphomaniac handle everything."
She was neither little nor old, but why bother to correct her? Peter allowed her to fork her thighs, sit atop him and take his instrument. She tucked it up into her quim, pressing forward until their pelvic bones were pasted together.
"Here we go, darling." Her admirable breasts, those two big balls of flesh, smacked against his face. He reached up to hold them steady as she went up and down.
As before there was the tightness of her snatch milking his bar. She knelt, putting her weight on her knees, and rolled her ass around. The winning smile on her face, now disappeared and lines appeared around the edges of her mouth. She whined, sinking her teeth into her lower Up.
He moved up, always arching, but not with the same frantic enthusiasm, although he knew she was about to climax. Her motions were swift, the sweat pouring between her breasts, her eyes wild.
"Ohhh ... noooo!"
She shuddered to beat all hell as she flowed. The orgasm tossed her about as if all the pleasure had turned into one hell of a pain. Also, she faithfully let out the assortment of wails and shrieks and screams and gasped like a helpless woman.
There was a moment of rest during which she breathed heavily. After it passed the girl grinned from ear to ear and commenced to ride him.
"I think you will last until nightfall, and it's all right with me, lover."
Peter lay under her, accepting the squeezing of his joint, the hammering heaviness of her overwhelming ass on the lower part of his body. This girl toas a nympho and he would have to fake a climax if he didn't want his bones broken.
But-excitement caught hold and he knew, gladly, that he was going to make it this time.
There was a trick the passionate girl knew as she rose, somehow releasing a portion of his tool yet, while balanced on her haunches, sucking the entire length into her cunt.
Man! This drove him wild! Oooohh, baby, baby, baby! He held the cheeks of her buttocks, feeling the strength and roundness, and threw himself up. "Bahy!"
"NO!" Corny screamed, for the swift, unexpected impalement was sharp.
"Aghhhh, baby!" He drove up, up, driving his weapon all the way into her.
She screamed: "It will go up into my damned stomach, man! Stop!"
"Like you said before, it's not within my control, so just move what you can!"
"I am ... ohhh, I am moving it. "Harder, baby!"
"NOOO!"
The girl held his waist with her strong hands and flung herself about, connected to him by the relendess male instrument. And he pumped his juice up into her quim, shooting the works, the full force of semen.
Her body stiffened and then relaxed. It jerked up and fell forward and the girl cried like a one-month-old baby as she came.
They remained together until his tool lost all hardness. It shriveled, slipped out and thudded, all wet and odored, on the bed.
CHAPTER NINE
"You filthy, stinking son of a bitch!" Marlies, as was to be expected, was livid.
Peter was indifferent to her ravings. He was tired and desperately in need of sleep. In fact, he could use a change of scenery too. "Ah, leave me to hell alone."
"That cunt!" She shouted about social commitments in which he was involved and his future so definitely assured. "But you were out banging that smelly, dirty-haired bitch."
"What the hell, who introduced us?"
"I ought to leave you where I found you, you prick, in the gutter."
Peter raised his hand to slap her hard. She did not flinch and seemed to dare him. His hand fell. Let her shout her anger out; he could not care less.
"She was better in bed than you. Fantastic tits, straight out of a men's magazine."
"We are finished!"
"Oh, screw off and leave me alone."
"Go on back to her, why don't you?"
"It was a one shot deal with Corny. Shame, eh?"
"The amount of men she's had in bed, that bitch."
"And you?"
Marlies stormed out, slamming the door hard. Peter shrugged, went to shower and afterwards threw himself into the bed, falling into a deep sleep. Later it might be as if he had dreamed it; there were whispers, the ripe noise of kisses being exchanged, but then sleep caught up with him again.
Sleep was broken, however, when he felt the bed moving. I am on a ship, Peter blinked, wondering where in hell he was. The bed worked energetically, the legs thumping into the floor.
Knowing it was no dream he sprang up, frightened. By turning his head he saw the cause of the disturbance. The movement of the vast bed was created by a screwing couple slightly to his left, no more than a half-dozen inches from the spot where he had slept so peacefully like a baby.
"Shit!"
It was Marlies, her hair shining white in the darkness with a man atop her, digging between the full thighs that were pressed close to his body.
Peter stumbled from the bed, moving about in the shadows, and passed his hand along the wall, fumbling for the light switch. The overhead lights went on brightly and there was Marlies and a black-haired, olive-skinned man, a Roman no doubt, engaged in a sweating round of sexual intercourse.
They parted to stare at him in wide-eyed surprise. Peter's mouth dropped open. The black-haired man, around thirty years of age and hawk-featured, had a real dick on him! It shot right out like a spear, straight, with the tip like a damned baseball.
"Hello, Peter darling!"
The man turned to stare, squinty-eyed, at Peter. He nodded and resumed engaging in the action for which he had been brought here. "Good evening, Signor!"
Surely, Peter reasoned, with a tool that size, that big at the end, he would ruin Marlies' lovely snatch. But no, the Roman got it in again.
Peter heard Marlies cry out and saw her move wildly. The Roman kept on pumping the hose into her, holding on to her thighs. And Marlies, always the one in control, handled matters beautifully. She revolved her backside and thrust up, squeezing her thighs, her vaginal lips snatching at the joy stick tightly as she fell back.
The Roman was a lasting screw, going on and on, making Marlies scream like a banshee. Then he shouted, screamed shuddered and came.
Peter turned away, his hands quaking. "Both of you, get out now!"
"Just getting even with you, darling." Marlies lay back, offering a mocking yet firm-lipped smile. She twisted her long, smoothly tanned thighs, shifting on the bed so that her over-large breasts rose and fell.
"I know what you are and there's no point in saying it."
"And what did you do with that bathless hippie, Corny?"
The Roman had a wide mouth that flopped open, his hair hung down his forehead, reaching to the level of his beady eyes. He left the bed and came across the room, one hand outstretched.
"You tell me you cannot give her the fuck, eh? Cannot get it up, eh? I understand, signor. The sight of two people making the fuck, it can excite you, no? Now perhaps you can make the fuck."
She had gotten even with him for banging Corny. Peter's eyes went hungrily over the long-limbed woman. He recalled the start of their affair and how passionate noises emerged from her full, lush mouth while waves of satisfaction rocked her curvaceous body. But good God, was she a whore!
Marlies giggled and, squirming, rolled her bottom over the sheets. Deliberately she placed both hands behind her, dug her heels into the bed and arched her back to enlarge her breasts.
"Nobody, but nobody can make me believe that Corny is as good as I am. And what do you think of Mario, eh? Look! Just look at that weapon!"
"I cannot believe a whore like you moves around in today's society."
"Would you like to take me on now, darling? That would be good, eh, after he has warmed me up?"
Peter's answer came at once. He moved in swiftly, nailing the Roman flush on the jaw with a vicious left hook. The man went up on his toes, his eyes rolling in his head.
Marlies screamed: "You bastard!"
Peter tossed a fast look at his girlfriend, then went back to the Roman. He slammed across two blows to the boy's body, backed him against a clothes closet and pummeled him with lefts and rights.
The boy wailed and blood fled from his cheeks. "No, no, no, no!"
Peter controlled himself and regulated his blows, like a boxer. The Roman was weakening. His hands fluttered like butterfly wings, his legs wobbled, and he pitched forward on his face.
Marlies watched the man fall. She left the bed, looked down at the prone lover and shrugged. "Down for the count. Ah well, he's good in bed, but not much of a fighter."
"Prostitute!"
"Ah no. They charge money and I don't." He cursed her, calling her every name he could think of.
"You don't mean that, darling." Marlies strode over the carpet, strolling like a showgirl, her curvaceous hips grinding slowly. Barefooted, she was still tall and magnificent, her breasts so big and round, the nipples pink and thick.
"Maybe he can sing too. If he can't you can then' sponsor him as a fuck artist."
"Leaving, sweetness?"
"Just get out of my way." He pushed her to one side, his skin crawling as his hand came in contact with her sweating flesh. "You better grow up, Peter."
He started to pack, throwing things into the suitcase haphazardly. "Just shut to hell up."
"The night you screwed me up in Paris your old friend Brigitte screwed Rotha to advance your career. What did you do? You became jealous. Down here you bang that bitch Corny and because I tackled this poor slob on the floor you're ready to walk out. You operate by means of the double standard, don't you?"
At last he was packed. The Roman had come round and was sitting with his back to the wall and his knees drawn up. "Ahhh, signor ... later, when I have recovered ... you will die a swift death. I shall see to it."
"Ah, go get a role in a Mafia flick, you greased-up asshole."
Marlies watched him dress. "Lover boy, you can't get far without my knowing it. Worse, if you try to peddle your talent, shitty as it is, even in the lowest dive, I can sue the management. Yours truly can still exercise all control."
"If you want to believe it I can't stop you." He looked down at the Roman. "Back to work, friend. Earn your keep."
"When I catch you, signor, you shall curse your mother for giving birth to you."
Peter could only shake his head. "And to think that you are for real." A final look at Marlies, who still stood gloriously naked but with tightened lips, and Peter was gone, closing the door on another chapter of his life.
Taxis were parked before the hotel entrance, the drivers dozing over the wheel. Peter shook one awake, gave him the address of Corny Cort's. apartment and climbed into the rear.
Five minutes later he was ringing her bell. It was not she who opened it but a slender blond girl with horn-rimmed glasses. She yawned into Peter's face. "Who the hell are you?"
Peter stepped back, startled. The girl was naked, lean thighs brightly white, a blond pubic bush visible to inspection and two small tits sticking out at him.
"Where's Corny?"
"In bed, where do you think?" The blonde yawned again and scratched her small ass. "Come around in a few days, all right? I'll be out of here by then."
"What is this, a lesbian set-up?"
"Who the hell are you calling a lesbian, you male chauvinist pig! If I choose to go with another girl that's my business. Now drift!"
Life, Peter reflected as he made his way back to the self-service elevator and down into the Roman night, is full of surprises.
He considered getting over to the Via Veneto and tackling one of the prostitutes but knew few, if any, would be around at this hour. Instead he walked until he caught a cruising taxi and was driven to the main railroad station.
CHAPTER TEN
At night he took the first train out, not caring that it went west instead of south, as he would have preferred. He paced the corridors, occasionally looking out the window at passing towns that were all asleep and at a landscape that was black under the night sky.
Toward dawn, along with other passengers transferring to trains that would cross the border into Spain, he got off and took a bus into Marseille. Facing the railroad station were a line of hotels to choose from. Peter walked straight, straight across the street and up the broad steps of the first hotel he encountered.
He accepted a room with a bath and ordered breakfast to be sent up. While he was showering it arrived, a brioche, a croissant, several pats of butter, marmalade, and a pot of strong coffee. Naked, he stood before the open window and ate, while his body, still streaked from the shower, dried.
This was all a start, he considered, and at least he had escaped that scheming bitch, Marlies. Let her spend money on private detectives to hunt him down. At least there was now a hell of a lot of distance between them.
After a rest he dressed, selecting lightweight clothing, then went out to stroll and buy some magazines. He went in and out of cafes, always for a cafe au lait or a soft drink, more in order to waste time and relax than because of thirst.
There was no need for a woman yet. His loins did not itch, and even when viewing the shape and movements of passing breasts and buttocks there was no stir in the region of his groin. Sex could wait. When the need did arise there was always some woman about to serve his purpose.
He saw films, found a museum to hold his interest for some hours, and looked into stores. At times he longed for a car but anything secondhand that looked as if it would not break down after a trial run was priced beyond his reach. He did not wish to spend money so recklessly, for it would mean a return to Paris and ... possibly trouble.
At night he bedded down early with a book or a magazine and slept well and long. Then, after breakfast and the usual morning shower, he would venture forth for a bit more sight-seeing.
Playing the tourist calmed him down and just drifting aimlessly was quite relaxing.
Under the hot sun he would wander, down to the waterfront, along to the old city called Vieux Porte and into that God-awful district of the Tcasbah' officially known as Quartier de la Porte d'Aix. Here some of the streets were straight, others twisting, but all were narrow. The walls of the ancient buildings might have collapsed if not shored up by timber to buttress them.
Sandy dumps filled with waste and rusting skeletons of abandoned cars were everywhere, always visited by mangy dogs, and in the gutters the dirty water ran black. It was an area of filth and rampant disease, with many of the inhabitants appearing incredibly dirty. But for all that he saw dark-skinned women constantly cleaning, always washing, and lines of rope running from window to window always sagged with wet sheets or towels or cotton garments.
So many hotels were here, some with fancy titles, others without names. He sensed that these places were always filled with one set of Algerians or Moroccans leaving a dirty mattress while it was still warm for another of their ilk to rest his weary body.
He was startled to find so many of the Moslem women were not at all Europeanized, but wore veils and had parts of their faces tattooed. The African women, however, offered their faces to the world and wore bright-colored garments. They smiled and chatted like magpies. Their men too, some jet-black, others dark-brown, wore the clothes of today gaily striped shirts, narrow-shouldered suits and flaring trousers.
Near the Hotel de Deux Lions, once a truly magnificent structure, a plaque on the scabrous walls testifying that the architecture was by a member of Napoleon's court, he saw whores fingering. They gossiped, but seemed indifferent to the passing parade, content only to pat their coiffured heads.
The burning morning light played over these ladies of easy virtue, highlighting tired eyes painted with mascara and their red-creamed mouths that now were twisted by disappointment.
On the rue de Cycliste he watched Moslem men filling a cafe, gold teeth showing as they shook each other's hands, passed blessings in Allah's name and drank mint tea.
Further out of the district which he had to leave or run the risk of trouble, he saw a funeral procession. It was done in the usual southern style with black crepe, the chant of De Profundus, and the crowd following the coffin in tears. Something about them told Peter that the mourners were pied noirs, die black feet ones who once colonized North Africa but were forced to leave and return to a France which did not want them. Long ago, when France stretched from Dunkirk to the Sahara the colons were French as the others, but today....
A wrong turn found him facing the hidonville, a squalid place where tin huts along with wrecked delivery vans or rickety plyboard shacks were the homes of the poor.
He looked out at acres of filth and saw, even at that hour of the morning, huge rats scraping through the rotting vegetation. Out-of-work men watched the rodents with a lack of feeling, but stared at Peter as he ventured closer, the well-cut garments stamping him as a definite outsider.
Trouble, he figured. These boys don't like my looking them over like a wealthy tourist viewing the poor and the wretched of this earth. Backing off, he retreated, knowing he would not come this way again.
This town was a crime spot, with the drug racket and the white slave trade bringing in as much money as any other industry. There was nothing for him here and one night he'd be jumped by some hungry Arabs and get his throat sliced open.
The thing to do was to move on, so that night Peter climbed on a bus. He settled back in the rear seat thinking about that lousy cunt of a blonde, Marlies. Weakness on his part, nothing else. All right, she did have a body, but how in hell could he allow any bitch to louse him up like that?
Now he wanted to relax and to forget, to worry about nothing. Somewhere down here there would be a small place for him to hide out in and take life easy. Later on, well....
Between Cannes and Nice were several small towns. When the bus pulled into a gas station for a refill, Peter looked out the window at the sun-bleached landscape and figured it was as good a place as any to stop.
He picked his suitcase out of the overhead rack and left the bus, walking past the startled driver.
"But ... you have purchased a ride to Monte Carlo, m'sieu. N'est ce ce pasF'
"Oh, I'll get there. Eventually."
Off the main street was a real estate agency inhabited, he could see, by a woman. He entered, dropped his bag, wished her a good morning, then told her he wished to rent an apartment.
"Ah, that is not so easy, m'sieu."
Was she going to haggle with him? Telling how difficult flats were these days might have him willing to accept the tiniest room for triple the price. Real estate agents were the same the world over, always with the same speech, always taking the new customer for a fool.
"It's tourist time, I know, but the full season is not on yet. I have been here before," Peter lied.
The woman got up from the desk. Tallish, she looked to be in her mid-thirties, with part of her stylishly streaked hair quite dark, other parts brownish where the dye used to paint out grey streaks was reddening the strands. Her figure was rather slender, due to careful dieting, he sensed, but the expected explosions of flesh were there, fore and aft, with her breasts quite round and her backside equally round.
"There is not a flat to be had. Not one have I on commission."
Peter thought for a moment. Some of the places he had glimpsed when the bus was pulling in were quite small. "What about a house?"
"A house?"
Man alive, what was wrong with this chick? Was she here to rent apartments and houses or just to sit behind a desk and manicure her nails?
"Yes, a house. Two roomed dwellings are always available. Just this morning such a place was advertised in the local newspaper. That's why I am here."
"Do you know the name or number of the owner? Possibly it is a residence handled by another agency."
T left the paper on the bus."
The woman shrugged eloquently and consulted some cards in a file. "Non," she would say, looking at a card. "Non" for another card. "Non" a third time and so forth.
"Forget it." Peter picked up his luggage.
"Ahh, attendez, m'sieu. Wait! Here is something."
He was shown a color snapshot of a villa. A black Rolls Royce was parked on the edge of the garden and a good-sized swimming pool shone green. This was for a vacationing group, not for a guy on his own.
"Sort of large, isn't it? I mean I am all alone."
"Oui, perhaps. But it is cheap."
Peter steadied himself for the crunch. Four thousand monthly at least. But then he was no judge of property and five thousand would be a more realistic sum.
"How cheap?"
"The owner is willing to let it go only for a month." He waited. "So?"
"Most people would prefer a two-month rental." She waved her smooth hand with its long, red-tipped ringers at another stack of file cards. "My customers always wish a two-month rental."
"That suits me. So far," he added.
The woman had excellent teeth when she smiled. "The Rolls Royce, I am afraid, is not included."
"Also fine, since I am a Volkswagen type. But let's have the final blow."
"Three thousand, five hundred nouveau francs."
"For ... one month."
"D'accord. One month."
He calculated rapidly. It was over seven hundred and fifty dollars by today's rate of exchange. In fact, closer to eight hundred with the dollar dropping rapidly. He tried to recall exactly how much was in his wallet the last time he had looked, then shrugged; the hell with it.
"Bight. Draw up the papers."
"But don't you wish to see the property first, m'sieu?"
He was already counting out the money. "What for? The camera does not lie."
The woman, who introduced herself as Madame Alice Epona, closed the office and, telling Peter to please follow her, led the way to an adjacent garage where three cars, a Lotus Elan, a shining Porsche and a Simca 1100 were parked.
His eyes had caught the rhythm of her swaying hips and grinding bottom, but when he saw the cars he reacted like a young boy, wondering which of the sports cars would be driven. His face fell when she got into the tiny Simca.
She drove him under the blue sky past the town to the hills where the road was sometimes a narrow ledge between the stone walls and the bright sea. The woman always drove at top speed, keeping her foot down on the accelerator, letting up only when they went through a grove of trees, and reached a pedestrian path. Here she motioned for Peter to get out, and went with him through a set of huge, wrought-iron gates, past a spacious garden and up to the pastel-colored villa.
The Rolls Royce, of course, was gone, and the swimming pool was dirty, covered with dead leaves and other debris. Closer examination showed the villa to be of provincial style and not well-kept. The shutters were closed and dusty, tattered flowers were strewn about and the hedges had grown wild.
The real estate agent shook keys from a large ring and unlocked the oaken doors. Inside there was a musty odor, the air stagnant, but Peter saw that the furniture, covered with bedsheets, was elegant. A large carpet, running from wall to wall of the main room, was rich in design and texture, and the paintings were chosen with care.
"There are several bedrooms to sleep in, unless you have guests and would prefer they be more comfortable than you. And I shall show you the kitchen." She turned, speaking over her shoulder as they went down a corridor and into the kitchen where the floor was fitted with linoleum. "Shall you do your own cooking, or is a lady expected?"
Peter examined the dishes and the pots and pans. "I am not much of a cook. By the way, the price includes electricity and water, doesn't it? Or is that all extra?"
"It is included. A telephone as well. I think it has not been disconnected. However, if you make some long-distance calls...."
"I have no need of a phone."
"It is possible for you to hire a girl who can be the cook and housekeeper. We have such arrangements with another agency."
"No, no. I can clean myself. I'll probably take my meals out."
Alice Epona, he sensed, seemed unwilling to leave, and insisted upon showing him the cellar, which he never intended to use, and all the bathrooms. He could have chosen the bed he wished on his own, but she tested all three, bouncing her weight upon the mattress, showing him the tightness of the springs, and also showing him a bit too much leg and thigh in the process.
Watching her, the movement of her twisting body, the thrust and bounce of her globular breasts, the length of her rounded, sun-browned thighs, churned Peter up, and the thing he had not had in a while, sex, was suddenly necessary. It was food for the hungry man, water for the thirsty man.
Between his legs the bulge grew, and there was not a damned thing he could do about it. Alice saw the look of discomfort on his face, was about to remark on it until her eyes, narrow and brown, slid down.
She put a hand to her mouth. When she raised her face her eyes were no longer narrow, but big and round as saucers. "I think ... I had better leave you to ah, well, continue the examination on your own, m'sieu."
Her knitted blouse was cut in a V, enabling him easily to see the tops of her brown breasts. From his position they appeared to be too large for her slender figure. By his sides his fingers itched, eager to be handling those boobs, pushing them outward, each globe away from the other.
"If you need any help," she was leaping up, sending the lightweight skirt flaring about the thighs he admired and lusted after, "just call."
He remained where he was, nursing a hurting erection until he heard the front door close, and then a moment later the small Simca start and leave the grounds. At the outset he could not stand her, so self-centered with her groomed hands, neat garments and petty bourgeois air. And her figure had been much too slim, almost boyish, with the lean flanks and flat stomach. But as she moved it became startlingly feminine, ball-shaped and round.
Ohh, man, how long had it been since he had had a woman? He passed his hand over the throbbing bulge, feeling his penis writhe like a prisoner against the enclosure of cotton underwear and gabardine slacks.
Masturbation was out. That was for criminals jailed behind walls or kids just into adolescence. But how else could this torture be relieved?
He considered the town, wondering if it was too early for the whores to be out, displaying their wares. His watch showed that many hours existed between now and nightfall.
Continue the tour, Peter told himself, ease the pressure by looking over this villa which is costing a fortune.
In the big room which served as a combination library and sitting room he found a cabinet stocked with half-filled bottles of liquor. Scotch, rye, bourbon, gin, vodka and rum. It was all there, any kind of alcohol to deaden his senses.
He reached for a bottle, not caring that it was bourbon and put it to his lips, drinking deeply. The sexual urge remained, seemingly stronger than ever. Cursing, he drank deep again and gradually the change took place, with his belly heated by the liquid fire, but his penis finally at rest.
One hour later Peter woke, restless, finding that the cure brought on by the alcohol had faded and the urge for a woman was greater than before. There was one alternative, an age-old one. He freshened up and made his way into town to locate a whore.
He found one, a magnificently built black girl, and enjoyed the best time of his life, it seemed. Here is how it happened....
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the small town he left the main drag, turned down a narrow, cobblestone street walled on both sides by tiny apartment houses, and found himself in a broad thoroughfare where prostitutes lingered by doorways, scanning every male passerby. He sighted what seemed to be a penny arcade and entered, losing a few coins at the slot machines, not keen to remain. The air was foul and the customers, punk types, young and unwashed, sat around playing cards with the avid interest of gamblers at Monte Carlo.
He went out and saw neon lights smearing some part of the pavement like yellow paint. He entered, pushing aside velvet curtains. On a dais, a three man orchestra was playing waltz music. Fat men, all middle-aged and out of step, pushed young girls across the polished dance floor. At the bar Peter ordered a beer. Further down, the whores, all aglitter in tight dresses and fake jewelry, stared at him like jungle cats at a deer.
One of them, mahogany-skinned, bolder than the others, left her stool, straightened her dress and swayed toward Peter. "Bon soir!"
"Hit"
"Oh, you speak English!"
She was tall, an amazon with bushy hair, a small, rather flattish nose, overlarge lips and twinkling black eyes that reflected the shaded lights over die small bar.
"Yeah." Peter swallowed and tried to look at her face instead of her body. He had had black girls before, but not in a long time, and certainly not a giantess like this.
"You will buy me champagne?"
"Scotch, if you want it."
T drink champagne."
Sure you do, he told himself, overpriced bubbly, but you're not another woman about to make an idiot out of me.
"Take Scotch, or beer, as I am drinking, or else rejoin your friends." He knew her long, brown-skinned body, narrow-waisted, wide-hipped and full-breasted, was a promise of a grand time in the sack.
He looked down, seeing that her legs, so long as to be half the length of her body were not thin, but large-calved and muscled in the thighs.
Her white teeth flashed. "Very well. Scotch."
Peter spoke to the bartender, who appeared in different to the transaction about to take place. "Please bring the lady a Scotch."
Afterwards they clinked glasses, the girl downing the alcohol without a murmur. "Listen, my old friend, not far from here is a hotel...."
Peter laughed and took a sip of his beer.
"I have the best body here."
He looked away from her, watching the people out on the floor who fooled themselves into thinking that what they were doing was dancing.
"No padded brassiere?"
"What! These are mine, all natural." She ran a hand down his leg. "Now about that hotel."
"A place with bedbugs, dirty sheets and the smell of disinfectant?"
She reached for her handbag, removed a lipstick and passed it over her broad mouth. "Your digs then."
Peter stared at her and an image of her, naked, brown-bodied, acting wild in bed, stirred his blood. "Okay, let's go."
He dropped two ten-franc notes on the bar top and left the stool. They collided, and before Peter could steady himself the girl kissed him, sinking her sharp white teeth into his lower lip.
"There!" She backed off, grinning.
They went out, moving together past shuttered stores into a moulding and ruined street where taxis were parked. They chose one, a battered old Peugeot, and settled in the rear seat.
The driver aimed the car in the direction of the rented villa, shooting past the sea, which shimmered in the night like black ink.
When they stopped for a traffic light the black girl flung herself at Peter. "Mon reve!" She smeared his face with lipstick.
"Save that!"
"Pourquoi? When I meet a man I like I cannot restrain myself. I must show my appreciation. Do you know what the tourists coming down here are like?"
He sighed, "No."
"The Germans are cheap, oh, how they squeeze their money. As for the Italians! The British are all right but they are broke, all of them. But you Americans! What sports!" She snuggled up to him.
Within a few minutes they were entering the rented villa. The black girl immediately started to peel off her clothing. "Whereabouts do we do it?"
The dress was high about her brown thighs, the black wedge of pubic hair covering her privates shining coarsely. Peter was stunned. Naked, the girl was superior to what he had imagined. Her hips flared from a waist the size of a sapling tree. The breasts jutting out were powerful, and he sensed that the skin covering those melons would be softer than silk.
She said her name was Mimi. And Mimi was what he would call her, but man, this was too much for a guy in his condition. Already he was aroused, his penis all hard. That body was too much; the rounded, dark brown thighs quivering, the crinkly black cunt hair, the slight beginnings of a belly and the enticing smell floating into his sweating face.
He looked at the juice-filled breasts, so heavy and so rubbery. And Peter, his yearning uncontrollable, leaped upon the girl.
"Attendez! Is it to be done here or do you not possess a bed?"
Licking his lips he backed off and disrobed, his garments joining her discarded dress. She leaned against him, pressing her tremendous tits into his chest, and she nuzzled his bare shoulder with her opened mouth.
His hands found the gigantic breasts with the tips that were as thick as fingers, and he squeezed and squeezed. Mimi's mouth opened wider, meeting Peter's, and her tongue searched along his teeth tantalizingly.
He moaned and jerked his head away, "Come on, let's get into my bed!"
Her stomach was rolling against his, burning it. He slipped an arm around her waist, sliding it down over her buttocks. They were big, blown-out and curving and as he sought to part the cheeks her hand gripped his penis.
"O la la!"
"Yeah, right now it's the biggest you'll hold, because I am in a bad way."
The black girl's claw-like fingernails tapped and skidded along the length of his tool. He found her ear to be a vulnerable spot, and when he licked it shivers raced through her. Her control was fading, and Mimi began to whimper.
"Where is the bed?"
"Here, here, baby." He propelled her through the darkness, picked her up, heavy as. she was, and threw her bodily on the bed. She bounced up, her fleshy legs parted, the dark brown voluptuous body he was to enjoy twisting.
"That ass, aaahhh, that big brown delicious ass!"
Mimi willingly rolled over on her stomach, flinging up the tremendous behind. He kissed the silken cheeks, rubbed his face over them, and then trailed his manhood between the balls.
"Like that? Oui? Like that?"
The girl's thighs were hot, velvet-textured, clamped together about his tool as he made the first, downward thrust. He felt like a flaming torch, she told him, as he sank into her snatch. Slowly his shaft slid in and she bit into the pillows to stifle her moans.
Next she was twisting and contorting to take all of his thrusts, and Peter was hammering away as a piercing pain swept through him. Not only was this prostitute tight, but the muscles in her vagina were working like precision machinery and her beloved ass, the roundest and the biggest he had known, was slamming up in a fantastic way, hurting his groin. In this position he reached a climax, but the girl, like most women in her profession, did not reach orgasm.
Another position was attempted, with Peter lying flat while Mimi roused his semi-hard penis into stiffness with her tongue. She passed it sensually along the throbbing member, swallowing half its length.
"Hey, don't bite it off!" Peter imagined that he would start spurting again.
Somehow he controlled himself. A short but potent jet slipped out, which she gulped down. Then she applied herself to the job of fellatio more vigorously. Like all girls who earned a living the hard way, her experience was vast. Her tongue darted up, down and around, slithering wetly over the thick, pulsing vein.
"Ooo, now I, Mimi, have made a monument of your thing."
He loved being blown by her. The moist firmness of her fat but shapely lips closed tightly around the hilt of his shaft. They sucked and petted while her sharp white teeth gave a soft but coaxing nibbling.
"I ... I cannot, baby...."
Peter could not control himself any longer. He warned the brown and beauteous Mimi to get herself ready for the flood. He closed his eyes, tightened his body and let go. A terrific spasm generated itself all along his dick. It grew, making the prick appear to swell to incredibly large proportions.
"Bon!"
Mimi closed her eyes and ceased all nibbling, she, too, waiting for the flood. It was an eruption, for Peter disgorged abundantly, releasing his all in great hot draughts.
The girl twisted up her face and jerked her head up, spitting the gluey gobs out. "Aghhhh!"
Later, lying back, waiting for him to get hard again, Mimi asked who he was, and what he was doing down here in this part of France.
"Bumming around."
"Bumming?" She looked over at him. "What means that?"
"Out of work, doing nothing."
"Ahhh, oui, un clochard, no?"
"Yeah, clochard is right."
"But you can still pay me, no?" T can pay you, yes."
"A clochard in a magnificent villa who can afford a girl like me. You know what you are, lazy, that's what. C'est tout. Clochards do not live like this."
He kissed her, all the while squeezing her bottom. Her fingertips brushed lightly along the surface of his back. The she flung her arms up and back so that her breasts were thrust sharply up for him to squeeze and fondle.
He liked how the nipples hardened once more to a ripe stiffness. The round, red buttons grew to an excited erection. Then his hands went down over her flaring hips before reaching under again to cup the bursting spheres that he loved.
"You know, clochard, I am getting all hot. This time I think it is possible that you will make Mimi come."
"Then let's try. A hot Mimi doing it for sex's sake is better than a cool Mimi doing it for money."
"Oui, clochard!"
Her long, heavy legs were spread, the moist slit between them pouting open. She yelled when his palm went there, cupping the warm crotch, feeling the juices soak his fingers.
"Man, now I've got you!" One of his fingers plucked at the slit, then it sank fully between the lips, deep into the gash.
He fingered her slowly but steadily, bringing on the orgasm she thought impossible. The brown girl sobbed and moaned as she flowed, begging him to keep masturbating her. He kept on, taking a swifter rhythm, increasing the pressure with the use of two fingers.
"Eeeeeooooowwww! OH CLOCHARD!" His fingers smelled with her love juice as she kept on dripping. She was so succulent that his digits became creamed over and heated. And when the hot moist flesh of her cunt closed tightly, Mimi spilled again.
"Ooooooooo! Fuck me," she implored.
"Yes, but my way." He made her roll over and wiggle her fantastic ass. He hoisted her by gripping her heavy thighs, angled his prick, and thundered right up into her cunt, the creamed-up hole so widened by the double orgasm that entry was no problem.
"Now, now, now! The way I like it." Peter fed her the stick without haste, pushing in and out, unhurried, but steady. Mimi twisted and bounced her rear, wondering what in hell there was about him that drew him solely to her ass.
"Other parts of me," she protested, "are equally beautiful."
"Get to them later!"
"Ahhh, clochard, my ass is all wet now. Why, why, do you do this? Is this the way to fuck a black girl?"
"Hell, I've had dozens like you, in America, in North Africa and throughout Europe. But no chick, pink, green, yellow or blue has had your ass!"
"Bon. If you adore it so much, then fuck it all night." His endless, terrible, hard instrument slipped in and out of Mimi, making rubbery and sucking sounds as it emerged. Her spunk clung to his manhood, coating every fraction with a thick film of cunt juice.
It was good, ohh, was this the way to live! Peter, breathing heavily, slammed against her, delving so far into the oily slit that the girl began to cry. He told her to act like a woman.
"Eh bien, you con!" Mimi gritted her strong white teeth, steeled herself, and this time really hammered her grinding ass.
This was exactly what he wanted, to feel her luscious bottom, to hold on to the big tits, still hard and shapely as they dangled, to feel the young muscles running up and down her long thighs.
However, good screw that it was, it went on much too long. The girl came twice in rapid succession, sought to gather her breath, and came once again. Now she was on the verge of hysteria. He was teasing her flesh far too much and her bottom clenched in urgent, spastic protest.
"Finish, man, shoot!"
When at last he came, Mimi broke free, rolled over to the far side of the bed and warned him that if he did not take her in the proper manner the next time, his belly against hers, his mouth to hers, she would get up and get out this minute.
A very weary Peter answered: "I ... promise."
But some hours later he was in Mimi again, even though his body burned from exhaustion, riding her hard, f eeling he could go on until the bleak dawn.
"Mais, non! Ahhh chchard!"
He plunged as she reared up, forcing the twisting, gasping, sweating black girl to meet the challenge and answer with a pace that was equally steady. For the final time Mimi tried to make him go off, and now her response was awesome.
"MANNNNN!" He came, bursting her insides asunder, letting out a litre of cream, white rockets simultaneously detonated within his brain. From a distance he heard the girl scream.
Afterwards he tried to sleep, being too limp to crawl off her inert form. His eyelids fluttered. Mimi's breasts were such rubbery cushions that he felt as if he could rest his head on them forever.
"Ahh, clochard, you are getting too heavy and I am a dead girl now." She grimaced and opened her curving, muscular thighs wider, causing his body to fall.
Somehow Mimi worked herself clear, the effort robbing her of all breath. In whatever moonlight slipped in to brighten the darkness of the bedroom, she checked her surroundings. A nice place to five, and this boy was certainly a good type, handsome, a real sport. If he did not work perhaps he had money but-he would kill her with his fucking.
Mm Dieu, she rubbed the buttocks that smarted so. All he thought of, and to him it was not a well turned-out derridre but a big assl Ah no, not for her. She wished to live, not to go into an early grave.
Mimi slept until some light showed in the sky; then she rose, found the bathroom, cleansed herself, passing a damp washcloth slowly over her hurting privates. Then she dressed and left. Not a penny would she charge him. If she had given him something, he had given her something too.
Outside in the fresh air she breathed deeply. How many times had she come? Eleven was it, or twelve? Whew! Pity, though, that she had not asked him to go down on her. Perhaps the next time, if by chance they got together.
What a night! What a man! She walked rather awkwardly along the road, both palms rubbing the pain from her smarting buttocks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Since it was hardly his intention to remain cooped up in the large villa, Peter made several excursions into town, always stopping by Alice's office. She pretended to be busy always, but eventually he wore her down, extracting a promise to have dinner with him.
Naturally, since she had practically lived most of her life in the area, she knew the best restaurants to visit as well as the best night clubs. His intentions were obvious, but she never blocked his hand when it rested on her thigh nor resisted when he put his mouth to her ear. Early in the morning, after their first date, she drove him back in her little Simca, gave him a luscious good-night kiss, and even allowed him to learn the thrust and hardness of her breasts.
The next day Peter had flowers delivered to the office. At five on the dot, when she was closing up, he was waiting, all dressed up and smiling. T hope that tonight will be a repetition of last night. Dinner and dancing."
Before depositing her keys in the handbag, she swung them on the chain. "You are sure of yourself, eh, m'sieu?"
"Wrong. I said I hoped."
Alice indicated her dress. "It is much too wrinkled. Let me go home and change." Peter shook his head. "I can't wait."
"Are you so hungry?"
"For your company."
"Well, one cannot say you are uncomplimentary."
As he hoped, this night was the same as the last. Except that when they parked in his car Alice allowed him to slide a hand up her dress, weave a finger under her panties and sink it in her hair-covered slit. She bit her lower lip, grasped his wrist, the sharp fingernails penetrating the flesh like knives, and wound her rump over the seat
"Oui, oui, ooooo, oui!"
Her climax left his finger soaking wet.
"Come inside with me."
"Not tonight." Her hand rested lightly on his crotch, feeling the throbbing bulge. "Mmmm! You are very excited."
"Why won't you come inside?"
Alice turned, brushing his mouth with her parted, hot lips. Her tongue flicked for a second against his, and then she pulled back. "Tomorrow, perhaps."
The next evening, as he was dressing prior to fetching her, Peter heard the honk of a car horn. At the window he sighted her, dressed in a jeans blouse and shirt, not the sort of outfit she generally wore to dinner.
He admitted her, showing his surprise. T was about to go and pick you up."
"We can eat in. You have food in the kitchen?"
"I bought some things this afternoon."
"Then I shall cook for us."
It was as simple as that, with them exchanging kisses like lovers throughout the dinner. When the ultimate moment arrived, the evening had fallen, and Alice showed no resistance when he grasped her hands and pulled her up from the dinner table.
"All lights out."
"Why?"
"I dislike the shape of my body. No, I mean it. Go into the bedroom and wait. I shall be in shortly."
Peter looked up from her trim ankles, past the shapely calves and thighs, which the tight jeans accentuated, to the curved hips and pouting rear end. Perfect. As for those breasts! What in hell was wrong with the woman?
"You simply exude self-confidence, so don't tell me you've complexes because of that perfect body?"
"It is not perfect. Now come, go into the bedroom. And-no lights!"
"Well ... okay."
He lay in the bed waiting, waiting, his penis standing straight up like a tower. Then the doorknob twisted and for just a split second Alice was silhouetted against whatever light existed in the hall. He raised his head, seeing a length of faultlessly shaped leg with the curving, out-thrust hip, and then the closing door made darkness complete in the room once more.
She was feeling her way toward the bed, bumping against the chest of drawers and the closet. She was a form, approaching him, bending over, patting the bed with a palm until her fingertips touched his ankle.
"Ah!"
"I can't see why I am not allowed to see what you look like since I'm going to feel everything anyway."
"This way is more romantic. Hein?"
The fingers traveled up his leg, feeling like a quartet of insects, but when they reached his groin there was a pause. Alice sucked in her breath, perhaps from surprise, but she certainly was on sure ground. Peter knew this when she shoved her mouth down on his instrument.
"Holy...!" He arched and fell back as she licked his passions to a rousing storm. Lust was like lightning, jagged-edged and cracking, exciting every sensation in his body.
Alice puckered up her lips to peck away at the throbbing tip, and kissed the underside down to the hilt with its attached sac, then up on the other side before again swallowing more than half the length.
Moaning as she worked, she pressed down on his thighs and went at the stiff bar that was now oozing drops of sperm. She sucked with a shameless abandon, her passion obvious.
The woman gloated over the tool, crazy with lust, her strongly muscled tongue curling around the base like a snake, squeezing tighter until it seemed he would be spouting.
Fervently she fellated him, but while his passions were vivid there was no ejaculation. The rock-hard penis was terribly inflamed, but much as she sucked the sweetness out, the deluge was stayed.
T ... whew, now I must rest. But what is wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Are you so dried out? Something should be happening now!"
She crawled up beside him and stretched her body out, a little fatigued by her activities. Peter willingly tackled her. First, by gripping her buttocks to raise her and ramming his head between her thighs, he pressed his opened mouth to the V-shaped bush and licked the vulva. With a cry revealing her surprise she shouted:
"What are you doing ... no, no, not that. No!"
His tongue penetrated and she screamed that colors were before her eyes and rockets exploding in her brain. But while he tickled and stabbed and lashed with his tongue Alice cooperated by clamping her thighs to his head and keeping him in position.
He heard a panting from her lungs and felt her belly was rolling, but he had captured the squirming behind and knew from her gasp of surrender that his tongue, ever victorious, was winning an orgasm.
"Encore," she was saying, "encore, oooo! Encore!"
And his tongue leaped in and out at a quick pace, creating a smarting agony as it rolled within the nar row passage. A final visit that was really lecherous, and he curled it just as the vaginal lips fluttered and the volcanic orgasm erupted.
Then he was in her, sending the instrument deeply within while her lips opened wide before the final closing. He felt her hot spending, with the oils washing him, but her frantic upheavals, showing a strength he had not imagined her slender body possessed, nearly unseated him.
"Ahhh, you made me a new woman, a new woman! Ooooo, Dieu, vraiment, it is too much. Ahhh, oui, oui, comme gal I am still flowing, flowing. There are stars of all colors and too many explosions. I am going mad!"
"Yeah, baby, yeah, yeah!"'
"Ooooh, am I so thrilled. You are a dream, mon reve. What joy, what happiness, more than I have had in years."
"You should not have been so afraid, baby."
"Never again shall I fear it. Ooohhh, give it to me, more, much more."
She was shrieking and twisting her way to another come, but he knew that he was going to go on forever. He played with her breasts, finding them solid-fleshed and formed like bowls. He tested the roundness of her flailing arms, felt her hips as they flexed from side to side, and, when she went into a swifter tempo, grabbed her buttocks to steady her more and thus suit his rhythm to hers.
The woman was breathless, releasing no sound on her next climax, but nevertheless still moving with a lustful ravenousness, her slit giving out with a rich flow. When at last she fell back, he pulled his still stiff weapon out and looked down at her.
"Let's stop for a moment. I don't want to end this yet."
"Nor I."
"Why were you so afraid to show me your body?"
"I do not know; it is not right somehow. The derridre too large. As for my lollos...!"
"They are beautiful."
"You cannot see them."
"But hell, I can feel them." lie rested his hands on the mounds she seemed so ashamed of. "Let me put on the light."
"No, some other time you may view my nude body in the light."
"I'll see it in the morning."
"I shall not stay until the morning."
"Now, come on!"
"No, please, some other time. In fact, allow me to rise now and wash."
"Like hell." His eyes were swimming and he felt the semen seething in his sac. He held her down and began to kiss her face. When he reached her mouth she wrapped her arms about his neck and met his tongue with hers.
She drew his tongue deep into her mouth and sucked it, her hot lips sweet, but burning. As he felt himself held tight by the clutch of her arms and legs, he drove his staff, still hard but slippery, into her opening.
Again she was brought to the utmost peak of ecstasy by his rapturous thrusts. The constant in-and-out created a scorching friction so that she quivered wantonly and rotated the well-shaped buttocks.
He felt once more the oily oozing, but kept on ravishing the hairy grotto with his rigid organ, piercing forcefully despite her shrieks and sighs and squirmings until, with a shout and a last battering, he was spent.
They lay together until the flame died. Then, admitting she was too weak to get up and wash and drive home, Alice agreed to remain until the morning. Peter waited until his strength revived somewhat; then he left the bed to switch on the ceiling light.
Alice lay there, smiling shyly, but making no effort to pull the bedclothes up over the form he examined. Her long, slender body with its rotund breasts and behind was still in undulation, the hills and vales and rolling flesh a sight to behold.
"Shame I can't raise another hard-on because, man, would I bang you silly."
"Switch the light out and come into my arms. Perhaps I may rouse you later. If not, in the morning, you may bang me."
Now he had a French mistress, a woman of sophistication and beauty, possessing vast sexual skills and eagerness. But at times Peter saw the warmth which lay beneath her exterior give way to a protective coldness. It was a defense mechanism, he felt, and so suggested to her. Alice was all denials, stating that this was her natural manner.
"In bed, yes, I am warm, as a woman should be. But afterwards I don't care to carry this warmth through the streets with me. I am, after all a businesswoman, and a successful one too. If I would not be the person you suggest is occasionally cold, then how successful would my business be?"
He let it go, believing in the adage that half a loaf is better than none. As long as she wasn't a frigidaire in bed, let her carry an air of dullness about her and keep her nose high in the sky. But during his frequent pessimistic moments he sensed that their affair must be ---likened to a party; and all parties must end.
An affair of this type did not get along on air alone. Sex, overwhelming as it was, was but a part. The financial part, negligible as it seemed at first, actually turned out to be staggering, since Peter had no money coming in. A moment he had dreaded finally arrived.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peter's money had been spent on too many things. Expensive dinners, costly night clubs so that Alice could dine and dance to her heart's content, flowers, bottles of perfume, gas and oil for the Simca 1100 and even for repair jobs the one or two times the small car had broken down. So, inevitably, the money went out of his pocket and stayed out.
He related the sad story to Alice the very day his month at the villa was up, and she told him that the owner was phoning for another month's rent. "When it comes to business the owner is quite hard, my dear Peter."
"Stall her."
"How?"
"Tell her I still want the place but that I am away for a week or so and can't be reached."
"Peter, in the short time you know me you know that I am not a liar."
"Now come on, baby, we've had a good time."
"Have I denied it? So you have paid for the pleasure of my company."
"And the pleasure of your body too, the way you put it."
Her chin rose defiantly. "Peter, my dear, I am not a whore. We have pleased each other in bed, a giving and a taking. Do not put another name on it."
"I could contact a friend in Paris."
"She will send money?"
He nodded.
"Do so, then."
"We've had a sort of disagreement, to put it mildly. I don't know, she might be happy to learn I'm at the end of my financial rope."
Alice spread her long, well-formed legs apart so that the summer skirt she wore emphasized the line of her thighs and the curve of her very womanly hips. The pose also tossed her breasts up, a movement that always caused Peter's breath to catch in his throat.
"You must pay or you must leave here."
It was said in a very cold way, causing Peter to remark: "Not only is the owner of this villa hard when it-comes to business but so is her rental agent."
Alice shrugged. "If I did not see to her best interests I would not remain her agent for very long. I must think of myself."
"The good times are forgotten, eh?" He had to smile cynically because this woman was a bitch like all the others. "Every man for himself and God for us all."
"What is your answer, Peter?"
"I can not pay out another three thousand five hundred francs. Half of that, yes, but that would exclude further outings to clubs and discotheques and dinners."
"She rents by the month and not for half. I like you, Peter, but for almost twenty of my thirty-five years men have made a fool of me. It had to stop sometime, and only when I developed an extremely tough exterior did I start surviving. I make an exception in no man's case."
"I heard it loud and I heard it clear. Right. I'll pack my bag and bug out tomorrow. D'accord?"
"So be it."
Alice picked up her white cotton gloves and summer handbag. "When you leave, please stop by my office to turn in the keys."
The way her soft skirt was sucked into the division of her thrusting buttocks when she turned tempted him to ask: "Can you stay, or will you feel you're being used by a man again?"
She dropped the bag into a chair and peeled the gloves off. T will stay." She looked him straight in the eye. "Sex is giving and taking, as I said before, and will cost nothing."
Whatever food found in the kitchen was collected and Alice made a provincial stew and baked some buns. There was not enough wine to fill two glasses, so Peter drank Scotch with his meal. Afterwards they watched a dull program on television, switched to the second channel, found that bad, tried the third, which was the worst of all, and switched the set off.
In the gloom of the library he faced her. "Well, that is that. The next move is yours, madame."
Alice pushed back her cuff and squinted to read her Audemars Piquet gold watch. "A bit early for bed but ... since it's the last time we must make the most of it. Or don't you agree?"
Peter found himself getting up. "I agree."
He went to the door, expecting to hear her coming behind him, and when he turned he was surprised to find Alice stripping down there in the library, a task she always reserved out of propriety for the bedroom.
The cotton blouse had already been removed and her breasts, responding to the passionate moments due, had already become tight-fleshed with the rosy nipples large. Her slender but well-curved thighs were spread, making the skirt taut as her fingers moved to unhook it.
Watching her caused the heat in his groin to give a painful twinge, and Peter immediately unbuckled his belt and pushed down his trousers. He was naked by the time she was ready, his penis standing out like a sword.
When she passed him he heard her breath gushing forth unsteadily, but her thrusting breasts leading the way seemed rock-firm, like balls perfectly balanced on an invisible wire.
Love was gone, he knew, and maybe with this woman it had never had a chance. So let it be lust then, raw lust. A woman had to be fucked, and he was going to do the fucking.
As Peter took her, kissing her lightly, Alice gave back a kiss that was savage in its intensity. He had a rigid erection, but it had swept up from his groin almost automatically. His mind warned him that this woman after the screw would again be just an ice-cold bitch. But if he was emotionless, she at least had a bright fire going within her crotch.
She was like a woman in love, this last time, offering not just warmth but burning heat, using her hands to keep his face close, her tongue to wet his lips and slide between his teeth.
When Peter penetrated her, she threw herself up in a silken-smooth rhythm, her vaginal muscles throbbing, and the juice pouring out of her, thick, clogging, pungent, for his instrument to wash in.
She sighed and strained beneath him while he held her buttocks, those hard, rotating mounds, as he rose high, then fell down, sliding into eternity. His thrusts had her moaning and climaxing, with her face twisted by pain, but Alice did not beg off.
"Oui, Peter, ooooo!"
"Yeah, oui is right, baby. This is what I am good for, a fucker!" He pounded her, his face set, angry, wanting to hurt her. His jabs, always steady, were usually slow and easy, but now he went at her hole rabbit fashion, bam, bam, bamming.
"Ow, ow, owwww!" Her arms fell away, her legs left his and she lay there, trying to move, but unable to as he stuffed her tender slit with his fleshy staff.
Peter now enjoyed it, pleased that each time he went down the slot a severe trembling passed through her body. Sweat popped out on her forehead and the division between her beautiful breasts was already shining, but he kept on.
"Mon reve, I have come too much ... , we must have a stop."
"What's the matter?" he snarled. "Can't fuck anymore?"
"Yes ... but ... my vagina, my groin...."
"Selfish cunt! You've gained pleasure but I'm to be denied it, eh?"
He saw pain registered on her sweating face, and knew it also by the way her arms, flung out across the bed, tightened each time he rammed down. Playing the martyr, he sensed, ready to he there all night if he could keep it up all night.
But Alice was a woman with one final card to play. "Ah-hah! You wish to hurt me. Something I have said, something I have done. Bon, my friend. Now let us see who will be the conqueror and the conquered."
The bitch gave a madwoman's chortle and then exercised her vaginal muscles, turning the sphincters into little knives that bit into his penis. A sort of pain that was pleasureable too ran the length of Peter's staff. He was released, gripped, released, gripped again, and to top it, the ass he was still holding began a counter-clockwise rotation.
Before he knew it his climax rushed together from the various parts of his groin, met and surged. He stiffened above the now-smiling Alice, going: "Aghhh, aghhhh, aghhhh!"
"Hah hah!" With a twist of her curved hips she was free, leaving him to splatter the bed with his semen.
"Bitch!"
"No, Peter, one who faces facts. Now come, do not be angry."
He allowed her to wash first, then he staggered into the bathroom. When he came out Alice had poured wine and was holding a glass out to him.
"Perhaps we may meet again."
"I am not drinking to that. Maybe the men have been lousy to you, but, sister, your breed of woman is sickening, too." He slumped into an armchair, sipping the wine slowly, thinking that tomorrow was time enough for him to consider his next move.
He showered for the last time in the villa, looked out the window at the spacious grounds, knowing he would never afford a place like this again, and got dressed. He was on his way-down!
In town he saw that the real estate agency was locked, meaning Alice had stopped off at her place to change her clothing. He lifted die metal slot of the mail box and dropped the keys to the villa inside.
A bus was pulling in just as he crossed the road. Peter put one foot on the rubber step and looked inquiringly into the driver's face. "Can I buy a ride direct?"
"Sure, where are you going?"
He stepped back to read the destination sign en closed in glass atop the front of the bus. Ventimiglia. "The end of the line, I guess, if it suits you."
"It suits me if you pay the fare, c'est tout."
Money was counted out and exchanged, and he carried his bag to the back. A total of four people were passengers, but the driver lazed behind the wheel, unwilling to close the doors and drive out.
Peter stretched out, thinking that his next stop would eradicate the memory of this town and Alice's body as well. As bodies go it was not bad, not in the category of say Marlies' or even Brigitte's, but better than most girls he had rolled over. But what the hell! There would be others, if not as good, certainly not as costly.
Ventimiglia was an oven of heat and when he left the bus it was like stepping into a Turkish bath with a winter outfit. Officials checked his passport and waved him on without questioning, although at least two of the other passengers had to open up their luggage.
He located a hotel situated above a club and walked up a flight of rotting stairs to a tiny desk presided over by a youth who seemed a member in good standing of today's generation. Jeans, long hair, and a scraggly beard like a goat's. Wordlessly he pushed a form to be filled out, and then a key.
Another town, another bed. Peter dumped his bag, removed his jacket and tie, shoved his wallet and papers into a hip pocket and went out to search for a bar. One was found easily enough. In fact, this boiling hot town had more than enough bars and tourists, plus an endless succession of cars and snarling Vespa scooters passing along all morning long.
On the terrace of a cafe, lingering over his third Campari and soda, Peter heard a couple at the adjacent table arguing in Italian. Maybe the next pause for him should be Rome. The sun shone even hotter there, and the women were all amply fleshed. Also, if the Italian girls were unwilling to open their legs for a man, there were always a sufficient amount of female tourists who would.
Peter did not make it to Rome. He stayed where he was, knowing all the bars and becoming known in each and every one. His skin became dark, his hair became bleached in colors of rusty brown and gold, and he became careless with his dress. After two weeks he so resembled a hippie that the police took to stopping him to request identification. Once he was even searched for hashish.
Occasionally he lay on the beach and even went swimming a few times, but most of the time he did exactly nothing, waiting for the evening to come so he could make his perusal of all the bars.
There were girls, all seemingly a-like, from small towns in Germany, industrial towns in England, and even cities in France. They drank with him, danced with him and some even bedded down with him. When these seemed unwilling, he visited the whores without displaying any reluctance, paying for what he ordinarily got free.
Dinner for him became a sandwich or a salad along with beer, wine or whiskey. When the dinner became an item he was unable to afford, he stuck to alcohol alone. His weight dropped, his appearance underwent a drastic change and when he finally took stock of himself a shock set in.
There was no point in viewing everything in retrospect, trying to find out exactly what had placed him in this position, in a dump of a hotel room, starving, with his clothing all a dirty mess. It was easy to blame Marlies for weaning him away from Brigitte, but that was a coward's way.
But Brigitte! To have walked out on her so easily, to have just suddenly given her up! In that respect he had sinned, and damned if he wasn't paying for it.
The faded mirror on the old closet threw back the reflection of a ruined man, shabby, messy-haired, with dark bags under the eyes and lines running from the nostrils to the turned-down mouth. The face of sin.
Indifferently he checked his worth, the wrinkled suits, the dirty shirts, the unpolished shoes. These were his assets, along with the gold Rolex watch, the gold Dupont lighter and a couple of hundred francs. He spread the lot across the unmade bed, smoothing out the wrinkled notes. Three hundred and seventy-five francs. Not a hell of a lot; enough to get him up to Paris, but after that what?
Knowing he had to make some attempt at straightening himself out, he shaved, went down the hall to the shower, and selected the cleanest of his clothing. It took an effort to go out into the streets, but he managed it. For a time he stood on a corner uncertainly while people swirled about him, wondering in which direction he should turn.
The tourists were all out, a force of them in summer regalia, strolling, chatting, visiting the shops. He was not one of them, so it was best that he head for the district where members of his group, the down-and-outers, went.
At a large cafe that served as a discotheque by night he had a glass of chilled rose. A man with his shirtsleeves rolled up above hairy arms approached to talk in a familiar manner.
"Well, Peter, you're looking much better now than last night."
Peter frowned, wondering if in a drunken state he had given the joker his life story. "I tanked up here, didn't I?"
"Bought drinks for all, especially the pontes. They love you, those girls do." He extended a ring-laden hand. "Peter, you cannot say that you do not remember last night and you do not remember me?"
The man, of average size, semi-bald, a once-trim body running to fat, did look familiar. Suddenly Peter snapped his fingers, remembering a seaman who sang, a man who roamed the dives along the North African coast seeking the main chance.
"Of course, of course. Good God, it was years ago."
The man sighed. "Today I am ordinary Georges Fanta, the owner of a so-so club. When we first met I was a slender man, muscled, plenty of long hair and called just 'Fanta, the singer.'"
Peter looked at the darkened interior of the club, with the well-polished dance floor, a wall filled with pictures of celebrities and the quite extensive stereo set with its eight overhead speakers.
"You seem to have done alright for yourself."
"Not as well as you. I know of your success in Paris, and I even have a few of your discs."
"I never made it to the top. I got halfway up and then fell right down."
Georges looked him over. "Running from something? I ask because there are better places to have a vacation. Cannes, Cap d'Antibes, Monte Carlo."
"I haven't that kind of money. Nor the connections." He added, "Anymore."
"Did I make it? And you recall how good my voice was. Bah!"
"Look, you've more security than me. I'd rather end up owning a place like this than shouting my lungs out as I did and ending up with bad memories."
"A little bit of this and that got me this club. Some pimping, some gambling, preying on rich women. I saw I was getting fat and every morning when I combed my hair the washbasin told me the sad tale." The man shook his head. "Pity we never really get what we want from life, eh?"
Peter decided to be straight. "Level with me, Georges. What are my chances down here?"
"As a singer?"
"Come on! As a hustler."
"Well, you can feed off the girls. You've still got the looks. How you are in bed is another matter. That's what counts with them."
"No other game, huh?"
"Gambling. But most are professionals. You would be skinned. Look, one of the girls you kept buying champagne for last night seemed quite interested in you. Nadine, remember her?"
Peter said no, he did not remember Nadine or any other girl.
"Is she a whore?"
"A girl must live."
"That's living the hard way. No thanks."
"Well, there are the married woman who come here on holidays, seeking thrills. Some are easy to take, some are not."
Peter blew out his cheeks, thinking that perhaps he ought to return to Paris. He still had an apartment, and jobs were easier to come by there. Certainly anything, even opening cartons of stuff in a stock room in a department store, was an easier route to follow than pimping.
He thanked Georges, telling him he would be back that evening to look Nadine over. "But strictly for kicks. I'd want nothing else from her."
"Good, and if I come up with something in the meantime I shall let you know."
He went out, the sun beating down on his back, moving past the idlers lounging in cafe chairs, who watched him without interest. A wet wave of heat washed down him and his shirt stuck to his chest, making him think he should go swimming.
That was an idea. What the hell, he would swim about a bit, then maybe tonight he would return to Georges' club and see what was happening with this chick, Nadine. If she was as interested in him as the bar owner had suggested maybe she'd offer her body free of charge.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Peter sprawled on an air mattress, shielded from the sun by a multi-colored umbrella, watching his pick-up, Regina. The blond-headed German girl, now the center of all male attention, had insisted on purchasing a bikini that was several sizes too small.
He wondered about the blonde, a bitch around twenty-one years of age. Two days before she had pleaded with him to refrain from pawing her, claiming that she was too easily aroused and that having her monthly period was frustrating.
He was asked to wait. That, however, did not prevent her from sticking like plaster, sponging three squares a day, sleeping until ten in a room he had paid for.
One hour before she had squealed at the sight of a bikini in a shop window, begging Peter to buy it for her. He was willing, but nevertheless he asked how she could swim if she was still menstruating. Regina flashed her beautiful white teeth and whispered that nature was now well satisfied. But I am not, he thought.
Man, could she squeal over anything, a skirt, a cheap locket, a meal. This big horse, five feet nine and at least one hundred fifty pounds, Hamburg born. After leaving there for a two-year sojourn in Rome she had drifted in Majorca and Tangiers and was still on the move.
With a sense of frustration he watched Regina. He eyed the huge, bobbing mounds covered by the yellow bandeau. He thought how easily he had been caught by this young blond bitch. The sight of those tits did it, so overly developed, and those long, long thighs, too, had aroused his passion. In fact, just viewing her now as she posed offering new perspectives, fermented his lust.
"Hey, Regina."
"Yes, my sweet?"
"Don't you think we ought to make it to the hotel now?"
"Later." She flung back her short blond hair. "Go back to sleep. I want to rest a while and get all brown."
Brown! She was practically black now. Oh, why in hell didn't he go on up to Georges and check out the whore, Nadine? It would be a better run than with this bitch who lavished so much love on herself.
"Come on, your skin will dry out."
"I can take it. Now go on back to sleep."
A waste of time. He would dump her and then scheme out something else. Peter closed his eyes, his mind still retaining the vivid image of Regina's smooth-textured and robust body.
It was all because he had not gotten laid really well since the screw with the real estate agent Alice. That was all. He was hot, and maybe any woman would do, but man, would he love to prong this big blonde!
There was noise nearby, swimmers shrieking, and he tried to force his thoughts elsewhere, to choke off the fever. A hard-on was developing. He opened his eyes to check below his belt-line, see if the erection was obvious, and the sight of Regina caused the fires to rise higher.
The blond bitch was on her feet, padding down to the water, swinging her big ass, taking that stride that was so damned lascivious.
She swam only a few minutes before returning. Regina shivered, swearing that the water was like ice. Sprawling on the cushion, wet hair clinging to her face, her goose-fleshed hips writhed as if from ecstasy.
"And you, Peter, won't you have a swim too?"
"I'll pass it up."
She started to sound off like a gym instructor about exercise, especially swimming, being so healthy. He wanted her to keep her blessed mouth shut for just a few seconds, but on and on Regina went.
He raised his head to look at her. The bikini, it seemed to him, was a token acknowledgement of propriety. Her big breasts seemed to blot out his entire range of vision. The girl was more naked than cov ered. He heard the cries of swimmers, listened to the brief conversation of passers-by, but actually he could only see those huge, marble-like breasts.
"You know, I can't get over you."
"Over my body, you mean."
"Well, let's not be so damned modest."
"Bah! God made me, then he broke the damned mould." Her full mouth twisted into a smirk. "Look around, every eye is on me. I drive men insane."
Peter's jaw hardened and a glint of savagery was in his eyes. "Soon I'll have just about all I want of you."
"You'll have enough when I decide it's enough."
He studied her profile, the rounded chin, full lips and strong nose. It was her eyes, however, that he liked best. Light blue, they could narrow and shine, droop to show indifference or widen with sudden appreciation, as when he purchased something for her.
"Look, your period is long over and I want to screw. If I don't screw you it'll be some other girl, even a whore and when that happens you are out!"
Regina got to her feet. Her eyes caught the stiffening of male bodies sprawled close by. She was aware of the disturbance she created. She adjusted the strap on her bandeau in a lazy way, the movement releasing the sharp scent of her long, sea-stained body. She angled in a deliberate pose that silhouetted her against a backdrop of water-wet rocks, the endless sky and the crystal clear sea.
"You coming back to the hotel or not?"
"Just give the boys a treat." Regina searched his brown face, seeing anger there. Then, with an arrogant thrust of her breasts, she said, "Yes, it is time you were paid off."
Without waiting for him she moved off, her walk slow and tantalizing, trying to create torment with her succulent body. Her big, round ass seemed to protest against confinement and swung with abandon as she progressed past the swimmers.
In the dingy hotel room he told her off, telling her the world was not a mirror for her to reflect the body she thought was one in a million.
It was as if she did not hear him. Regina peeled the wet bikini down her flaring hips. "You are just lucky you have a girl like me."
"Look, pack your gear and beat it!"
"No sex?"
"Ahh, get out, you disgust me."
She inserted her hand in the waistband of his bathing trunks, digging deep until she caught his penis. "Whew! How were you able to walk with this erection?"
He pushed her away. "Give me a chance to get this thing off."
Regina was squatting, parting the lips of her vagina, poking at the entrance, fingering the clitoris. "I must be wet first."
"Bitch!" As she squealed he wrestled her to the bed, landing on top and plunging right into the surprisingly small slit. "You're wet enough!"
He took her steadily, feeling her buttocks tighten, her amazonian thighs close and her back bend. But
... something was missing. So far, Regina was not a great lay.
Certainly she was wet enough; his swollen penis going in and out of the gash felt it, and some of the stuff was even slopping out of her to slide down toward the asshole. His hands went around the sinewy thighs to grab the firm twin mounds of the gigantic ass. "Move it," he said, "come on, move it!" She did move her ass, bringing it up constantly so that not even an inch existed between their bodies. But, while he felt nothing, his short, steady strokes had her throbbing, and Regina cried out.
Now he went up, rising high, pulling the long curving tool almost all the way out. The flaps of her hot hole closed together, preventing the balled head from escaping, and she climaxed.
"Oooooo, eeeeee, aaaaaa!" She ran her hands all over his head while the pumpkin-like breasts rolled about. When her inner muscles contracted, his penis actually hurt.
Peter arched, trying to pull out. But Regina's long, heavy legs went smoothly, coiling like a reptile's about his waist. He could not budge. The folds of her vagina closed about his rigid, pulsing instrument. She rotated her ass and brought her strong athletic legs up higher, digging her calloused heels into his back.
He pumped like a piston while she punched up with her ass. His blows hurt, but then so did hers. It was give and take, a hard, punishing battle. The silken vaginal lips kept sliding tightly up and down his bone. But once more Regina climaxed and hot streams flowed about his penis.
"I do not understand it," she said later. Ts it my fault or perhaps something is wrong with you? Are you prematurely aged?"
"Oh, go wash, will you?" He lay there, looking up at the ruined ceiling, thinking about Paris.
"I intend to."
Regina flung herself upon the gleaming white porcelain bidet, the cheeks of her rump over the sides. She splashed water into her privates, cleansing herself of all come and sweat. She picked up a towel, patted herself dry and went down die hall to shower. When she returned her teeth were chattering like castinets. The water was too cold, she explained.
Her hair, being short, was easily arranged. Her pale, full lips looked marvelously luscious against her tanned face and she did not need lipstick, but she wanted some lotion to rub into her skin. Some perfume, some creams, it all took money.
"You must take me shopping for some cosmetics." Then she used his eau de cologne to scent her armpits, crotch and the crack dividing her sumptuous ass. Her teeth were brushed, and then she returned to the bed.
She sat next to him, her weight causing the ruined old bed to sink to floor level. Her cool hand rested on his thighs, close to his semi-hard penis. "Listen, I need some cosmetics, creams and all that or my skin will crack in this heat."
"Tough."
Her blue eyes, so large and round, now reverted to a calculating squint. "Ahh, I see. I did not make you climax so I take the blame and am to be dusted off. Listen, you has-been, men are out there dying to get into me."
"Tell it to a funeral parlor and they'll make a fortune selling coffins. Maybe you'll get a percentage."
Regina stood up suddenly so that her breasts flew up to the level of her shoulders and the flesh along her belly leaped. It took a second for all that meat to settle and cease bouncing.
She leaned forward to give him her lips and the wet heat of her darting tongue. "Come, let us try again." But she tore her mouth away as he cruelly grasped the great mounds and fingered the taut nipples.
The heat then rushed into his groin, causing his penis to swing up into stiffness, resembling a sawed-off broomstick. "Okay, let's have a go."
"Will we go shopping afterwards?" Regina climbed into the bed, a wary look on her lovely face. Peter's hand went to her crotch and he rubbed the thatch. Slowly, her fleshy thighs opened. The lips rimmed with tiny hairs, were dry.
"You must moisten me."
He went between her legs, arching, his weapon standing up, slightly curved in the middle, the balled head pale. But she evaded the instrument and rolled over on her back.
He took her another way, his mouth going to the thin, vaginal lips, his tongue stabbing inwards, invading the portals, while the velvety halls were lashed down with his spittle.
Regina moaned as his tongue overwhelmed her. He held the bold hemispheres of her ass and drew back slightly from the gaping wound. His mouth descended again, his tongue sliding in all curled, then uncurling. His hands kept on kneading her ass, twisting the cheeks brutally while his tongue went all around the juicy passage.
"Ohh, Peter, Peter ... fuck me, fuck me ... you do not have to buy me anything ... just fuck me!"
She raised a leg and rested it on his shoulder. It locked around his neck, pasting his mouth to her pulsating grotto. The freshly washed slit was now more humid and smelly and very much alive. He balled her with his tongue, slowly in, slowly out, causing her passion to mount.
The blonde was reaching her time. She drove herself at him, harder, furiously, punching at him with her loins; each time his tongue penetrated the slit "OOOOO! Stop!"
Peter held the tightening bowls of her ass and worked her cunt even more as she flowed. Regina threw back her head and let out a piercing sound. The boiling point was reached, and the cream poured upon his tongue.
He finally raised his head, his tongue and lips' foaming with her come. He wiped his mouth on her thighs, sending flashes through her, changing her body temperature. Then Peter threw her long legs up, raising her ass high, and sent his lug shooting down the oiled passageway. Her insides stretched to allow the instrument thorough entrance and Regina clasped him to her.
He drove at her relentlessly, his can tight, the muscles locking, slamming against her upraised ass, digging into her like a madman, making her shout and hiss like a cat and go off like a traffic light.
"No, no, no!"
He rammed in, as far as he could go, while she was climaxing, pushing in and out to the accompaniment of her frantic motions. Her walls clamped tighter, squeezing. He held fast, for she was bucking and twisting her buttocks when a new orgasm built up.
But he was unable to climax.
He continued to jab with a brutal vigor while she exploded. Then dizziness overtook him and he fell off her in a near faint. He felt completely worn out, useless, totally ruined, all desire gone, and his once large weapon now remained a small stick.
"A hundred francs, baby ... over there, in my wallet ... take it, buy your cosmetics."
"And you?"
"I can't fuck anymore. Go away and find a guy who ... comes. But ... leave me."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It took several days before desire returned, aided for the most part by the girl, Nadine. She was a lively and shapely girl from Aix-en-Provence, an ex-secretary who found working the clubs an easier way of living. Peter never questioned her, but one night when they got into his bed he asked exactly what it was she wished from him.
"I'm broke, baby, a girl named Regina took my last cent. So why're you here? There's nothing special about me. Hell, for a time I even lost my manhood."
Nadine, atop him, kissing his cheek and shoulder, murmured, "For girls like me there must always be one man."
"If I am to be him, then why?"
"Oh, cheri, your foolish questions."
"Did Georges explain my situation?"
"He did. And?"
"Well...."
"We are not here to talk. I have done enough of that tonight. We are here for loving, nothing else."
She lowered her head of dark, silken hair and moved her mouth along his chest, down to his belly, with her tongue playing around his navel before trailing tantalizingly down over his groin.
Peter hissed and arched.
The girl's open mouth reached his pubic hairs and the throbbing penis that was soon stretching its length, starting to tremble its way straight up. She worked around the shaft and went exploring between his thighs before coming up again to tease the base of his now completely stiffened manhood.
As she fellated him expertly, he was caught up in mounting passion. He reached down, wound his fingers through her now tousled hair, a gesture to hold her skilled, working lips and tongue in place.
"Yes, yes, baby, do me!"
"Ahhh, oui, oui and afterwards ... ohh, later, you must do me!"
He would, he would perform such a job of raw cunnilingus on her that the next man to eat her would be dismissed as a rank amateur. Ahhh yes, yes, yes! Go to it, go to it!
Memories and doubts and self-recriminations all were obliberated in surging waves of sexual excitement. The hell with everything but this moment. Let her take him now and then ... let him take her!
She let up before he ejaculated, gasping, willing him to cool down for a bit. Nadine left the bed to go after wine and rinse the taste of lust from her mouth. The bottle was passed to him and then, after a heated exchange of kisses, the bottle was put to one side.
Another position was tried, this one sixty-nine, with her rounded buttocks rounding even more as the cheeks were pressed into his face. She crouched over the prone Peter, a regular sex-starved animal, again swallowing up his penis while he tasted the vagina that was soft and a bit pulpy, like a ripe plum.
His tongue worked wonders, his teeth pulled on snarled hairs, and the girl sent her behind grinding in a furious circle. She moaned and mumbled as she fellated him, her dark hair fallen to splash on his thighs and her good firm breasts pressing into his limbs.
His tongue visited the passageway, dancing on the roof, tickled the bottom and slapped incessantly against the tiny clitoris.
There was no alternative left for Nadine but to discharge. She came, crying out and leaping up, releasing his upright, saliva-slick penis. "Ahhh, no, no, no!"
When she had calmed down he worked her over on her side and began to stroke her now-relaxed rear, passing his hands over the stilled cheeks. Now he rolled her over on her back, studied her smiling face and sent his penis between her stiffened thighs.
"No, Peter, another way. Dog fashion."
His voice was hoarse, "Yes, yes!"
His penis rose between her stiff thighs. Nadine rolled about, presenting her butt to his face. He pasted his body to hers, curving over her, and palmed her swinging tits.
The heat emerging from her snatch was like an oven. He arranged her, spreading her thighs apart, and shoved his instrument between the full-blown cheeks of her rear, ramming into the waiting opening.
She screamed.
He kept her in position, his thrusts quickening when she experienced a swift discharge with her thin and bubbling juices rolling over his thing. She asked for a rest, but he considered it selfish of her to climax so swiftly.
Now he flattened the woman on her back and again entered her, meeting no resistance, sliding his shaft home as he pleased, his pubic hairs clashing with hers. There was no stopping the man and further pleas for a rest would only be more arousing, so Nadine willingly went into a series of well-executed moves, working her breasts and shoulders, tossing her hips and grinding her behind while keeping him secure with her arms and legs.
"You are like an octopus."
"Oui, c'est moi, and I love to fuck."
It was a hell of a workout for him. The woman slammed herself into the bed and arched in another slamming action, thrusting her breasts up at him with her fingers rippling up and down his thighs and around his backside.
If he had her in a state of rapture, she also had him on the point of coming like crazy. But she went hot and she went cold and there was no stopping her from climaxing.
"Oui, oui, oui!"
He pumped on, squeezing the mass of her breasts, thumbing the nipples, pinching the hard flesh. Her rear end, those two balls, continued to rotate while the climax lasted, with terrible spasms causing her to buck up.
But instead of falling back and regathering her breath, Nadine got a second wind and fought him all the more.
"Ah-hah, you feel I have been destroyed, eh? Mais non, my boy. Let us see who dies first this time."
"Okay, okay." He rose and fell, smashing her stomach with his, shoving his length far in and then withdrawing most of it until just the rounded tip rested on the bottom of the now rather loose lips.
He thought she would explode again, but she kept altering the pattern of her rhythm, and when he tried to force her to maintain a steady pace she sent her long, strong legs snapping around his waist and then ... her rump was a sensation!
"I have you now, eh?"
"Yes, you bitch, yes, yes!" He rammed her, but she owned the game, and with her cruel archings and very brutal ass-twisting he had to come. Those double balls carried the force of a heavyweight boxer's blows, upper-cutting him into a state of insanity.
"Ooohhh, Nadine ... you brought me along!"
"Moi aussi, ahhh ... J'arrive."
His climax was like a river of red hot liquid and hers was all cries, all shivers, all sweat and raw juice.
There were nights when Nadine did not show.
When he dropped by the club to question Georges the latter would shrug philosophically. "She hooked a free spender, the type of tourist willing perhaps to pay double for a good time."
He could picture a fat, blubbery body, rank and pasty-white sweating on top of the sunburned, lithe Nadine. Afterwards a bottle of whiskey would pass from mouth to mouth and the tourist, revived, would request a second turn. The pay-off would be wrinkled bills which he would stuff between Nadine's breasts.
And later, Peter knew, that same money would be flattened by Nadine's deft fingers, the fingers that had masturbated the tourist. There would be an accounting and a share passed to him to take care of all the bills.
I don't scour the streets looking for men for her, I don't tout in the bars, but I am a pimp all the same.
Peter went to the hotel, collected his possessions, was about to write a note, thought better of it and went out to thumb a ride going north.
A truck carried him as far as Nice. There he plunked down on a bench on the Promenade des Anglais and watched the sun climb up over the Baie des Anges, gilding the green waters. He reckoned he had never reached the top as a singer. In fact, he had barely made it past the halfway mark, despite the years and effort. But when it came to the fall, a man could plummet to the ash heap in less than a week.
He had long forgotten his dollar account because he was not the sort to get involved with credit cards and the like. Up in Paris, Brigitte, acting as manager, had handled all the money, managing small investments, paying all bills, handling the banking and paying Peter what might be called walking-around cash.
He had never complained. There was no point when he had everything he needed, but now he remembered the dollar account he had built up. How in hell had he let a thing like that slip his mind?
Just past nine, hungry, unshaved, his garments wrinkled, Peter walked into the Nice branch of the American Express, presented his passport and cards and requested a transfer of money from the Paris office.
A brief telephone call and Peter left with a thousand dollars in his wallet. He considered renting a car, but after breakfasting in a cafe decided to take the late afternoon train out. He lounged in a decent restaurant, gorging himself, had a shave and haircut and bid a temporary goodbye to the French Riviera.
Early the next morning he was in a taxi speeding through the still sleeping streets of Paris. When he entered the apartment building the old concierge stuck her head out the door, expressing surprise at the sight of him. He greeted her, opened the door of his must-odored apartment, opened the shutters to let fresh air in, stripped and flung himself into bed.
While he slept, Brigitte, alerted by the concierge, slipped in. Breathing excitedly, she looked ravishing with her brown hair twisted about her head in coils and her red mouth so sensuous. Silently, she disrobed and prepared to offer herself to the man she had not seen for so long, but whom she still loved.
He awoke, but kept his eyes slitted, pretending to be asleep. He looked at the super figure that was so full, so awesome with the rotund buttocks and startling breasts. When he saw her applying perfume to that curvaceous body an impatient itch built in his loins.
Brigitte slid a hand between her luscious thighs and fingered the V-shaped mound of pubic hair. Her digit slid into the crack and came out, making a sucking noise. She gasped, and dug her sharp fingernails into the rounded ass, marking the cheeks.
She approached the bed with her breasts dancing, her belly rolling, her hips going from side to side and hot juice leaking from her opening. Then she let out a squeal as he flung back the covers and grabbed her.
"Peter!"
"Come on! There's no time to waste!"
She viewed the monumental penis, a true morning erection, and, still squealing, but with happiness rather than surprise this time, she presented her dimpled and enchanting rump, so luxuriously fleshed, to him. He stroked the rounded mass and rose up to lass and tongue each melony cheek. A whisper escaped the girl and she turned her head, her brown hair now loosened and flying about.
His teeth were now embedded in the firm cheeks. She cried out, writhed and twisted frantically. But he had his hands pasted to the slender waist and was chewing up the luscious balls.
Brigitte felt his fingers, like feathers, darting over the crack dividing each globe. One finger especially went under, along the ridged trail through the bush to her vagina. She bellowed like a calf on a farm, for now he had two fingers inserted, widening the already juiced opening.
Peter leaned over her, studying the bubbling foam that clogged her slit, causing her pubic hairs to bush out even more. Then he was on her, into her. She screamed out her "NOooooooo" and gained the first orgasm.
Strangely enough, he went off like an inexperienced teen-aged boy, lasting no time. But Brigitte sent her body up and down, riding the hard column even as he shot into her womb.
"A new start awaits us, Peter, a fresh beginning, but please, let us not talk about it now. Let us make love!"
