"Eat your cunt?" the young man muttered through barely moving lips at the passing blonde, who blinked, not quite sure that she had heard what she had heard, continued walking along Central Park South, choosing to ignore the man's brazen question.
Not in the least deterred, Dinnie Galavan hummed softly to himself and waited for another prospect. A handsome fellow he was, about thirty, though already showing signs of a life resolutely devoted to pleasure at all costs, especially pleasures of the flesh, the freaky sexual kind.
He eyed a tall, well-built redhead who approached the front entrance of the Plaza Hotel near where he stood. "Eatyourcunt?" he again inquired, not unpleasantly. The redhead gasped and whirled to look at him in horror. Dinnie smiled sweetly, one eye twinkling at the redhead, while the other stared wildly beyond her into the park. "Well!" huffed the girl, deeply insulted and not trusting a further response. "The very nerve!" And she stomped off, with Dinnie clocking her splendid ass as she receded down the walk.
A trim, pretty brunette approached. "Eat-your-cunt?" Dinnie mildly asked. She kept walking. But a few paces beyond him, she turned slowly about and fixed him with a hateful glare. "You bastard!" she hissed. "You male chauvinist pig rotten loathsome cocksucking shit-eating whoreson mother-fucking bastard! How dare you address me in that fashion!"
"I dare, my dear, because I am very, very rich, which gives me license to address whomever I choose, wherever and whenever and however I choose. You dig?"
"I don't care if you're J. Paul Getty, you don't talk to me like that, Buster!" The girl advanced suddenly and aimed a sharp heel at his groin. Dinnie alertly caught her foot in midair and instead of flipping her over backward, he gallantly lowered the foot and assisted the girl back to her proper balance, then reached into his pocket, while dodging a wild left hook, and thrust several wadded hundred dollar bills into the girl's hand. "Here's a few C's that say I do talk to you like that, if it pleases me."
"Fuck you!" snapped the brunette, but she did not throw down the bills clutched in her fist.
"Let's be reasonable," pursued Dinnie. "All I want is for you to come and spend an hour or so with me in my suite at the Plaza. All you need to do is take off your clothes and let me lick you all over, especially you-know-where. I happen to be in the mood to eat pussy today, and I am determined to scarf yours. And if you will only consent to go along with my little whim, and you can be as passive about it as you like, I will give you some more hundred dollar bills. And don't tell me you couldn't use a few.
"I can't believe your arrogance," said the brunette, exuding outrage.
"Of course I'm arrogant But you're getting interested, I can tell. It's a hell of an easy way to make a few hundred clams; you've got to be aware of that."
Yes, the brunette had to be aware of that. Now that it was presented to her so plainly, she cast a flashing thought to her junkie husband with his forty dollar a day habit, and the desperate need for grocery money to feed her small daughter, who had not tasted milk in days. Her grip tightened on the wad of bills. The dissolute Dinnie smiled; he knew the tide was turning his way. "Come on, dear," he said gently, even winningly, "let's go up to my chambers for a little while. I'll show you my etchings."
The girl glowered, but allowed herself to be led through the grand entryway, through the lobby and into an elevator. She closed her eyes, deeply ashamed of herself. As for Dinnie, a faint but smug smile curled his lips and a huge hard-on formed in his pants.
In the suite, the girl carefully stashed the bills in her purse and wondered what to do next. Sensing her discomfort, Dinnie thoughtfully poured her a tumbler of Courvoissier. She sipped, liked the burning, pulse-quickening taste, and sipped again, sighing, but feeling somewhat better. Dinnie took off his expensive but well-worn sport jacket and then, seeing no reason to stop,.removed the rest of his garments. The girl could not help but observe that he had a nice, trim body and a very large, stiff prick. She shuddered in distaste, felt a little faint and took another sip of the cognac.
Young Galavan placed a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder and solicitously assisted her in disrobing. Removing blouse and bra, he leaned over and kissed one of her small but well-formed tits, sucking the nipple and diddling it with his tongue. In spite of herself, the girl felt a thrill. The sad fact was that her husband, preoccupied as he was with his little glassine envelopes of white powder and his twice-daily fix, had little disposition for sex, so that the brunette had been denied male attention too long for comfort. If only, she thought to herself, she could block out the mercenary sordidness of the situation. . . .
Dinnie unzipped the skirt and let it fall to the luxurious carpeting. At least, thought the brunette, if she was going to debase herself, she might as well do it in the Plaza. The elegant surroundings did help, and she sipped again at the cognac. Now Dinnie was at the end of his quest, carefully drawing down her panties to reveal a fine hairy mound on which he ventured a tentative nibble before steering her toward the king-size bed.
Once he had the girl laid out and opened up on the clean sheets, the rich boy went about his business in earnest With a sensitive, skillful, ambitious tongue he began at her toes, savoring the lint and sweat between them, nibbling and gnawing at them; then up the instep to the trim ankle, the fatted calf, the inside of the dainty knee; then to the thigh, just a trifle full, which he consumed in huge sucking mouthfuls, leaving large red hickies; then the same treatment, diving under now, on her ass, which was quite generous for a small woman; and finally, to the object of his most ardent desires-her treasure, her vee, her honey-pot, her delicate, slippery cunt
With a gurgle of joy he dove into it, his madly excited tongue the vanguard of a burrowing head housing an inflamed brain that derived perverse excitement from such activity. His greedy lips sucked the lips of her precious slit. A quick, vibrating tongue played a merry tune on the girl's long-neglected clit, and she was unable to restrain a moan of sheerest pleasure. Spurred on, the lad redoubled his efforts, grunting and snuffling like a pig rooting for truffles, and the now excessively stimulated girl pressed her bottom against his marauding head to increase the delicious pressure.
Galavan's cock was oozing with froth as the main army of troops in his gonads demanded liberation. He shifted position over the girl until he was eating her upside-down, his nose in her ass, which placed his throbbing cock within reach of her gasping mouth.
Unconscious of shame, or anything except animal lust, the brunette eagerly accepted the proffered sausage and was quickly sucking on it with an avidity that would have surprised her had she been thinking rationally. It was the most sexually turned on she had felt since her husband had fallen in love with heroin, and she abandoned herself to it. When she felt the gorge rising in his throbbing prick she flipped out in the most profound orgasm she had experienced in years. Simultaneously, the rich boy unleashed his own generous spending and filled the girl's mouth with spurt after spurt of thick salty come. Both bodies relaxed and lay stunned and gasping for air for several long moments.
Then the brunette, her glazed eyes returning to focus, began to think again. She remembered where she was and how she had gotten there. She became aware of the sperm overflowing from the corners of her pretty mouth and was disgusted with herself. Pulling herself off the bed, she dashed into the bathroom and contemptuously spat and coughed the lad's spunk into the sink. "Damn you, you rotten creep!"
But young Dinnie, having had his way with the utmost pleasure, was far too pleased with himself to be upset by the tirade of an emotional woman. He had had her; he had eaten her and made her eat him and, what's more, like it. There was no denying that she had enjoyed herself fully. Perhaps that is what angered her so. So Dinnie met her fuming glare with an innocent smile.
"Thank you, my dear, you did beautifully. There are some more bills in my pocket if you want to leave now. You held up your end of the bargain, and very nicely too. Yum yum yum!"
"You're disgusting!"
"I know. And it doesn't bother me one bit."
She glowered. He smiled, waiting for her to throw on her clothes and storm out of his room. But she did not. She only eyed him narrowly and he could sense a subtle change. His big cock, so recently relieved of its tension, began to stir with new life. When the brunette saw it stiffening, a small sigh escaped her, and Dinnie knew that what she wanted right now was a good, old-fashioned fuck.
CHAPTER TWO
Priscilla "Pussy" Witherspoon shook her head sadly at the disgusting sight of her fianc�e, young Dinsmore Galavan, sleeping naked in bed with a luscious brunette, his big dong inert and no doubt tired from a busy night of probing, plunging and discharging seed inside the woman who lay equally spent at his side. Pussy shook her boyfriend awake. "All right now, wake up, sweet prince, the party's over."
"Huh? . . . uh, oh, Pussy, how'd you get in here?"
"We got this suite together, remember? Or were you too drunk?"
"Slept all day yesterday."
"And evidently fucked all night."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, her." He glanced over at the still sleeping brunette, who was snoring.
"Where'd you find her?"
"On the street."
"Oh, Dinnie-you're incorrigible."
"I know."
"Well, get her out of here. Immediately. Never mind, I'll do it." Pretty Pussy, not long before a dewy-eyed debutante, roughly shook the brunette awake. "All right, Miss, it's time to go now. I have things to discuss with my fiancee."
Once awakened, the brunette quickly sized up the situation and stepped into her clothing. About to bolt out the door, she remembered her seducer's offer of more hundred dollar bills and returned to grab a handful from his pocket.
"Mercenary, aren't we," purred Pussy.
"Fuck you, sister," growled the brunette. "Or better still, no fucks to you."
"Guess you know a thing or two about fucking."
"Well, if you don't it's your own fault, because your boy friend here, selfish snot that he is, is one hell of a lay. And I ought to know, because he really gave me a workout last night. I'll bet he never fucked you that way."
"I wouldn't be too sure," was Pussy's parting shot as the fiery brunette stormed out, slamming the door behind her. "Common slut." And then to Dinnie as he got up to take a piss: "Did you enjoy it with her?"
"Oh, I don't know," mumbled Dinnie as he studied the stream ratcheting into the bowl. "You know, man."
"I don't know. Tell me."
"Aw, come on."
"Was it good? Come on now, we promised to be honest, remember?"
"Sure it was good. You know I like to ball."
"Well, how about balling me."
"Now."
"Yes. Now."
"Aw, come on."
"Why not? Aren't I attractive to you."
"Sure-it's not that."
"Well, what is it then?"
Dinnie sighed. "I'm all fucked out, Puss. We made it I don't know how many times last night and this morning. I'm drained dry and my pee-pee is sore."
"Don't you remember we were supposed to have a date this morning? I got myself all horny looking forward to it."
"Sorry about that."
"Oh, you're awful. That girl was right-you really are a selfish snot."
"What day is today."
"Thursday."
"Oh. Glad you reminded me. The movers are going to deliver a grand piano to my pad downtown. I'd better get there to let them in."
"Dinnie, you're almost thirty-one. Isn't it time you got married and settled down?"
"Married? Who would I marry?"
"Me, of course. We're engaged, remember?"
"You're a nice girl, Pussy. I wouldn't do a thing like that to you."
"Dinnie, we've been through all this. We agreed that it would be good for you to get married and that I'm the only person you could be sure wouldn't be marrying you for your money because I'm almost as rich as you are."
"I doubt that."
"Well, Daddy is very comfortably fixed. He has a seat on the stock exchange."
"Nice. He doesn't have to stand up."
"So nobody could accuse me of being a gold digger."
"They might. I'm richer than you realize. I could buy and sell your Daddy a hundred times over and not even notice it."
"That's not the point, darling. I'm just not after you for your money, it's as simple as that."
"You might be if you knew how much there is of it."
"Dinnie, I don't care. But how much is there? Do you have any idea?"
"Not really. Once a couple of years ago I sat down with my lawyer and tax man and tried to figure out what all my holdings were worth, but it was impossible, there were so many things and pieces of things all over the world. All I could get out of it was that I couldn't possibly spend the income I get from all those investments, even if I literally threw my money away."
"Which you literally do."
"Well, why not? It makes people happy and it gives me a sense of power. Come on, let's get downtown before those movers show."
Dinnie Galavan's downtown pad was a handsome, pre-Civil War Greenwhich Village town-house consisting of a basement and three upper floors, all of it expensively redone by a prominent architect and interior designer. The main floor consisted only of a kitchen and a very large living-dining-party room, suitable for a high-living young bachelor given to lavish entertaining. It was here that the grand piano was to be placed.
Getting so large and heavy an object into the house was, of course, a major problem, but fortunately ample French windows permitted access for the main body of the piano after its legs were removed. With the aid of pulleys, the movers, four sweating huskies conscripted from Village bars, were able, with much huffing and tugging and struggling, to get the thing into the living room.
Dinnie idly watched their efforts, grateful that such toil would never be necessary for him. Pussy also watched, restively. "Do we have to sit here and look at them?" she whined.
"No, but what else is there to do?"
"You know."
"No, I don't. What do you want to do."
"Have you begun to recover from last night."
"Guess so. Why?"
"I told you I was feeling awfully horny. Why don't we go to the big bedroom upstairs?"
A bulb lit in Dinnie's diseased mind. "How would you like the jazzing of your life?"
"That's just what I'd like, darling."
"All right then. Go up there and get undressed and wait for me. I'll be with you shortly."
It had occurred to Dinnie that his fiancee had been rather too sheltered, as was typical of girls of her class. Not that he, himself, had ever been obliged to confront grim realities, but at least, being an adventurous soul, he had traveled widely and sampled much of life, at the lower depths as well as among the beautiful people. He felt it was time for Pussy to be similarly exposed to larger horizons.
When the movers finally got the legs back on the piano and maneuvered the thing into the indicated corner, their leader, or crew boss, approached Dinnie with the bill, a touch apprehensive that he might consider it excessive. But the rich boy paid it cheerfully and added a generous tip.
"How much do you fellows make an hour."
"Dunno, it depends. Four, five bucks an hour if we're busy."
"How would you like to make a couple of hundred bucks each in the next hour?"
"Sure, if it's legal."
"It's perfectly legal."
"What do you want us to do?"
"That young lady, who just went upstairs, wants to get laid."
"Now wait a minute."
"It's all right. It's a little game we play. What she really digs is to be raped by sweaty workmen, and I get my kicks from watching."
The crew leader looked around doubtfully at the other movers. The general mood seemed to be ambivalence: not wishing to get into trouble yet decidedly intrigued by the offer.
"The thing is," Dinnie went on, "she'll undoubtedly put up a struggle, so a couple of you may have to hold her down while another gets on top of her."
"I don't know, man," said a second mover. "There's a heavy rap for rape."
"But it isn't rape, it just seems like rape. It's part of our little game and she really loves it. . . . here. A hundred bucks for each of you and another hundred each when you finish. Okay?"
Money does have a way of influencing people. Once palms were crossed, doubts evaporated, and the ragged quartet of musclemen, sweaty in their torn tee-shirts, dutifully tramped up the stairs and into the bedroom indicated by Dinnie.
Though hearing their heavy steps in the upstairs hall, Priscilla Witherspoon had not expected the movers to enter her boudoir. Indeed, she had been laid out, slim, prim, a trifle mousy but pretty in her upper-class way, with smooth skin, dainty features, gentle curves, to receive her fiancee in sexual embrace. Now here were these coarse workmen staring at her trim little puss with its almost invisible rim of dewy reddish-blond hairs.
Aghast, she drew herself up into a ball and snatched the sheets about her. The movers shuffled and looked awkwardly at their heavy-booted feet. "I think you have the wrong room," declared the girl as firmly as she could with a tremulous voice.
The movers looked at one another uncertainly. Dinnie slid through the door to join them. "Dins-more," cried his fiancee. "These men seem to be lost. Could you tell them where they are supposed to be?"
"They are supposed to be right here."
"I don't understand."
"I have instructed them to give you the jazzing of your life. I consider it a necessary part of your education, certainly as much so as a year at Miss Luther's or a tour of European museums."
"Dinnie! You wouldn't!"
But his fiendish grin told her that he would indeed.
"I don't like this, mister. It don't smell right." It was the leader of the movers, a very tall man who seemed a bit older than the others, though it was hard to tell how old the black one was.
Dinnie looked reproachful. "What's the matter with you guys? Are you chicken?"
"It don't smell right. She don't seem like that kind of a girl."
"Don't you like that hundred bucks I gave you?"
"Sure, but-"
"And wouldn't you like another hundred? Of course you would. But you're going to have to do something for it. This country is getting too soft--everybody wants something for nothing. Well, damn it, if you want that extra hundred you're going to have to work for it"
Dinnie, who could be quite shrewd in his manipulation of others, could sense that he had touched on a vein of guilt. He pursued it. "Don't tell me that none of you are man enough."
A powerfully built little Italian fellow stepped forward. "Nobody can say I can't get it up any time I feel like it. I'm always ready, man, always"
"Prove it!" advised Dinnie.
The Italian advanced promptly to the bed, but was repelled by a blow in the face from one of Pussy's dainty feet. His reaction was to seize and pin down the wriggling, kicking girl, but despite his great advantage in strength, she was quite a handful, and it was all he could do to keep her subdued, much less attempt further sexual advances.
The fellow glanced about in mute appeal to his comrades, who responded with assistance as they would in helping him struggle with a particularly bulky object. A strong-armed mover took one side of Pussy, an arm and a leg, thus both pinning her firmly on her back and opening her up invitingly for entry. "Okay Rocco," he grunted, "she's all yours."
Rocco slipped a soiled paw into her tender snatch and found it moist, even slippery; she had indeed been waiting for her lover. In no time he whipped out his cock which, though stubby, was exceedingly thick and, as good as his word, rock-hard. Priscilla tried to scream but she was not by nature a screamer; besides, she knew that any outcries, no matter how piercing, would be muffled in the thick-walled old house. The cock was forcing its way inside her. She appealed with desperately imploring eyes to her fiancee, but young Galavan only smiled sweetly, quite pleased with the little scene he had engineered.
Her eyes could only loll back swooningly as Rocco, heating to his primal task, accelerated his thrusts, his thickly-haired chest scratching the Ponds complexion of her delicate breasts. Feeling his mounting excitement, she closed her eyes and let it happen, let the sweating workman come inside her with his thick spurts of semen, even permitting herself a tinge of pleasure though being careful not to show it.
A second mover mounted her, pressing a heavy beer-belly into her dimpled tummy but displaying a tool longer than Rocco's and just as rock-hard. Priscilla should have been repelled by his sweating bulk and his beery breath, but she found it all strangely exciting. Involuntarily, but not quite perceptibly, she moved her own bottom counter to his rhythmic thrusts; then, abandoning all restraints, threw up her slim but shapely legs and wrapped them about the man, pulling him into her, and when he came, she came right with him.
Dinnie, having drawn a chair close to her bed for a ringside seat, smiled encouragingly. "Atta girl. You're getting into the spirit now."
"Are we through yet?" she inquired with a whimper.
"Not at all-you're just getting warmed up." Dinnie turned to the black man. "Your turn."
"Listen, man, I don't want no rape charge."
"Don't worry."
"You sure it's okay."
"Be my guest."
"Oh no!" gasped Priscilla as she saw the size of the black's tool: it was far larger than any she had seen, and she very much doubted she could accommodate it. Indeed, everyone viewed the fellow's entry with studious interest. Curiosity consumed even Priscilla, though it was her own body that was the subject of the anatomical experiment.
The black man gently eased his huge knob into the outer gates. When the girl proved able to handle that much, he pushed in another inch, and then another until, stage by gradual stage, the entire length was buried inside, aided by the lubrication of the sperm already deposited.
"How does it feel?" Dinnie inquired solicitously.
"Aaagh," gurgled the girl in a small, choked voice. "Aaaarrrrgh. Ahaaaaaaarrrghhhhhhh."
Encouraged, the black man slid it out, then in again, out, in, out, in, finding a rhythm, beginning to pump now as his own excitement rose.
"Oh!" gasped Pussy. "Oho, aha, oh, oh, oh yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, don't stop, don't stop, now, now, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME AAAARRRRRGHHHH!"
She kicked and scratched and cried out, bucking and writhing in crazy abandon as the black fellow fired powerful jets of hot African come deep into her pristine pussy.
"Now don't tell me you didn't like that," beamed Dinnie after his girlfriend had had a chance to catch her breath a bit. She could only respond with a look of glazed satisfaction.
There was no denying that she had been turned on as never before.
Dinnie turned to the fourth and last mover, the tall gangly older one who, though noticed by no one, had moved from standing aloof and disapproving across the room to an attentive ringside seat. "Your turn."
The tall mover wet his lips. "I'm a married man."
"What does that have to do with it?" Dinnie snapped.
"C'mon, man," encouraged the black. "She's real hot now."
"If you don't, I will," said Rocco, who was obviously ready for another round. The tall one frowned. Then the beer-bellied one playfully ripped open the tall one's fly and yanked out his joint which, sure enough, was long and red and hard, though thin. A playful shove and he was in the saddle, his long cock finding its target as if by radar.
A little encouragement was all he needed. Once launched, the gangly man simply went berserk, his bony ass heaving in long strokes as he merrily drove his hot pencil home.
He came rather quickly, but after the shortest pause was hard at it again, pumping even more wildly.
"He just like a big ole hound dog," said the black man, not without admiration or amusement. "He slow gettin' started, but once he start you cain't make him quit."
Indeed, the boss mover, having come again, wanted to go for a third time and would have had Rocco not pulled him off. "Don't be such a pig, Lem, it's my turn again," and the hairy, muscular little fellow was soon fucking Priscilla even more aggressively than before.
She seemed to love it. Indeed, Dinnie, carefully watching her repeated arousals and moaning, thrashing climaxes, found himself, despite his own heavy sexual activity of the preceding night and morning, growing strongly aroused himself.
He felt the familiar tingle in his gut and itch in his gonads, a restless force striving for expression. He took out his tool and massaged it. The troops were rebelling again. Clearly, the sight of his gently reared fiancee being ravished and loving it was a powerful stimulus to him. He stood above her face, flushed with rapture, and frigged away. Then he came, spilling his seed onto her very face, where it clung in thick globs and slid down her pink cheek. She was so immersed in her own sex-play that she scarcely noticed.
But Dinnie was satisfied. He handed each of the men another hundred dollar bill, as he had promised, slipping one into the back pocket of the black man who was now atop Priscilla.
"Take as much time as you like, fellas," he said, ever the thoughtful host. "As you can plainly see, she's having a wonderful time."
Happy at having done his good deed for the day, Dinnie descended the stairs and sat down at his new five-thousand dollar piano. Against the background sounds of clanging bedsprings, grunts, moans and little outcries, he picked out the only tune he knew, "Chopsticks."
CHAPTER THREE
Must take piano lessons some day, Dinnie thought as he tried out various chords on the 5-grand grand. He liked the sound the piano made when certain combinations accidentally proved effective and wondered what he might be doing that made this happen. It had occurred to him that he might indeed possess a definite musical talent. But then came the sobering thought of all those hours of practicing tedious things like scales and learning to read music, all of which had to precede any kind of proficiency. How dreary. Ah well-it was almost as much fun just to diddle around like this.. . .
His fiancee, Pussy Witherspoon, descended the stairs, dressed for the street. Though she had showered and douched thoroughly, and composed herself as well as possible, her pretty, patrician face still betrayed a wild and distraught air.
Dinnie smiled. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Dinnie, you are a perverted beast! You are depraved! To think that you would do such a thing to your own fiancee! It's appalling!"
"Nonsense, my dear, those chaps were simply carried away by your overpowering sex appeal, and I was unable to restrain them."
Pussy shook her head. "Really, you should get psychiatric help."
"But I did, Puss-six years on the couch of the most expensive shrink in the country, a cat who roomed with Freud and referred to him as Siggy, and all I learned was that I really don't want to change, so I might as well quit feeling guilty about the way I am."
"Maybe you should try someone else."
"Aw shit. What for?"
"You can't be happy with yourself the awful way you are."
"But I am, Puss-puss. I think I'm wonderful."
"You're hopeless," the girl scolded. "Do you realize those men raped me? One or another of them was on top of me for two whole hours. It was pure assault, and they just kept doing it. That little Italian fellow must have come four or five times, and he wanted still more but the others said they had to leave and pulled him off. And that colored fellow-wow, I thought he'd split me in half! Damn you, Dinnie-is that any way to treat your fiancee? What a dirty rotten trick!"
"Puss, I was doing you a favor," hummed Dinnie as he diddled a little run on the piano.
"A favor? You've got to be kidding!"
"You should have seen the expression on your face. You were in seventh heaven."
"If I had any expression at all, it was one of resignation," she declared primly. "I gave in to those men only because there was absolutely nothing else I could do."
"I say you enjoyed it."
"No, but you did. You masturbated and came all over my face, you creep!"
"Sure, I admit that I enjoyed watching them do it to you. Why won't you admit that it was even more pleasurable for you?"
"Oh, Dinnie," moaned his fiancee, "why won't you grow up? Why can't we get married and settle down and live a normal life?"
"Because . . . I . . . don't . . . want to," he declared quietly but with a certain emphasis.
"Sometimes you're like a little boy who just has to have his way."
"And I get my way, too."
"You're so selfish!" Pussy stood up, livid.
"What do you mean? I just arranged a nice little party for you."
"Oh Dinnie-you're absolutely hopeless!"
"You said that before."
"Good-byer And the irate young thing huffed out and slammed the door behind her.
Dinnie struck what he hoped was a dramatic chord on the piano, but the notes were jumbled, so the effect was more menacing than he had intended. He wondered about his growing proclivity to voyeurism. Lately he had noticed himself deriving more and more pleasure from witnessing others perform the sex act.
Was that anything to worry about? Probably not. Better simply to indulge himself. Ah, now he knew how he would allay boredom for the rest of the day-he would watch a hard-core pornographic movie somewhere in the midtown area.
The movie he picked was a feature with a simple, functional plot. A college girl chooses, as an assignment on cultural sub-groups for an anthropology course, to investigate people who place dirty classified ads in the underground sex press, such as, "Swinging couple desires to meet attractive young chick with liberal tastes," etc.
The student's research is to answer these ads personally. After her boyfriend fucks her one day, she tells him of her project. He is doubtful, but she insists that it is all in the interest of science.
She phones the swinging couple and arranges to go to their house. After rather stiff introductions, the wife explains that she gets her kicks from watching her husband have sex with another woman. On a large bed, the well-hung young husband fucks the college girl while his sexy-looking wife plays with herself.
After awhile, the wife becomes so aroused that she dives into the group and, in a tangle of arms, legs and organs, proceeds to eat the college girl while the girl sucks the husband's cock. There are other variations: the husband fucking his wife from behind while the wife eats the girl. The girl eating the wife while the husband fucks her from behind. And so on. The episode ends on a closeup of the husband's prodigious ejaculation all over the girl's rather pimply rump.
Another episode is about a father and son who do the girl together in an attempt to overcome the generation gap. In another, a lesbian eats the girl and fucks her with a dildo. And so on and on. Eventually the girl reports to her youthful professor on the progress of her research, and he fucks her too, as well as her girl friend.
The girl who plays the college student has a curvy young body that is extremely exciting despite her pimply ass, and Dinnie Galavan found himself with an enormous, leaking hard-on. In time he noticed that the man seated next to him not only had an erection as well, but also had taken it outside his pants and was slowly jerking himself off.
Dinnie politely offered the man a helping hand and reached over to give his hard organ an added stroke or two, which caused the fellow to come all over Dinnie's hand and wrist
He shook some of the sticky stuff onto the floor, but more of it clung to his skin. Returning a favor, the man wordlessly offered Dinnie a clean handkerchief with which to dab off the remaining come. "Thanks," said Dinnie as he returned the linen, and the two viewed the rest of the film in silence.
The movie concluded with the obligatory orgy, a confusing melange of cocks pumping into upturned bottoms, tongues lapping slits, mouths sucking cocks, closeups of spurting orgasms, and so on.
At last it was over; the lights went up, and a dozen or so embarrassed salesmen and other business types furtively slunk out with their newspapers, briefcases and raincoats. Dinnie watched them with amusement; it did not occur to him to be embarrassed.
Out on the street, Dinnie decided that this was the best movie he had seen in some time. Pornography was good, clean fun, but there was nothing like the real thing, and having been properly stimulated, he was ready for another bout of the latter.
Remembering that he still had the suite at the Plaza, having taken it for a week, he walked up to the hotel and stationed himself outside its 59th street entrance.
A pretty young thing approached. She looked like a secretary from Queens, perhaps a Catholic girl, even a virgin. Just to be devilish, Dinnie muttered, "Eatyourcunt?" as she passed. The girl gasped and broke into a frightened run.
In the same playful spirit he repeated the request to an elderly matron, who blinked incredulously and moved on in great confusion. Then came a serious prospect, a real dish. "Eatyourcunt?" With no hesitation, the dish hauled off and whacked Dinnie smartly across the cheek and, scarcely breaking stride, moved on.
Our hero winced at the blow, but did not change his expression of bland amusement, and came right back as if nothing had happened at the approach of a well-dressed woman who was obviously well into her forties but interestingly buxom. "Eatyourcunt?"
The woman proceeded for a stride or two, then paused and looked back coyly. "Did I hear you right?"
"You certainly did, madam," said Dinnie with a courtly bow. "I would like to have the pleasure of licking you all over, but especially you-know-where."
"My goodness!" beamed the lady. "That's the nicest thing I've heard all day. Where shall we go, your place or mine?"
Dinnie Galavan lay gasping and panting, head resting between the generously cushioned thighs of the matron who had cheerfully admitted to forty-eight years and could have been older. His flushed face was sopping with sweat and the slime of her bottom; the muscles of his neck arched from long straining in a contorted position, and he suffered from tired tongue. It was his earnest wish that this last effort of his would satisfy the lady. God knows he had tried.
"Mmmmmm, that was good" purred the lady. "You're a good lover. You really know how to please a woman."
Dinnie rolled over onto his back and lit a cigarette. "Are you always like this, Ma'am?" he asked.
"Well, you know how it goes. A woman reaches her peak of interest in sex just as her husband is starting to lose his."
"Doesn't your husband fuck you?"
"Oh yes, but not very often. Once a week, tops. I think he sees a call girl from time to time. Which wouldn't bother me at all except that I wish he'd conserve what little he has for me."
"Why don't you take on a lover?"
"Oh, you know, it gets complicated and I don't really know how to go about finding one. I mean, what do you do, just go up to some attractive man on the street and say, 'I'd like you to be my lover'? "
"Why not?"
"It just seems so tacky. One has one's dignity . . . but then when you propositioned me on the street-well, that was just what I was waiting to hear."
"Music to your ears, eh."
"Mmmmmm-hmmmmm. Tell me, do you think I'm sexy."
"Sure."
"Really."
"Uh-huh."
"It doesn't bother you that I'm older and a little heavy?"
"You have good skin and you're heavy in the right places. I dig that. I like a woman with a full ass and thighs. You're also nice and horny."
"You make me feel horny."
"Oh-oh."
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing, except I'm a little depleted."
"A young man like you?"
"Well, I had a pretty busy night last night, too. Balled the whole night through. And now you, with your insatiable demands."
"Oh come on, lover, you can get it up just once more, can't you?"
"I don't know."
"I'll make you," she declared playfully and dove for his flabby cock. Methodically, purposefully, she began to work him over. First a busy tongue at his anus, then a gentle mouth massage for his balls, then sucking and licking his inert member back to life.
Growing aroused herself, she shifted her broad bottom so it was poised above his face. With a small sigh, he stared up into the sopping, heavily lipped, hairy-rimmed pink slit set amid a sea of spongy white flesh. It lowered down onto him. There was nothing he could do but put his mouth and tongue back to work, but her response to his frantic lapping was to grind the whole mess down harder until poor Din had to fight for air.
Nevertheless, the double stimulation was having its effect and he began to stiffen. At this, the woman pulled herself off his face and, still facing away, impaled herself on his cock, moving her big ass up and down to create the necessary motion. The sight was erotic to Dinnie, who liked big asses, and he felt a familiar tingle deep in his gut.
It grew more urgent, and for the first time Dinnie felt that he might be actually able to make it again. He rose up and took the offensive, holding the woman firmly by the belly and driving his big tool home from the dog-fashion position, his tummy pressing into her heavy rump as he thrust in to the hilt, his balls slapping smartly.
Only a straggling few troops remained down in the stockade, but they fought to rise up and out. It was a long, uphill battle, but Dinnie pumped away resolutely and at last could feel them within reach of the top. It was a challenge to get them over. He struggled and sweated and pumped harder in a mad race between triumph and heart attack-and at last achieved his goal, spurting feebly but with a delicious itchy tingle of release. The woman gasped and contracted with yet another orgasm of her own.
Some moments later, after respiration had subsided somewhat, Dinnie gasped, "There-I hope you're satisfied."
"Oh yes, darling. You performed magnificently. Oh God yes."
"That's good, because I'm afraid I've definitely had it. There's just no way I can make it again."
"That's all right. You did very well and I have to leave now anyway. Got to fix dinner for my husband."
Happily humming and singing to herself, the woman showered, dressed in her expensive Bergdorf dress, bent down to give Dinnie a wet farewell kiss, and pressed into his hand her phone number written on a match wrapper.
"Do call me, will you?"
"Sure, sure."
She pressed a fifty dollar bill into his hand. "I'llmake it worth your while." And before the stunned Dinnie could reply, she winked and went out the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Would you care for a glass of sherry?"
"No thank you, father, I don't drink."
"Dinsmore, why do you he to me? I know you drink. Much too much for your own good, if you ask me. Yet you he. Why?"
Dinnie Galavan examined his expensive Florentine pumps. A warming blaze crackled in the huge fireplace. "In that case, Dad, I will have a little drink."
"Sherry?"
"No. Scotch. I'll make it." Dinnie stood at the bar in such a way that his body shielded his glass from his father's disapproving eye. This way, he could pour himself a more than generous slug of Scotch, then just a dash of soda, instead of the other way around. He really needed a stiff drink when facing his parents, as he had to do from time to time.
"I keep getting these reports," old Grover Gala-van went on. "Not only about your drinking, but about other things."
"What, Dad?" Dinnie was the innocent wrongly suspected. "What other things?"
"Your sex life, damn it."
"Priscilla Witherspoon is a very nice girl, as you know. Of course we do engage in pre-marital sex on occasion; but so does everyone else these days and I do intend to marry her in time."
"Of course Priscilla is a fine girl-I know her family well. And that's one of the things I mean-you should be more considerate of her. If she is your fiancee, your unsavory reputation reflects poorly on her. It also reflects poorly on me and your mother."
"Unsavory reputation?"
"You know damned well what I mean, Dinnie. Those orgies you stage."
"Orgies?"
"Those parties you have where everyone takes off their clothes and goes off into a bedroom, or does it right out in the open with others watching. I've even heard that you bring in animals to copulate with women. That's sodomy, lad, sodomy!"
"Where did you hear this nonsense?"
"I suppose you'll try to deny it."
"Where did you hear these stories?"
"I have my sources."
"You have your spies."
"Dinsmore," his father sipped thoughtfully at his sherry, "I believe I have a right to know something of your activities."
Tm thirty years old, Dad. Can't I lead my own life?"
Td be glad to let you, if only you'd be a bit more discreet. There's the Galavan name to consider. I don't wish it besmirched."
"The Galavan name? Grandpa was a robber baron, and I'll bet you've had your hand in a few shady deals."
"Dinsmore!" Galavan senior barked. "That will be enough of this! Quite enough!"
"It's true, isn't it?"
"It may be true that my father stepped on a few toes on his way up. But that's exactly why I've been so concerned with philanthropy."
"And a few other things."
The senior Galavan's eyes clouded. "Son," he said softly, "I'm sure you never give much thought to the source of your income. Perhaps you should."
"Are you threatening to take my holdings away?"
"The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away."
Dinnie's heart sank. When the old man started quoting the Bible, it was a bad sign. Evidently his threat was serious. With a shudder, Dinnie considered, as he rarely did, the horrors of a life without an endless quantity of money. It was so nice having untold millions, and besides, he was used to it. More to the point, he was unused to anything else. Being broke or having to get a job, of course, was utterly unthinkable, but even limits on his income was a frightening prospect. He decided to humor the old man.
"Perhaps I have been a little wild, Dad."
"I was hoping you'd see it that way. Certainly it's time that you begin to take life more seriously."
"How?"
"I had in mind that you might do something with one of my companies."
Dinnie gagged, bit his tongue, and felt distinctly faint. "What?" he managed to say. "What could I do? I have no experience and no-ah-training." He gulped down his Scotch and shakily poured another.
"You had the most expensive education money could buy. If that isn't training-"
"But-I don't know anything."
"For once I agree. But you could learn."
"What?" Dinnie had to steady himself against the mantelpiece.
"Well, if you have any gifts, they might be in dealing with people. I was thinking you might do well in personnel."
"Personnel?"
"Talking to people about jobs."
"I don't know a bloody thing about jobs."
"But you know people, boy-that's the thing." Grover Galavan placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I know you've got good stuff in you, lad. Now let's go to dinner."
The two entered the dining room where a fine roast had already been laid at the head of the table. The butler was carving it expertly. From another door, Dinnie's mother and sister, Stacey, entered. He gave them each a dutiful peck and assisted his mother into her chair, for which she rewarded him with a frosty smile.
Then he sat down himself, though what his father had said had quite taken away his appetite. How could he divert the old coot to get him off this insane idea that he, Dinnie, ought to go to work, of all the silly, unlikely, distasteful, horrifying things? His brain raced, trying to think of perfectly sound reasons why, much as he might like to work, it would be impossible for him to do so.
"Dinsmore, will you have asparagus?"
He looked up at his mother. She gestured at something beyond his left shoulder. It was the maid holding the platter of asparagus. What's more, it was a new maid, hired since his last visit, and she was not only young and most fetching, but one of her very ample breasts threatened to fall right out of her starched black blouse. Dinnie gasped.
"Well, don't keep Marie waiting-are you having asparagus."
"Oh-I'm sorry."
"Marie, this is Mr. Galavan Junior." The girl gave a slight bow and smiled demurely. "Marie has just come over from France, Dins-more."
"Oh-how nice." He seized the still proffered asparagus fork, but in his nervousness brushed it off the platter onto the carpet. "Oh, oh-I'm sorry."
He started to lean over to pick up the fallen fork, then had a better idea: let her do it. That's what servants are for.
Slyly he watched her retrieve the fork, for which he was richly rewarded; in the squat position, her fine rump spread hugely.
He could vividly picture it, and practically even smell it, poised just an inch above his avid mouth and hungry tongue.
His appetite returned in a rush, but not for roast beef.
CHAPTER SIX
"Embrace-moi, ma chere Marie, je t'aime beau-coup, vraiment!"
But young Dinsmore was on fire and would not be deterred; he had not had sex in five whole days and his cock was bursting. Desperately, he pressed and rubbed it into the maid's lower belly as he forced her against the sink in the butler's pantry, the cook and butler having already retired. But the girl was strong and managed to escape his grip long enough to dash through the door into the kitchen, where Dinnie brought her down, rather roughly, having been a linebacker in prep school.
When he looked down into her panicked eyes, however, he realized how brutally he was behaving and determined to draw back to a more civilized approach, assisted her gently onto her feet and mumbled, "Je regrette, je m'excuse un mille fois, pardon.. . . "
"Je comprends, Monsieur," murmured Marie, who indeed did understand something of her powerful sexual attraction, having left her village in France mainly because every male there was pursuing her so avidly as to make her continued residence untenable. They had hung around like dogs about a bitch in heat, until Marie had opted for the larger vistas of America.
Now she brushed off her maid's uniform and smiled timidly, which only quickened Dinnie's already rapid pulse, but he determined to control himself and extracted a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket.
"Tu comprends cent dollars?"
"Oui, oui."
"Voila, je te donne." He handed the bill to her, but Marie, in accepting it, only looked puzzled. "C'est pour toi, ma chere, seulement toi."
"Pourquoi, Monsieur?"
"Je voudrais manger ton.. . ton . .
"Comment? Je ne comprends pas.. . . "
Dinnie's prep school French was hopelessly inadequate to express the depth and complexity of his emotion. With a choked gurgle he again attempted to embrace the French girl whose backward motion was not quick enough to escape the young master's grasp. Again she found herself pinned against a counter, a bristling hard-on pressed to her belly as her pretty face was smothered in passionate, wet kisses and tonguings. What was worse, his urgent cock was now outside his pants, bobbing and drooling.
"Mais non! Mais non!" she cried, fighting for air.
"Mais oui, mais oui!"
"Pas ici, monsieur, s'il vout plait." It had occurred to her by now that they might be interrupted; the young master with his prick out could cause her to lose her job and perhaps her working visa. "Pas icir
Enlightenment dawned on young Dinnie. Loosening his grip, he pointed upstairs. "La haut?"
The girl sighed. It seemed the only way to deal with this young madman. "Oui, la haut."
"A ton chambre?"
"Oui," she said wearily. Her bedroom, though small, was at least private and adjoined no other; more, the walls of the old house were thick.
Ascending the narrow back stairs to the servant's quarters just behind the French girl, Dinnie was beside himself with excitement, for his eyes and nose were only inches away from her magnificent rump, which was churning impressively with the effort of climbing.
As he stared at it, drooling, the effect was hypnotic. At last he could stand it no longer-he grabbed her, threw up her skirt, yanked down her panties, and bit into that marvelous creamy flesh, sucking as much as possible into his eager mouth.
The girl emitted a helpless little cry but attempted no struggle that might attract attention. Voraciously, Dinnie sucked, licked and burrowed until he found the magnet that so powerfully drew him.
With a moan of sheerest pleasure, he orally attacked the musky but delicious tasting, softly-haired, slippery little slit, slurping in his insane effort to penetrate into the peasant girl's very insides with his head and mouth. He could not succeed, of course, but the very enthusiasm of his labors were bound to evoke some response, and did. Young Marie was now beginning to feel a not unpleasant tingle of her own.
It was a bit like the time she had been ravaged for three days in a loft by the half-witted stable boy, or when she had been raped in the field by her Uncle Francoise. A strange feeling, but exciting in a way she could not quite understand.
Now the young master ceased his crazed eating of her bottom, and inserted his cock which she noted was quite long and hard, and soon he was pumping it home from the dog-fashion position so violently-smack! smack! smack!-as to create a rather noisy commotion on the creaky back stair.
"Mais non! Mais non!" cried Marie. "Pas ici! Pas encore!"
But it was too late. Dinny fired his seed; the girl felt it being injected deep inside her in a succession of warm spurts. Then she felt his tool soften and slip out, the slime he had pumped into her drooled down her thigh. At last the young master relaxed his vise-like hold on her and she was able to extricate herself. She could be rid of him now, she supposed, but by now she did not want to be. She wondered if the lad might be good for another go-round.
"Encore?" she inquired sweetly.
Dinnie, still flushed and panting, looked up and nodded; then pulled up his pants and followed her on up the stairs and into her tiny room, already feeling a stirring of anticipation of another sex bout, this one hopefully less frenetic and more deliriously prolonged.
He watched quietly as she shook herself out of her maid's uniform, noting with deep satisfaction her smooth white skin, her lovely full breasts, the boldly precipitous curves of a body that God must have constructed specifically to drive men insane. He watched her squat down over a pan of water, an improvised bidet, and wash out her magnificent spreading bottom with globs of semen still dangling from it. So raptly attentive to all this was Dinnie that he scarcely noticed that his prick had once again grown rock-hard, throbbing with his pulse beat.
Marie saw it, however, and shifted off the bidet pan and into a kneeling position, her beautiful big ass directed enticingly at the male in heat, just as she had seen farm animals do. She wiggled a bit, as an added signal, and in no time at all he straddled atop and behind her again, entering her from the rear in the manner of stallions, dogs and billy goats, and fucked her with long and vigorous strokes.
It was Marie's observation that of all the barnyard animals, the human male most resembled the billy goat, and it didn't seem to much matter whether the male was French or American. Once they got inside you they were all alike. Closing her pretty dark eyes and purring inside, Marie abandoned herself to pleasure. Whatever was being done to her, it certainly felt good. Part of the pleasure came from the knowledge that her humble body possessed the power to create such a mad excess of lustful energy in a man; another part was the sensation of that long, hard, slippery thing plunging in and out, making her more slippery, making her feel more.. . more . . . more.. . .
On Dinnie's part, there was the sensation of his long shaft driving in to the hilt, like a sword sheathed in a tight, grasping but smooth cunt as his tummy pressed again and again upon the broad, fleshy rump-it was all so excruciatingly pleasurable that he wanted it to last forever; yet he could feel the troops rising again, insanely provoked by the extreme sexuality of the French peasant girl, soon to rise up and disperse themselves, unless. . . .
The image of the dining room returned: the broad bottom with its dark-rimmed glistening pink slit poised just above his face and tongue. He wanted that now! And in a sudden, convulsive motion he withdrew his shining sword, fell back onto the floor, then whirled about to where his face was positioned under that very bottom.
Have to slow down now, he thought; just look at it a moment . . . ummmmmm, yes, yes . . . now raise up a bit and sniff . . . ahhhhh . . . yes, musky, even a bit pungent, but not bad, not bad . . . now just touch it with the tongue, diddle it a bit . . . . ahhhhh, ah ah ah ah ahhhh, alalalalalalalala . . . . ummmnnn nm nm nm nm nm nm nmnm nm nm nm nmmmm, ahhhhhhh.. . .
He couldn't hold back any longer. With a helpless moan Dinnie pulled the mass of spongy flesh down onto his devouring mouth, masochistically smothering himself in its slimy wetness . . . ala la la la la la la . . . urn nm nm nm nm nm.. . . . burying himself in dark animal lusts.
Marie felt the strange pleasure increasing inside her. The tongue was not the same as the cock; but in a way it was almost better, the way it licked and scrounged all about down there, even lapping at her anus! And the lips and mouth, kissing and sucking! Why did men take pleasure in such things? Well, animals licked one another, didn't they-why not men?
And why not women? Marie had come a long way since the convent school. In the past two or three years since her body had ripened to its present fullness, she had learned many things whose existence she had previously not even suspected. Strange, exciting things-an accelerated, force-fed extra-curricular education. She remembered when the butcher's apprentice had caught her behind the poplars-oo la la! And the Mayor, with his pince-nez, behaving exactly like a billy-goat, even to the bleating cries.. . .
Indeed, why shouldn't women lick like farm animals? That long, hard, slippery thing of his was bobbing right in front of her face, taunting her. Why not reach out with her tongue and-touch it. There. Tastes salty, but.. . hmmmmm.
She ran her tongue ever so gently about the reddish rim of it, wondering if it was tickling him. Then, experimentally, she took the head of it in her mouth. That wasn't so bad, so she took in a little more, sucking and tonguing just a little. Why not swallow it? Well, she couldn't, quite, but-with her full wet lips she could feel the instrument pulsing wildly, and-the poor girl almost choked as the thick warm fluid shot into her gullet
What to do with this mouthful of guck? Swallow it? Spit it out? There was no precedent in her experience. She decided to spit it out and did so in her sink, going down on the tap for water to cleanse out her mouth.
It was a first for her. Uncle Francoise had tried to get her to do it to him, but she had resisted.
Actually, it was pleasurable enough, though in a way different still than any sensation she had yet felt. The only thing wrong was, although his sucking and tonguing had brought her close, she still needed a little more, just a little more, to get over the hump.
And she knew just how to get it. Again she kneeled down on all fours, her big rump directly facing and enticing the young man. Marie felt confident that if he couldn't get his cock up again so soon, he would at least oblige her with his mouth. A polite son of aristocracy could do no less.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Where did you go last night, Dinsmore."
"Nowhere, Mother. Why."
"Well, shortly before midnight I came in to give you a good-night kiss, but you weren't in your bedroom."
"Oh yes, that's right-I was restless and took a walk. Into town, as a matter-of-fact. But after New York City I call that nowhere."
"But your bed was still unmade this morning, dear."
"Yes I know. I took a long walk, a very long walk. I was very restless."
"You do look tired."
"I am."
"And I do worry about you, dear. You keep such strange hours, and have such strange habits."
'Tm just not used to the country, Mums. All that quiet and the crickets at night unnerve me. I'd be more comfortable listening to taxi horns and huge trucks shifting gears and screams in the night. That's why I think I'll go back today, so I can get some sleep."
"Well, I suppose that's the way they do things these days."
"Yes, I'm really much healthier in the city."
"How about your diet? Are you getting enough roughage?"
"Roughage?"
"Raw carrots, lettuce, that kind of thing."
"Lettuce? Oh sure, I eat salads."
"Good. Make sure you get at least some roughage every day, then you'll be all right. And take a vitamin pill anyway, just in case."
"I will, Mums. Promise."
"Good boy. Now give your Mummy a little kwee-kwee."
Dinsmore dutifully rose to give his mother a chaste and arid peck, with the same lips that had so ravaged Marie, who happened to enter the dining room just at that moment, bringing in his bacon and eggs.
As she leaned over to pour, Dinnie noted again her almost too-large breasts-grand boobs that would have made her top-heavy except that they were balanced so nicely by her wide, sturdy hips, full thighs and plump rump. Those grand boobs, to one of which he had fastened himself like a suckerfish while atop her, frontally, during his third screw of the night before, a fuck that took much longer and was only consummated after much sweaty effort, their bodies smacking wetfy together, but was not, withal, the last coupling of their memorable bed-bout.
The memory, so recent, stirred him anew-the memory of your mammary, he mused-but fucked dry and sore as he was, he knew he'd best stick to his plan of returning to the city. As Marie bowed back into the pantry, they exchanged a smile fraught with veiled meaning; he knew this was not the last he would see of this French sex-pot.
After breakfast, Dinnie went to say bye-bye to his sister Stacey. "Sorry we didn't get to talk more, Stace, but how are things at the funny farm?"
"A thousand shrouds of loud clouds."
"I know that. But how are they treating you?"
"Never say die, just cry and sigh 'My, oh my.. . . My, oh my."
"I mean, at two-hundred bucks a day they ought to take good care of you. I assume you have at least one session a day with a registered Freudian."
"Toidy on Freudian."
"I agree completely; they take forever. But at least they're more or less legitimate, not like some of the new crackpots. Anyway, when is your leave up?"
"Leave? Believe achieve reprieve."
"You're staying? Not going back."
"Dopeless but hopeless."
"You're a hopeless case? Well, that's all right-I like you the way you are." He tried to kiss her sweetly on the forehead, but she bussed him on the mouth, hotly inserting her tongue, meanwhile grabbing his limp and weary cock.
"Pee-pee me! Pee-pee me!"
"No, Stace-we aren't children any more. No more fucking-if s a no-no. People don't understand-ouch!"
It was necessary for Dinnie to use all his strength to loosen her grip on his poor overworked cock.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Hey hey HEY!" the bartender beamed and extended a welcoming hand, "Dinnie baby!"
For him, it was incredible good fortune to see, on a slow weekday afternoon in the Village's 86 Club, the lone customer in all of lower Manhattan who ever tipped more than a dollar. The fabulous Dinnie Galavan often would have no more than a drink or two yet leave a fifty or even hundred dollar bill on the bar. No wonder he was so well liked.
"Pousse cafe," said Dinnie.
"With pleasure!" If anyone else had ordered an exotic drink involving the careful pouring, in careful order, of various colored cordials and liqueurs. . . . ! But it was Dinnie, so it was okay.
Dinnie glanced down the bar. It was the usual motley gathering, an ex-seaman, a beached ad man, a once-pretty, now toothless, broad, a nighttime bartender having his first ale of the day, a black sometime housepainter, and in the corner a runty little fellow who was evidently spastic.
Dinnie had seen the others before, but the spastic interested him. Dinnie, though grossly over-privileged, or perhaps because of this, felt strong sympathy at times for those who had been dealt a cruel blow by fate. No doubt guilt was a factor here, for Dinnie, despite occasional good intentions, never did get around to donating a portion of his considerable fortune to charity. Every time he thought of doing so, something distracted him. His charity, such as it was, tended to be first-hand and direct
"Drinks for everyone," he told Red, the bartender, who quickly refilled everyone's order. The spastic, who had a martini, tried to thank Dinnie, but couldn't quite get the words out. Instead, he ventured a twisted smile and tried to wave, but struck himself on the temple with an angry grunt. He took his first long sip of the martini by leaning over the bar; then, with great deliberation and two shaking hands, lifted the glass to his lips.
As the jukebox boomed muddily, Dinnie kept sneaking guarded glances, through the Lysol-flavored smoke, at the little fellow in the corner, fascinated by the choreography of his jerky little movements. Though the light in the corner was very dim, it became increasingly apparent that there was a purpose behind the quick little movements.
In a flash, Dinnie perceived it: the spastic was masturbating! Indeed, he obviously attained a climax, with a great yawn which the bartender interpreted as a signal for another martini. The spastic rose and made his shaky way to the John, no doubt to clean himself off.
After the man returned, Dinnie, who had also paid for the most recent martini, sought to join him, and introduced himself.
"K-k-k-k-k-k--. . . . " the spastic said in reply.
Red intervened. "Dinnie, this is Karl Stark. He has a little trouble sometimes, you dig, in talking."
"That's perfectly all right, Karl," said Dinnie holding the shaking hand. "We all have our little problems, but you're among friends, so relax and tell me all about yourself."
Karl Stark was immensely flattered that anyone would want to know all about him, for no one before had ever asked, and he sincerely wished to tell his story in detail. To do so required great effort and patience on the part of his auditor, but after two hours and several more martinis, he managed at least to sketch out the broad outlines.
It seems that Karl, besides his obvious difficulty with motor functions, was also plagued with the problem of being fantastically over-sexed. In order to function even in his minimal way, it was necessary for him to masturbate several times a day, and also take tranquilizers. But since he was allergic to tranquilizers, his doctor had suggested martinis.
What was worse, the tensions resulting from his over-sexed condition were, in all likelihood, compounding his spasticity, and it was even possible, on the other hand, that his spasticity was contributing to his over-sexedness. A vicious circle; yet one that might be broken, at least enough to bring some blessed relief, if only the poor fellow could have a normal sexual outlet-a woman.
But of course what woman would want a spastic for a lover?
"And th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-th-that's my s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sad story," concluded Stark glumly, slumping even lower on his stool.
"Karl, don't you dare get discouraged-I think I can help you!" Dinnie declared with conviction, reinforcing his assertion by clapping the little fellow heartily upon his bony shoulders, but the force of this knocked Stark forward where his head fell onto the bar. He promptly passed out.
"You can start helping by getting him home," said Red, remembering whom he was talking to and added, "Never mind, m handle it, Dinnie."
"No, no, Red-I'll take him to my place."
Dinnie left a couple of hundred, for he had been in the bar longer than usual, and with Red's assistance got the spastic into a cab, then to his town house, where he gave the fellow a bedroom all his own.
He called a strikingly attractive young woman of his acquaintance whose business was selling her favors to whomever, within reason, was willing and able to pay a rather high price for them.
"Hedda, I have an unusual request for you."
"Oh no-not another one of those, Dinnie."
"I'm afraid this one's an even more difficult case to crack. An over-sexed spastic."
"Dinnie, I pride myself on being a real pro. In fact, if I do say so, I'm damned resourceful. And flexible, if the price is right. But this? I don't know, baby. Wouldn't you settle for a nice little slit-up for yourself? We haven't balled in weeks."
"No Hedda, this man needs help. It's doctor's orders. And I'm counting on you to do the job. If anyone can do it, you can."
Hedda sighed. "Okay, how much is in it."
"I'll give you a thousand just to try, and two grand if you can get him off at least three times."
"Three times."
"Sure, he's a freak."
"Dinnie, you know the weirdest people."
Karl Stark was awakened the next day, in a strange but expensively furnished bedroom, by a ravishing brunette clad only in a filmy negligee. What's more, she was unzipping his pants!
"Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-wh?"
"Don't try to talk, dear. Just let me have my way with you-please, darling," she massaged his lower tummy.
"Aaaaghhh?"
"You see, I have a weakness for men of your type, and when Dinnie told me you were here-well, I just couldn't help myself, I had to come. . . . let's see what you've got here. Oh wow!"
Even soft, the spastic's cock was impressively large, laying across his belly like a dead flounder. Hedda's mouth fell open. She had seen many a male organ in her day, but damned few, maybe none, of this dimension. It was, frankly, more than she had bargained for. And frankly, she didn't know which if any of her orifices might be able to accommodate it. Nevertheless, failure was a word alien to her vocabulary; she would find a way.
While speculating how best to proceed, she idly stroked the thing and watched it, to her horror, unravel into still greater lengths. At last it stood up, strong and stiff and proud. What to do with it?
Well, she could always do a little strip act Dinnie had briefed her that his friend had never been with a woman, so this would turn him on but good. Slowly she raised up her negligee, to reveal slowly her trimly curved body: gently tapered legs and thighs; her luscious cunt its hair unusually downy for a brunette; her fine white belly; her smallish but exquisitely shaped breasts. She held the negligee over her head for a long, sensuous moment; then threw it off, and found her patient wildly jacking off.
"No, no!" she cried, for Dinnie had specified nothing self-induced, "Save yourself for me, darling." She dove for the thing and tried to stuff its massive knob into her mouth-had to stretch to get even part of it in. She was rewarded by a spurt, then another and another and another, of thick semen, some of which she caught in her mouth, some on her cheek, nose and chin. She swallowed that which was in her mouth and rubbed in that which was upon her face, for she was a notorious sperm freak, having a mystical belief in its nutritive and therapeutic powers.
Only afterward did she wonder if there might be something unhealthy about a spastic's seed, but dismissed the idea as discriminatory and undemocratic, and anyway it was too late now, so she might as well dig it
Licking at its base, she could feel his massive cock begin to stir and stiffen again. This time her technique was to work very slowly up its considerable length with a rapidly vibrating tongue on its pulpy underside. She was barely halfway up when the thing erupted again, this time spurting mostly into her hair, which she gratefully massaged into her scalp-good food for the follicles, she was sure.
Having earned two-thirds of her fee in just a few short minutes, Hedda leaned back on the bed and lit a cigarette. Take a breather while the little fellow recouped his energies. But before she was halfway through her smoke she saw that he was hard again and obviously ready for more action.
Wishing at least to finish the cigarette, she spread her thighs and nuzzled the poor fellow's rather oversized head down between them. Confronted for the first time in his life with a female puss, Karl Stark was enormously excited but unsure of how to proceed.
"Kiss me there, dear," advised Hedda. "I want to feel your tongue."
Karl sniffed tentatively. The odor, faintly musky, was both repellent and enticing. Sensing his ambivalence, Hedda gently drew him closer, to where his mouth was actually pressed into this other orifice which also possessed lips, contained excretions, even had hairs growing about it.
He kissed the outer lips and then French-kissed them, inserting his tongue into the primal maw. A shift of the lady's bottom and a moan from above indicated that this action of his was giving her pleasure and invited more of the same.
Emboldened, the spastic burrowed a bit deeper, bringing lips as well as tongue into play, arousing a higher cry of pleasure from above, and the words, "Oh do it, do it to me, honey!"
So this was how one made love to a woman, thought Karl. It was all right to do this seemingly forbidden thing. It was not only all right, not only sanctioned, acceptable conduct, it was something they liked, and judging from the moans above, loved. All right then, he'd show her! He'd show them all that a spastic was as good as any other man! Nobody loves a spastic, but, ah, how a spastic can love!
It was thus in a spirit of defiance that Stark plunged in still deeper, but the woman's excitement was contagious and soon he became quite caught up in what he was doing. The zest with which he attacked his task escalated until he became virtually uncontrollable. Long pent-up passions and energies unleashed themselves in a fury of frantic slurping and rooting.
Hedda grasped the edge of the mattress, holding on for dear life as the twisted little man ravaged her entire bottom. My God! she thought, in fifteen years of balling I have never been given head like this. The spastic's energy was incredible, and despite herself she spent into his eager mouth and promptly began building to a second orgasm.
Then she remembered the agreement: he had to come again. She drew his panting, flushed head away from the object to which it had become so resolutely fastened. It was difficult to get him off her, but she was determined that his next orgasm be his first by insertion. Somehow she would get that thing inside her.
This proved even more difficult. She had first to show him, by gentle guidance-no easy trick with a crazed person-how to position himself properly for insertion, and then guide his enormous tool through the gates of her labia until it was at least part way inside.
Fortunately, Hedda Hooker, through long practice and the exercise of specific muscles, was indeed flexible. Her vagina could contract to make a tight fit for even a small penis-or expand to accommodate the largest. That it had never been forced to accommodate one the size of Karl Stark's was a challenge from which Hedda, who regarded herself as a true artist at her profession, was not about to back down. With the help of ample lubrication on both sides, she managed to get it in as far as she went, even if not as far as he went. And she was rewarded with a womb-knocking spurting of come, an amazing amount of it considering that the man had spent twice only moments before.
There now. Done and done. The winner and still champion of New York whores and perhaps of the world, she could collect her fee with a clean conscience, for Miss Hedda Hooker, as she called herself, was scrupulously honest.
But Dinnie Galavan didn't need to rely on her word, though he would have done so without question, for he had witnessed the entire performance from the adjoining room, through a cleverly camouflaged viewer specially constructed to satisfy his voyeuristic urges.
Masturbating three times himself with the stimulation of it, he witnessed all this and more, for the day was far from over. Now that he had been introduced to the glories of sex, there was no stopping Karl Stark.
Good trouper that she was, Hedda let him fuck her again, and again. But when the spastic wanted to come right back for still another go at it, she finally had to demur, lest her meal ticket become permanently stretched out of shape. So she gave him a last one by hand and called it a day.
"Well, how was it?" inquired Dinnie (as if he didn't know!) once Hedda, having showered, douched and dressed, at last emerged from the love chamber.
"Oh wow! Your friend is something else."
"Good, eh?"
"Too good. Tm so sore I won't be able to work for a couple of days."
"I'll double your fee. You earned it."
"You aren't just kidding I earned it," said Hedda as she slid the four crisp thousand dollar bills into her panty hose, where the money would be somewhat safer from New York's muggers until she got it to her bank. "Now for a few well-earned days off. Might go to the Virgin Islands."
"Well, thank you for coming. It was a wonderful thing you did."
"I'll do anything, or almost, just so you pay me for it."
"Any time, dear. Because what you've got, Hedda, is something that's becoming all too rare in this country-pride of workmanship."
Shortly after Hedda's departure, Karl Stark emerged, showered and dressed, from the boudoir.
"How do you feel, man?" Dinnie asked pleasantly.
"I-I f-feel great. Just great!" the spastic enthused, and indeed the little fellow was fairly glowing with gratification and pride.
"You look great. And I notice that you're . .
"I'm h-hardly stammering!"
"That's right, by God! The improvement is amazing. Almost miraculous-a story for the Reader's Digest."
"And I f-feel . . . I f-feel-" the spastic groped for words, fluttering his hands awkwardly: despite his new articulateness he could not adequately express a new emotion, but finally it came out in a burst-"I feel like a m-MAN."
"You are a man, man," said Dinnie supportively. "Hedda said you were a great lay."
"H-how can I th-thank you?"
"You don't need to. To see you helped and made happy-that's my reward."
And indeed Karl Stark had become the surrogate for all the cripples and unfortunates of the world whom Dinnie Galavan would like to help and make a little happier, if only he could get around to it.
CHAPTER NINE
"Can you ever forgive me, Priscilla?"
"I'll try, Dinnie-only because I love you. But it was an awful, disgusting, depraved, perverted thing that you did to me. Those awful moving men-one after another!"
"I know. It was insensitive of me. I thought that all you wanted was sex."
"I did want sex-but with you, not just any Tom, Dick or Harry."
"Tom's dick is hairy."
"What?"
"Never mind. Yes, of course I know what you mean. I was trying to do you a favor-but I guess I went about it the wrong way."
"You certainly did!"
"Well, I'm sorry. I truly am. I realize now that I did an awful thing and I'll try not to do it again, and I realize, too, that at times my judgment is not all it should be. In the future I'll try to allow for that, so hopefully there will be no repetition of that unfortunate incident."
His fiancee regarded Dinnie oddly. Was he serious? Apparently he seemed sincere enough. "All right, then," she said softly. "I'll forgive you." And she kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You really can be sweet when you want to be."
"I know. I do have a virtuous side. Just the other day I helped a handicapped person surmount a psychological problem arising from his affliction-and helping him made me feel a better man myself."
"That was kind of you."
"I'd like you to meet him sometime. He's a charming guy-a spastic."
"I've never met a spastic before."
"Yes, you'd like Karl-he's a real person. But tell me something."
"What?"
"When those moving men were violating you-I know you'd rather not think about it, but perhaps it will purge you if you do-when they were doing what they did, didn't you secretly enjoy it just a teeny bit?"
"Oh, Dinsmore!" the girl was piqued at the impertinent question.
"I'm sorry, but it's better if you face these things. I know the whole sordid business was completely contrary to your upbringing and temperament, but we all have a darker side to our nature, and it's best that we face it. So tell me honestly: didn't you derive just a little pleasure, however perverse, from the incident?"
Priscilla looked down, searching her soul. "Well, it was kind of exciting, in a strange way."
"Of course. You must remember when you masturbated in girls' school, and the kind of fantasies you did it to. I mean, weren't the men sometimes big burly truck-driver types?"
"Sometimes."
"I mean, the boys you knew then were all from your own class and terribly sheltered and polite-kind of effete, actually. You must have dreamed of the other kind-rough and physical. True?"
Pussy took off and cleaned her horn-rimmed glasses. Without them she had a rather colorless face, lacking sharp definition about the eyes, so that despite her good bones and delicately pretty features she had a watery look.
"True?" pursued Dinnie.
"Well, yes-I guess you might say so. Call it the attraction of opposites or something, but-well, I suppose each of us has a bit of the animal in us."
"Right," agreed Dinnie gently. "After all these centuries of civilization, all the refinements of manners and customs, all the French and piano lessons, all the careful breeding and grooming, what really turns a man on is a cunt, and what really turns a woman on is a nice big prick. There's just no getting away from that. And no point in trying. So admit it-you liked being raped. You were frightened and horrified, but something inside you dug it. I know-I could see it in your eyes."
"Oh, Dinnie.. . . "
"It's all right. It's nothing to be ashamed of, really. You have nothing to fear except guilt itself. It's true-we're all like that. We're all animals, and that includes you. Not as an upper-class girl who went to the best schools, but as a member of the human race."
The poor thing rested her head on Dinnie's shoulder and in a small voice, through small sobs, admitted-"Yes, it's-I felt terribly unclean afterward. For days, I suffered from this awful guilt feeling. But then one night I had this creamy erotic dream-four big strong sweaty men fucking me, one after the other. My mother was watching, but that only made it more exciting. Eventually I got so excited I came. That woke me up, and I felt very satisfied and wonderful-and relieved that it had only been a dream. Then I realized that even though that had been a dream, it had really happened to me."
"What did you feel then?"
"At first awful. Then I tried to get back to sleep, but I couldn't. I felt inside myself and I was still sopping wet. I realized why-I was hornier than ever. I grabbed my old hairbrush, the one with the big plastic handle, and did myself till I came again."
"And what were you thinking about?"
"I won't tell you."
"Who was the man in your fantasy? Who was fucking you."
"I won't tell you."
"But you were very turned on."
"Yes. Very."
"Does thinking about it now turn you on, make you horny."
"Yes. Yes."
"Do you want to fuck right now."
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"Then start out by going down on me?"
"What?"
"Suck me off."
"Oh, how disgusting!"
"Try it, you'll like it."
"Do people really do that?"
"Oh yes, my dear, they really do," said Dinnie, his manly cock by now bristling strongly outside his pants, bobbing a bit with his pulse, an ooze of soapy lubrication forming at the hole of his pulpy knob. "Come on, darling-it's a way to demonstrate your love for me."
"That thing?"
"It's my love instrument. You kiss my mouth. Why not kiss that."
"Yachhh!"
"It's really beautiful."
"It's ugly."
"Think of it as the erogenous focus of my entire being-where it all comes to a head, so to speak. If you love me there, you love me where it really counts."
Priscilla doubtfully studied the object of his dissertation. To her it seemed nothing but a long, stiff, reddish, glistening thing-nothing pretty about it at all. Massaging the back of her neck, however, he eased her head closer to it, into pecker-head confrontation.
"Come on, dear," he purred-the most low-key persuasion-"just sample it. If you don't like it, you don't have to do anything. But just try it."
Good sport that she was, Pussy reached out a long tongue and just touched the knob, which trembled at the contact and oozed a touch more of that milky, frothy stuff. She tasted it; salty but not unpleasant. She returned to place her pale lips about the circumference of the knob.
God did not strike her dead at this, and she was scarcely aware of the gentle pressure on the back of her neck that forced her another inch down on the pulsing member-such a live thing, she thought, as if it had a life of its own.
A caressing tongue up and down and around aroused a more urgent pulsation. Dinnie's voice became shaky, though still controlled. "Think of it as a cigarette, a cigar . . . draw on it, dear."
She sucked.
And, vibrating into uncontrolled spasms, the thing exploded-and filled her post-debutante mouth with spurt after spurt of sticky, gooey come.
After a stunned moment, she dashed into the bathroom, spat the odious substance into the sink, rinsed her pretty mouth out with water, gargled thoroughly with Lavoris, and returned meekly to the bedroom.
"There now," said Dinnie, looking quite pleasur-ably relaxed as he sprawled on the bed, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"I don't know. It was weird."
"Didn't it turn you on just a little?"
"Well.. . . "
"Don't worry-I'll take care of you. Just give me a few minutes to recover and I'll give you the fuck of your life."
And he did.
CHAPTER TEN
Even a couple of weeks after having done his good deed for Karl Stark, Dinnie Galavan still glowed with righteous satisfaction. He derived real pleasure from being a Good Samaritan, especially when his act of generosity produced such a dramatic improvement.
Now he was intrigued by a further thought. If getting laid for the first time could reduce the spastic's unfortunate stammering, perhaps another, even greater, unleashing of pent-up sexual energies might eliminate this symptom entirely. It might be worth a try.
It was also an excuse for Dinnie to do his favorite thing: throw a big party. And not just any old big party, but one where the guests-liberated people all-felt totally free to indulge in whatever they felt like doing, no matter how outrageous it might seem, even if it meant removing one's clothing, going off into a bedroom with someone other than the person with whom one came, performing the sexual act in front of witnesses-whatever. In other words, an orgy.
He would throw an orgy, with Karl Stark, his newfound pal, as guest of honor.
Now to plan. Dinnie knew several couples he could count on. Most were married people who, having grown tired of monogamous sex, had graduated into group activities, each getting his kicks mainly from watching his partner coupling with someone else.
But these people by themselves, Dinnie knew, made for a rather dull and listless party where the obligatory sex was, on the whole, performed mechanically and without fire. What was needed to liven things up was a catalyst-a beautiful nymphomaniac.
Dinnie looked across the breakfast table at his fiancee, Pussy Witherspoon, reading the Times over her second coffee. How to handle all this with her? Might she make a catalyst? Probably not. How to get her to accept the idea at all?
"Pussy, I'd like you to meet this fellow Karl Stark."
"The spastic? Yes, I'd love to meet him."
"I thought I'd have a little party."
Priscilla lowered her newspaper and regarded him suspiciously. "Couldn't you just have him over for a drink, or a quiet dinner?"
"I had something else in mind . . . " Dinnie recounted the inspiring story of how his ingenuity and generosity had achieved a near-miracle for the unfortunate cripple, and how he hoped that still more of the same might complete the cure.
As eloquent and obviously sincere as Dinnie was in relating this, Pussy remained skeptical. "I think it's just an excuse for you to have an orgy."
"No, no, Puss-it's really the best possible treatment for a case like his."
"You know how I feel about your orgies."
"You don't have to come."
"I should stay away so you can have your way with all those married lovelies while their husbands watch."
"It's not for me, Pussy."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure," he asserted confidently.
"Would you be satisfied just to be an onlooker, and not a participant?" she persisted.
After the merest hesitation, Dinnie agreed to this condition, for he possessed a strong tendency to voyeurism-watching was, to him, almost as good as the doing. So the whole party could be a grand buildup to a sensational screw with his own Priscilla. It was hard to imagine that she would not be similarly stimulated by the goings on.
"All right," he agreed, "I'll just watch."
"And I'll watch you, just to make sure you just watch."
"Fair enough."
Now, that was over. Next step was to start making arrangements. It always gave Dinnie a satisfying sense of being involved, active, busy-one of the doers of society-to make arrangements for a party, lining up the guests; trying to assemble a really creative, swinging group; calling the caterer, the liquor store, musicians if needed, his cocaine connection-the urgency of getting it ah together on a few hour's notice, for Dinnie never planned ahead. His party always took place the very same night he thought of it, yet so famous were his gatherings in Manhattan's swinging circles that he never had trouble rounding up enough bodies. An invitation to a Dinnie Galavan party was a distinction equal to, if somewhat different from, one to a Truman Capote affair.
First he called three or four uptown couples who were not only "beautiful people" but central to the orgy scene, and told each to bring one or two more couples-the right kind of people, of course, you understand. They understood.
Now for the catalyst. Dinnie's first thought was the ever-reliable Hedda Hooker.
"Hedda, I'm having a little party tonight-a you-know-what-kind of party. Do you want to be the life of it?"
"Oh, Dinnie-I'd simply love to-you know how much I dig orgies-but I'm afraid I have to work a convention tonight. A thousand bucks just for taking on a few butter-and-egg men."
"If it's the money, I'll be glad to . .
"No, that isn't it, really. I'm doing it for a John of mine who's one of my very best clients. I feel obliged to give him good service. It's my damned Puritan streak."
"Your silly hang-up with the work ethic."
"I know, it's awful. I'd much rather come to your party where I could eat the wives while their husbands are fucking me-that's my idea of a good time-but I'm afraid I'm stuck with trying to help a lot of middle-aged drunks get it up."
"What a drag."
"It's a challenge. But if I can get them all off early enough, I'll try to come by."
"Do. We'll be going late, I'm sure. And say, can you think of anybody else who might act as a sort of catalyst?"
"Hmmmm. Come to think, yes. I was at a party last week where there was this beautiful, big, super-sexy redhead who was absolutely mad for sex-she took on anybody and everybody."
"Including you?"
"Including me. Yum-yum-she tasted good! Anyhoo, her name is Cynthia Hornaday and she said she's in the book."
Dinnie was able to reach Miss Hornaday who, knowing of his reputation for swinging parties, was happy to accept. He rubbed his hands together-with a good catalyst, success was assured. He phoned a few more people, as he thought of them.
Then he realized that he hadn't yet invited the guest of honor. Karl Stark was not at his dingy hotel, the Earle. Dinnie tried the 86 Club. "He's here, all right," said Red, "and about ready to pass out."
"He's still doing that?"
"Again. He seemed much better for several days-cheerful, lurching less, stammering less, drinking less, really in great shape-then he seemed to relapse into a very bad depression. Something seemed to have done him a world of good, then it wore off."
"Well, get him into a cab and over here pronto," commanded Dinnie, so decisively that Red almost answered, "Yes sir!" but actually only said "Sure thing, Dinnie. Will do and right away."
Just in time, thought Dinnie as he hung up. Should have anticipated that the poor guy might have a relapse. But never mind, I'll straighten him out with some real super shock therapy that will blow his mind and make him stop stuttering forever.
When the spastic arrived, Pussy helped Dinny help him up the stairs and onto a bed. She then helped undress him. It was Dinny who pulled off Stark's drawers.
"Why are you doing that?" she asked.
"I want him to be all ready for the party. It should be in full swing by the time his martinis wear off and he wakes up horny. And you should see this guy when he's horny."
Priscilla could see what he was like when he was not. She had thought that that black moving man must have had the largest cock in the world, but it was nothing compared to Karl Stark's, and it wasn't even hard yet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As nervous as an actor about to go onstage, Dinnie Galavan paced back and forth in his big living room. A fire crackled in the hearth. A sumptuous buffet of Virginia ham, a roast of beef, Beluga caviar, shrimp, raw vegetables and a large bowl of punch was laid out on a long table. But the stage was not quite set
"Where the fuck is that fucking Willie?"
"Who's Willie?" asked Priscilla, who looked properly hostessy in her long gown from Bergdorf.
"Willie is my C connection."
"What's that?"
"Baby," Dinnie paused to explain to this naive girl something that any sophisticated person would know, "you can't have a successful party in New York City without.. . "
Just then the bell rang, and Dinnie dashed to answer it.
"Oh man! I was afraid you wouldn't show, man." Willie was the man in question.
"Well you know man like it's like you know a real hassle to like score for . . . "
"But you did."
"Oh yeah man, like . . . " And he produced from a pocket an innocent looking brown paper bag. Dinnie promptly opened it, took out a plastic bag inside and dumped its contents onto the coffee table. Willie winced at the sight of so precious a substance so casually treated, and also glanced uneasily at Priscilla, wondering about her reaction.
She looked blank. But Dinnie purposefully attacked the pile of white powder, scooping a little of it off to one side, shaping it with a matchbook into two long, thin lines; then, with a rolled up hundred dollar bill, sharply inhaling one of the lines into one of his nostrils, then the other into his other nostril.
Then he stood back up, clearing his throat, eyes a-sparkle.
"It's good shit, man," prompted Willie, "high grade shit, maybe cut with a little speed and maybe a little horse, but that don't hurt it any if you ask me man."
"Umm, yeah," admitted Dinnie, his tongue moistening dry lips, "Yeah."
"You dig it?"
"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm."
"Groovy, man, so-" Willie quickly looked down and all about the room "-like, you know, I had to front the bread and it's like, well man it was hard to find any, and-well, it cost me like twelve hundred, but like man you know I wouldn't hype you, man, dig?"
Dinnie seemed uncomprehending, so Willie continued, "I mean, you know, like . . . I had to front the bread."
"Bread," said Dinnie.
"Yeah man, bread, like, you know-bread" Willie gestured helplessly.
Dinnie finally caught on. "Oh, you mean bread. I'm sorry," and he fished in his pocket for some more hundreds, "I just wasn't thinking. How much did you say?"
"Twelve hundred," mumbled the furtive little fellow with great reticence, as if expecting an outraged argument over the sum. But Dinnie blandly handed over the money, which Willie, blinking rapidly, counted, and then, bowing and mumbling apologetically, took his leave. For there was an extra hundred-a baker's dozen. Dinnie liked to treat help generously.
"Is that cocaine?" asked Pussy, trying to sound casual, after the fellow left.
"Sure. Want a taste? A little snort won't hurt you."
"Oh heavens, no."
"It's not like shooting horse. An occasional line of coke is not really addictive. It also attracts a different class of people, functioning people with money, not like your sleazy junkies."
"I don't know. The whole idea . . . "
"Just try it once, that's all. If you don't dig it, don't do it again."
In truth, Pussy was rather dreading this party, and so was not averse to trying something that might make it more bearable. She consented to sniff up, in an ever so delicate, lady-like way, a couple of small lines. And then sat back, wondering how it was supposed to feel.
It didn't feel like much of anything. But then she noticed a little tingle, a certain heightening of interest in everything in the room. Then the doorbell rang-the first guests.
It was two of the uptown couples, all dressed in expensive mod fashion and feeling awkward at being the first to arrive. Introductions. Strained conversation. Glasses of the punch, which Dinnie promised was something special. A nibble of shrimp. A snort of coke.
Her mouth dry, Pussy had a cup of the punch, too, drinking it quickly: it made her feel giddy and she ladled another cup. Everyone, perhaps being a little nervous, drank a lot. Perhaps the coke made everyone thirsty.
By the time the second wave of people arrived, the first was beginning to loosen up, laughing a lot, talking, dancing. With this much established, the second group quickly assimilated.
And so, less than an hour after the first guests had come, the scene in Dinnie's living room resembled nothing so much as a typical chic Manhattan cocktail party: beautifully groomed people babbling in animated, bright conversation, just a touch loud to be heard over the music and the other babble, the room growing dense with smoke, much of it the sweet fragrance of pot.
"This punch is groovy," a short but curvy blonde woman remarked to Dinnie, "What's in it?"
"Oh, there's Champagne, pineapple juice, club soda, rum, brandy, and some old benzedrine inhalers I had imported from Central America where they were still on the shelves of this drugstore," answered Dinnie cheerfully. "But the actual recipe is a family secret."
"Bennie inhalers! Is this a nostalgia party? Christ, I haven't had one of those things since high school exams. We used to study all night before, yet be wide awake for the exam. And do well, too, even though we forgot everything right afterward. Oh yeah-bennie inhalers! Used to get so stoned, baby," the blonde enthused.
"How do you feel now?" Dinnie probed.
"Gee, I am talking an awful lot, aren't I?"
"So you're high. But the question is, does it make you feel horny?"
"Hmmm. Now that you ask, now that you channel my thoughts to such matters, yes-I'm very much in the mood for sex. Mmmmm-hmmm!"
"Good. I figured the punch with the bennie in it, coupled with the cocaine, and the pot, should work pretty well."
"Ever try Spanish fly at one of your parties?" asked the stubby blonde, wetting her full lips with a sleek tongue.
"I did once, but it made several people sick."
"Makes me horny to think of it, though, just the idea of it."
"I think you're just horny."
"Oh, I admit it-I'd like to ball right now. In fact, I'll ball you if you'll be a nice host and take me into one of your bedrooms."
"I'd love to, but my fiancee is watching us rather closely."
"So is my husband, but he doesn't mind. In fact, I'm sure he'd like to ball your fiancee."
"Maybe later, dear," said Dinnie, easing away from the blonde before she could grab his cock, as she seemed about to do.
Oh fudge, thought Dinnie, this isn't turning out the way it should at all. Why won't somebody do something?
He very much wanted to sneak off and fuck the blond, but Priscilla, even while conversing with a fellow wearing long sideburns, kept a wary eye on his every move. What a drag, having to play it straight at his own party! Would it ever develop into an orgy? How to get things moving!
Just then the doorbell rang again. This time it turned out to be a strikingly pretty redheaded girl, a bit above average height with creamy complexion and a slow, suggestive smile. "I'm Cynthia Hornaday," she announced.
"I'm Dinnie Galavan, your host. Do come in."
As he helped her off with her fur coat, he could perceive the outlines of a splendid body beneath the tight-fitting dress. So raptly did he devour it with his eyes, indeed, that he dropped the coat. And then, still transfixed, did not move to pick it up.
Cynthia herself did, bending over to reveal a majestic, blossoming rump that caused Dinnie to gape in pleased amazement. As she handed the coat back to him, her little smile seemed to say, "It's all right-most men flip over my ass."
Following her into the living room, Dinnie again let the coat slide out of his grasp and onto the floor. Nobody noticed. All eyes were on Cynthia.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cynthia, in turn, eyed everyone in the room quickly, but with a little mysterious smile, as she wondered which men had the biggest cocks, and which of those cocks might get inside her before the night was over. Then she spotted the little pile of white powder on the coffee table, rolled up a bill and snorted up two fat lines, remarking to Dinnie, who was still at her side, "Things go better with coke."
"I think it sets a nice tone for a party," agreed Dinnie.
"Makes me thirsty, though," said the redhead, helping herself to a dollop of punch.
"But the key question is, does it make you horny?"
"I don't need anything to make me horny."
"You mean you just naturally are all the time."
"Is the Pope a Catholic?" This stopped their conversation for a moment. Glancing about the room, Dinnie noticed the evening's first sign of freaky aberration. On the couch, a handsome woman with a long, full skirt was leaning back with a glazed expression, breathing rather heavily. A closer look revealed what was causing her agitation: a large bulge at her crotch made small but urgent movements, a pair of male forelegs protruded oddly out from the woman's skirt. The woman was being eaten by a man obviously not her husband, who seemed to be the man who was surreptitiously and uncomfortably watching by the fireplace.
Cynthia noticed all this too. "Look at that," she whispered. "True love."
"True sex," Dinnie corrected, "is more like it"
"Yum-yum-I wish I were her. Or him, for that matter. She's very attractive. Don't know what he looks like."
"You swing both ways?"
"Sure-doesn't everyone these days?"
The woman on the couch was breathing harder, the movements under her skirt growing more urgent. She clutched the cushions and let her legs fall even wider apart. Despite her efforts at self-control, a small cry escaped her-"Ah,ah,ah,ah,ah, ah,ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh, aha, aha, aha, aha, aaaaaahhhh, aaaaaahhhhh, AAAAAG-HHHHHHH!" And after a final spasm she went limp all over.
The woman's climactic outcry had been just loud enough to attract all eyes. Impulsively, Cynthia seized the moment-and snatched the woman's skirt and threw it up over her head, to reveal, in all its glory, the woman's opened, sopping cunt, with a flushed, panting, startled and thoroughly embarrassed male face still poised wetly just over it-the marauding bear caught with his face in the honey jar.
There were a few startled gasps; the woman's husband stirred uncomfortably; the man quickly withdrew and looked about frantically for a new place to hide. The woman restored her skirts to their proper place and with a shaking hand lit a cigarette.
"What the fuck's the matter with everybody?" shouted Cynthia. No one answered, so she tried a new tack, going to the middle of the room like a tour director. "I know what let's do. Let's all take off our clothes!"
A few titters, a little shuffling, but no one did anything. Cynthia saw that she would have to lead the way and, uninhibited girl that she was, began by kicking off her shoes.
Still no one followed. So the redhead drew up her skirts and wiggled and tugged her way out of the tight dress, revealing herself only in pantyhose and brassiere, the focus of many pairs of protruding male eyes.
Off with the brassiere, to put on open display a fine upstanding pair of breasts, full and firm and in perfect proportion to the rest of her body, which was then revealed as she slowly stripped off the panty hose-facing, perhaps deliberately, away from Dinnie so that he might be treated to another good look at her splendid ass, which was now bare.
Dinnie's prick leapt to attention so quickly that the sudden bulge in his pants was all too visible to the suspicious Pussy, and in a quick, veiled interplay of eyes, Dinnie saw Pussy see his erection, even while Cynthia saw all this, and Pussy saw Cyndy seeing it, and Dinnie saw Pussy seeing Cyndy see it. All this happened, unacknowledged, in a second or two.
So Cynthia went up to a man who had been eyeing her hungrily. "I'm Cynthia," she said, "do you like my body?"
"Oh yes," replied the fellow, wetting his lips nervously.
"Would you like to feel it?" And before he could answer, she took his hand and gently led it to one of her breasts, which he could not resist giving a little squeeze. Then she directed the hand slowly across the satiny smooth skin of her belly, down to the lightly furred mound of her puss-and then a finger down under to sample the sticky moistness of its slit. The man knew his wife was watching, but was unable to deny himself the pleasures of this erotic guided tour.
With her other hand, Cynthia stroked and gently squeezed the object between his legs-so stiff now as to be almost painful and oozing its own frothy juices.
"Do you want to fuck me?" she asked.
What a silly question. Of course he wanted to fuck her. He wanted it so bad he could taste it. His aching tumescent prick yearned for the tensile sensation of being in the firm grasp of her slippery snatch. "If you do want to fuck me, you have to take off your clothes."
The man-this was his first orgy-was not the sort of person who would disrobe in public, but when the gorgeous Cynthia unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly he did not resist. He did nothing when his pants slid to the floor; nothing when his undershorts fell to reveal his bristling prick in full, glorious display; nothing when the sex-pot redhead drew him after her as she backed onto a couch and spread her full thighs, directing his teeming cock right into her tender trap.
Only then did the man do something-involuntarily. After no more than a few seconds of the exquisitely pleasurable sensation of his prick slipping in and out of its tight confines, he exploded. Much as he would have liked to prolong his ecstasy, his balls could stand it no longer and fired spurt after spurt of come into the redhead.
And there he was, lying limp and spent between her splendid thighs, feeling foolish as the object of all eyes. But it had been worth it; he would not have done otherwise. His wife be damned!
Actually, his wife's reaction to the man's pubic display was to retaliate in kind. She caught the eye of a man she knew slightly yet had always thought sexy. The man understood immediately, and the two detached themselves, slipped upstairs, peeked into one bedroom only to find a strange little man lying naked on the bed, eventually found an empty room, stripped, and went at each other in a furious, passionate fuck.
Meanwhile, the man between Cynthia's legs found himself being shoved away by one of her pretty feet, to clear the area for another. So invitingly was she spread open that in no time another man was indeed on top of her, pumping away for all he was worth until he too exploded and was replaced by still another.
As the magnetic Miss Hornaday thus entertained, one by one, every man present, there was no more raptly attentive spectator than her host, Mr. Galavan himself. Dinnie, however, exercising colossal self-control, managed to refrain from adding his own to the pile of male bodies irresistibly drawn into the primal swamp.
He derived a grim satisfaction from his virtue, keeping himself pure for his fiancee, Miss Priscilla Witherspoon, until he could stand it no longer. He ripped off his clothes, leapt into the vortex of Cynthia's spread legs and thrust his own prick into the hole already soppingly lubricated by the deposits of many other pricks. All that cream, Dinnie noted, so greased his piston in that valve as to virtually eliminate all friction; yet so turned on was he by the sexy Cynthia that this apparent negative only excited him further.
As for Priscilla, her initial disappointment at this sign of weakness in her lover, a man so lacking in character as to be unable to keep his promises, gradually gave way to a strange kind of excitement. Indeed, she had been herself a more than casually interested observer of the sex parade taking place atop Cynthia, and when her lover himself finally cracked and joined it, she had to admit to a vicarious thrill.
The man with the sideburns was astute enough to perceive this. "Doesn't that turn you on a little?" he purred in her ear.
"It's vulgar," snapped Priscilla.
"But you're watching."
"What else is there to look at?"
"That's no excuse. You're watching because you're fascinated."
"There is a certain fascination about people fucking."
"Especially when one of them is your fiancee. Wouldn't you like to be where she is right now? Or where he is?" She did not answer, so he pursued: "If he can do that, why shouldn't you?"
Still no answer, for there was none. The man pressed on: "Look at him. Your fiancee. Clothes off, ass bobbing up and down while he puts it to that redhead, and he sure is putting it to her. In a minute he's going to get his nuts off; then he'll look around to see if you've been watching. Why don't you surprise him and disappear-that'll give him something to think about."
Priscilla still did not answer, but Sideburns sensed that she was weakening. Suddenly she took his hand and led him up the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the first bedroom where they looked, a couple was already copulating wildly. In a second and third and fourth bedroom, it was the same story, for that many bodies had snuck off from the main body of the party. At last they settled for the room whose only occupant, the spastic Karl Stark, lay naked and snoringly sound asleep. They nudged him over to a far edge of the bed.
Priscilla let herself be kissed hotly by Sideburns, who whispered intensely, "You turn me on, baby. You spell class, breeding, snotty girls' schools, charge accounts at Peck and Peck. I'll bet you bathe three times a day to keep your little cunt kissing sweet. That's why I'm going out of my mind with desire to eat it!"
And with a strangled gurgle he dove for her magic vee. Instinctively she clamped her knees together, but Sideburns forced them apart, ripped off her little panties, and quickly wedged his head in there, burrowing, lapping, kissing, gnawing, slobbering, rooting like a pig for truffles.
"Please!" she cried. "Be more gentle." And Sideburns, realizing that he was indeed being much too rough and aggressive for so wellborn a girl, pulled back to a subtler, more artful attack, one that she could respond to, pressing her trim little bottom against his marauding face.
It was obvious that Priscilla was keenly enjoying being the recipient of such eager oral sex, but perhaps her Puritan morality would not allow her to experience an orgasm from such an unnatural act. She drew Sideburns' head away. "I don't even know your name-what is it?" she asked.
"Ralph," he gasped through his agitated breathing.
"Do you love me, Ralph."
"Sure, sure!"
"Then kiss me on the mouth."
And he eased up to where he could kiss her mouth as passionately as he had been kissing her bottom, wetting her face with her own sticky sex juices-and meanwhile sliding his tumescent prick into its appointed slot, grasping her fine little rump to give him better leverage as he pumped away.
Priscilla settled back to enjoy being on the receiving end of a good old-fashioned fuck, thinking, II only Dinnie could see me now.
If only she knew that her fiancee was indeed seeing her, through one of the special viewing holes he had fashioned for just such use, and what's more was deriving keen pleasure from it. The sight of his darling getting soundly screwed was enough to arouse him anew, causing him to have an erection which the stubby blonde squatting beside him was sucking on. The closer Pussy came to experiencing an orgasm, the closer Dinnie came to blowing off in the blonde's mouth.
And there was still another spectator. The jouncing and jingling of the bedsprings had awakened the slumbering Karl Start. It was usual for Stark to wake up with a hard-on; indeed he normally masturbated at least once or twice before being able to get himself together for the day. But now, next to him on the bed was an ethereally pretty girl, skirts thrown back, legs thrown up, getting energetically jazzed. It was enough to drive the cripple insane with lust.
He fondled his enormous tool, tempted to stroke it off for fast relief from the tension that made its tumescence almost unbearable, but held back in hopes that.. . perhaps, who knows?
At last Sideburns came, firing salvos of semen into Pussy, then, losing interest, rolled off, leaving a void which young Stark himself boldly and impulsively determined to fill.
"Oh no!" cried Priscilla when she realized that the spastic was atop her, not because she found him unattractive, though she did, but because she feared that his gigantic weapon would split her in half. She was sure that the black moving man had stretched her to her outermost limits, and the spastic was larger still!
What to do? She felt down between her legs where the swollen knob of the spastic's cock was trying to force its way through her tender gates. Even with Sideburn's juices to lubricate, it was impossible.
Thinking quickly, Pussy scooped some of the slime from her own snatch and used it to stroke the spastic's huge rod. So horny was the poor fellow that he soon spurted his seed all over the bedspread and Pussy's bottom, and Pussy believed that her uncomfortable dilemma had been resolved.
Not so. Stark was quickly hard again, clamoring this time for actual entry, and not about to settle for less. Pussy struggled to break free, but Stark with surprising strength pinned her back down. Sideburns, evidently enjoying the spectacle, getting hard again and fondling himself as he watched, was no help at all.
It was Dinnie who came to the rescue. He pulled the blonde off his cock and guided her head to the peephole. "Look at that!"
"My God!" she exclaimed, "That funny little man is sure hung."
"Ever see a bigger cock?"
"I don't think so."
"Think you could handle it?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Like to try?"
"Hmmm."
"Bet you can't."
"Of course I can. There isn't a prick in New York City I can't handle."
"Prove it," said Dinnie, opening the door on the startled trio and guiding the stubby blonde to the bed that was to be her proving ground.
The blonde was not shy and spread herself open without delay. The cripple, whose fantasies featured fleshy females, was more than happy to switch his attentions and was soon pumping happily away. The blonde's glazed expression of pleasure told that she was setting in for a long and athletic session.
Pussy escaped the bed and stood before a mirror to smooth herself somewhat before rejoining the party. "Thank you, Dinnie, for getting me out of this."
"I didn't want you to get too stretched."
"Anyway, thanks-even if I don't deserve it."
"Why don't you deserve it?" he asked. "I was unfaithful," she admitted shyly. "I let that man with the sideburns fuck me."
"I know-I was watching."
"You were? My God, what was your reaction."
"It made me very horny."
She looked down and saw that he indeed sported a bristling hard-on. "Would you like to fuck me now?" she asked.
"Sure. But frankly Td rather fuck one of those wives downstairs. New cunt turns me on. You'll be here when the party's over, but now's my only chance to ball one of them"
"But what about me?"
"Take on another one of the husbands. There are plenty to go around."
Pussy felt slighted, as she often did with Dinnie, but having herself sinned did not feel morally entitled to deny him the privilege of screwing another woman if he wanted to. So she merely followed him downstairs.
By now the living room, the whole downstairs, was teeming with action. The indefatigable Miss Hornaday was going down on one husband while being screwed from behind by another. Another couple was making it in the corner, and two women were eating each other on the couch. In the kitchen, the dining room, the John, the pantry, men were screwing women who were not their wives, women were balling men who were not their husbands. Everyone was having a lovely time.
Dinnie viewed the scene with deep satisfaction. The party was off the ground, flying, a grand success. He singled out a well-built woman who for the moment was unattached and with a minimum of preliminaries was soon putting it to her on the stairway, his balls bouncing merrily off her large upturned ass.
Priscilla Witherspoon, watching her fiancee fucking another woman, shook her head sadly and said to herself, "I guess he'll never change."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As the evening progressed, or deteriorated, which ever way you wish to look at it, things got more and more surrealistic. Perhaps the potent combination of cocaine, amphetamine, brandy and pot was having its desired effect. Perhaps the participants, having been shown by example that no conduct was out of bounds as long as it contributed to someone's sexual well-being, were straining to achieve new heights of licentiousness. Perhaps it was both factors, along with a full moon, or a chance converging of astrological signs.
At any rate, it was agreed later that more holes were penetrated, more semen loosed, more mad couplings and triplings achieved, than at any occasion since the most wildly decadent days of the Roman Empire. Faces, cocks, cunts, breasts and rumps merged and then scrambled again in a kaleidoscope of images from which clear and certain identifications were impossible. It is not unlikely that every man screwed every woman present except for his wife, and conversely every woman every man, etc. Certainly this was the ideal being striven for.
And if by chance mates found themselves together, they strove not to couple in their accustomed way, for innovation was the order of the night. ("I never knew you liked to have your toes licked, honey.")
Yes, it was a night to be remembered, even though some might say that things went too far, became too compulsive, with men struggling for one more screw despite sore-skinned cocks and totally depleted gonads, and women willing to receive one more despite overworked apertures and a surfeit of deposits in the old sperm bank. Certainly it was a night of excesses.
In the bleak light of dawn, Dinnie Galavan awoke to the realization that his overwrought penis was being nibbled at by a lady he was sure he had never seen before. But poor Din, who had been setting the pace as host by screwing everything that moved, was beyond further arousal
"Please, honey-I just can't."
The girl looked up, slack mouthed and glassy eyed: "I wanna cop your joint."
"No, dear-please. I have to take a piss, really." He struggled to a sitting position on the couch and noticed that a few coals still burned in the fireplace and that some of the cocaine was left on the coffee table.
"Will ya piss on me, then?"
It seemed a simple enough request. "Okay, if you like."
The girl sat in the tub while Dinnie sprayed upon her. At the peak of his long morning urination, at the point where he could not stop, Priscilla stumbled into the bathroom, looking red-eyed, bedraggled and much used. "Oh for Christ sake!" she groaned. "Is that your newest kick?"
"It's her idea," he answered.
"How long are you going to keep it up?"
"I really have to piss. When you gotta go, you gotta go."
"On her?"
"Why not, she digs it."
"And I dig you," said the girl in the tub to Pussy. "Wanna ball?"
"No," said Priscilla firmly. "I want to talk to you, Dinsmore, whenever you finish."
Of the bodies remaining from the previous night's party, Priscilla alone was dressed for the street and seemed out of place in the bathroom. Then Cynthia Hornaday entered.
"Morning, Cynthia," said Dinnie, his prick stiffening despite itself at the sight of her naked body, which caused him to spray his piss on the shower wall. Then he finished with a last spurt and dribble, and turned to the sex-pot Cyn with full erection, though a smart slap from Pussy soon made it shrivel.
"Thanks, dear," said Cynthia as she sat on the toilet for her own morning pee-pee. "I couldn't possibly handle any more sex."
"For you that's quite an admission," snarled Puss.
"Had your fill, eh?" asked Dinnie pleasantly.
"Oh God yes. I got so high-that's great cokeI went berserk. Must have been balling for five, six hours straight-men, women, everything, over and over again, over and under, under and over, the works. It was a gas, the greatest sex scene ever, until it got to be just too much. Then I wanted to quit, finally, but there were some men around who wouldn't let me."
"I hope at least you came," hissed Pussy.
"Oh I came all right, dear. And so did you! I know because I was eating your nice little pussy when you did."
Priscilla looked down, deeply embarrassed. In truth, she, too, had been stoned as never before, so much so that is was quite possible she had done something of which she now had no recollection whatever.
"But who was that funny little spastic?" Cynthia continued, wiping her twat and flushing the toilet.
"Karl Stark, a friend of mine," said Dinnie. "Did he fuck you?"
"Did he fuck me! My God-he's the greatest cocksman in the entire city. He gave me a jazzing like I haven't had since I took on the whole New York Jets team. Damn near split me in half! But after awhile he was too much. Just wouldn't quit. I kept falling asleep then waking up and finding him still at it."
"Guess he liked you."
"He sure did," Cyn said, leaving the bathroom. "Now I've got to go."
"Where you going?" asked Dinnie, his prick rising again.
"Home, to get some sleep. If I try to sleep here, I know very well what will happen," she said with a meaningful look at his swelling cock.
"Well, some other time."
"Sure thing," she winked as she disappeared into a bedroom, giving her fine ass a coquettish twitch as she did so. Priscilla grasped Dinnie by his erection and led him into another room.
"Guess you did your share of screwing last night," said Din, trying to make conversation and also perhaps to forestall the stern lecture he feared was forthcoming.
"Don't try to get out of it," said Pussy.
"But you did-I saw you."
"So I did. So did everyone else-it was that damned dope you fed us. I got so far-out I didn't know what I was doing. I could have been screwing Godzilla."
"Maybe you were."
"No, the point is that you broke your promise to me. You said it was going to be a nice, quiet orgy with us being just spectators. Then you conned me into sniffing some of that stuff and it made me punchy, and before I knew it I was doing all these awful things."
"You had fun. Don't deny it."
"Oh, I feel so degraded." Pussy sat on the bed and wept.
"Don't feel that way," Dinnie consoled her with a warm hug. "You were just being a good sport."
"Good sport!" Pussy whirled and slapped her fiancee, then made to leave. At the door she turned for one last blast. "Dinnie, I'm serious-I never want to see you or speak to you again, unless you make a really serious effort to reform. And I mean really serious."
"But I don't want to reform," he pleaded. "I don't want to."
"Then don't, for God's sake. But don't expect to see me either! Good-bye!" And she slammed out.
Dinnie sat sullenly on the bed. Perhaps Priscilla was right. He was terribly shallow and self-indulgent-a contemptible person, really. He used others for his own pleasure, even his own lovely fiancee. Despicable! Yes, he must change, must try to reorder his life along sensible, constructive lines.
And he would start now-by dealing sternly with the pissed-on girl who was even then standing wetly in his doorway. "Hey, yuh left me in the bathroom," she said.
"Why didn't you take a bath?"
"Later. I wanna ball first. You wanna ball me? I seen you get a hard-on when that redhead came in, so I know you can do it."
"Didn't you get enough last night?"
"That's the trouble. I didn't get here till 4:30 or so. Some people from the party was havin' a nightcap in the 86 Club and told me about what was goin' on here. I was waitin' to ball the bartender soon's he got off, but this sounded like more action so I fell in. Snorted some of that coke and got stoned, went lookin' for someone to screw, but seems like even the cats who was still around and awake was all fucked out, 'cept for that crippled cat, he wanted to make it but his joint was too big; I couldn't handle it. Finally conked out for awhile and woke up copping your joint."
"Gee I'm sorry, you should have gotten here earlier."
"I know. But I'll settle for a nice little screw right now."
"Sorry, but I'm reforming. As of right now."
"Aw come on-just one little one. What kinda host are you?"
She was right-he was acting selfishly again.
"All right, one little one."
Again, the girl went down on him. It was obvious that she liked the feel of a man's cock in her mouth, and she attacked his with great relish. Dinnie began to stiffen again. Seeing the luscious Cynthia had rekindled his fires. He remembered fucking her once the night before and wondered if he had done it with her again. Probably, though his recollection of the whole thing got very hazy after a certain point.
The girl climbed up to straddle his cock and eased herself down on it: ride a cock horse to Banberry Cross. Soon, with much gasping and sweating, she was grinding herself down on him with increasingly rapid thrusts.
With a little outcry, she ticked herself off, having used him for masturbatory purposes just as he had often used women, and loosed a gush of warm pee onto his belly.
He couldn't really complain-turnabout was fair play-but as soon as the girl took her leave, presumably to search out another body in the wreckage, he went into the shower and under a hot stream lathered himself thoroughly, washing away his sins, not to mention the girl's piss.
Then he began to dress so that he might go out and purify himself further with some fresh New York air. As he was tying a red stripe Prep School tie, a knock at the bedroom door turned out to be Karl Stark, already dressed for the street.
"Oh, here you are, Dinnie," said Karl. "I wanted to thank you for the party-I had a wonderful time."
"Glad you enjoyed yourself, man. . . . say, you aren't stuttering at all!"
"No-isn't it wonderful? It's like a miracle! All the inner tension I usually feel, it's all gone, magically gone!"
"Wonderful! Wonderful! I'm so happy for you, Karl."
"Yes siree, I think maybe I'm finally cured. Maybe now I can do all the things I've always wanted to do-hold down a job, have a wife and family, be an achiever-despite my handicap."
"What handicap, Karl?" enthused Dinnie, clapping his friend on his bony shoulder. "You're normal, man, normal! Not only has your speech cleared up, but your movements are ever so much smoother."
"I don't even want a martini, I want to go right out and get a job. A great job. Did you know I was a PhD?"
"Gosh no, I didn't, Karl. But good luck. I mean it."
"I know you do," said Stark, grasping Dinnie's hand in a firm clasp. "And I want to say I could never have done all this without your wonderful help."
"Karl, you don't know what good it does me to see you looking and speaking and moving so well," declared Dinnie with deep sincerity. "Now go out there and show the world that you're a winner!"
As he watched Karl Stark descend the stairs with scarcely a hitch, Dinnie's jaded eyes misted over with honest tears.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Coming to me like this was the smartest thing you ever did, Dinsmore."
"Well, like I say, Dad, I thought about our little talk and decided you were right, and that I really should straighten out and get a job."
"And a good thing you reached that decision. Otherwise-well, you'll never know how close you came to being cut off."
"Not entirely cut off, I hope."
"No. I would have allowed you two hundred dollars a week for basic expenses."
"Two hundred a week! But nobody can live on that" protested Dinnie.
"A lot of people live on even less," said his father.
"I know," admitted Dinnie, burying his face in his hands, "but I'd rather not think about it. I refuse to think about it."
"Facing reality was never your strong point, son."
"Why was I so close to getting cut off, if I may ask?"
"That party you threw the other night was the last straw."
"It was just a little gathering-a sort of charity ball for a crippled friend."
"Not the way I heard it."
"How did you hear it, if I may ask."
"I have my ways."
"You have your spies. Who was it this time?"
"I won't tell, except to say it was a woman. She said she had never, in all her experience as a private investigator, witnessed such unbridled depravity."
"Well, she must have done more than witness it, because every woman there got balled-every woman!" Dinnie declared proudly.
"There-you admit that you staged an orgy."
"All right, so I did. And it sickened me, too, Dad. That's why I finally decided to go straight. You were right and I was wrong. I have sinned. Now I'm coming to you and asking for mercy and forgiveness."
"Granted. Now then, you will start your new job Monday morning at nine sharp in the offices of Amalgamated Foods in the Greybeard building, sixteenth floor."
Dinnie steadied himself in his chair and tried to stay calm. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Your first duty will be to interview and screen applicants for a key job we need to fill in the marketing division. We're looking for a man who is young but has the proper kind of training and experience-and above all, who possesses the qualities of character and motivation that will make him promotable, top-echelon timber."
"How can I tell if he has those qualities?"
"That's where intuition comes in, my boy-to be able to look a man in the eye and tell whether he's top-echelon timber. I'm counting on your innate judgment of human nature, which you must possess, if only because you're my son. I'm counting on you to find high-caliber men for Amalgamated."
"High-caliber men," mused Dinnie. "Yes."
"I heard a joke once. When one of the elder Zacchinis-you know, the circus family that gets shot from a cannon-anyway, when this old man Zacchini finally retired, someone said, 'They don't make men of that caliber any more.' "
"That is not funny, Dinsmore."
Somehow Dinnie found his office by nine o'clock on a chill, drizzling Monday morning and was greeted by his secretary, Miss Luther, an elderly woman who had been with the company, she proudly told him, for 52 years. Though his desk was of rich wood, the office itself was innocent of furnishings except for a black telephone. The view from its window-the backs of other office buildings-was equally bleak.
Though deeply, indescribably depressed, Dinnie felt oddly virtuous to be at last wearing the hair shirt, immersing himself in a joyless Spartan regime, grimly paying belated dues for his years of waste and ribaldry, doing penitence, showing of what stern stuff he was made. He would show them-by God, he would show them!
He sat there at his desk, not even allowing himself the indulgence of a plastic cup filled with rancid coffee or a glance at the financial page of the Times. He just sat there, stoically, grimly, until his first candidate for top-echelon timber should arrive.
Which he did, promptly. "Mr. Galavan, this is Mr. Stonequist," announced Miss Luther.
"Bill Stonequist," said the young man, extending a firm hand; a likely lad, clear of eye, clean of jaw, dark of suit, narrow of tie, short of hair, neat, trim, organized. Dinnie attempted a smile, but it was tight and cold. "Tell me about yourself."
"Well, after graduating from . .
"Never mind that. What propelled you into the business world?"
"To be frank," said young Stonequist with engaging frankness, "I made a tough decision while still in pre-engineering at Cornell. I asked myself if engineering was really what I wanted-and said no."
"You said 'no' to engineering?" inquired Dinnie, genuinely curious.
"Yes, I said 'no'. I decided that what I really wanted was the challenge of the business world-the challenge of moving goods off the shelf!" Stone-quist declared with the hand-chopping gesture of a political speaker emphasizing a point. "Moving goods off the shelf-that was for me!"
"I see. And then what?"
"So I transferred to Business Administration-just like that."
"Wow. And then?"
"An extra year at Wharton to get my M.A. in Marketing."
"An M.A. in Marketing?" Dinnie had honestly never heard of such a thing.
"Yes, of course," said young Bill. "And then came my apprenticeship at P&G."
"P&G?"
"Proctor and Gamble," said the lad evenly. Though he was beginning to wonder about the line this Mr. Galavan's questions were taking, he was sure the man knew exactly what he was doing: they don't kid around at Amalgamated, especially not old Grover Galavan's son.
"Proctor and Gamble," he went on, "whatever you may think of them, is a great outfit to break in with, very thorough and systematic, research everything sixty different ways before making a move, and then follow up with at least two more years of test markets before going national. A young fellow fresh out of school can really learn the ropes with P&G."
"How long were you there?" asked Din.
"Four years. Sort of like school all over, but a post-graduate course in the real world-best possible training. And now I'm ready for a job that gives me more latitude. I honestly feel, if I may say so without seeming not to be humble, that I'm ready to take off and go places in the business world."
"Are you married?"
"Yes. Wife and two-year-old son, Chip. They're still in Cincinnati until I get placed here, then we hope to live in Westchester until we're ready for Darien or Westport."
"It's all set, eh?"
"What?" asked young Stonequist.
"Your future. All laid out."
"Well, so far everything has gone exactly according to my game plan. No reason to suppose it won't continue to do so. I mean, it always has."
"You seem very confident."
"Surely. I believe that in a continually expanding economy, which is what makes America great, a man of ability and drive, who can move goods off the shelf, is bound to get ahead. I believe that as surely as I believe in God," the young man declared.
"I believe," said Dinnie gravely, for he did not like to hurt people, "that you should see a psychiatrist."
The young man was stunned. Was this Mr. Galavan putting him on? "I-ahh-is that all?"
"Yes," said Dirrnie, "for your own good, see a shrink now before it's too late."
The young man rose uncertainly, fumblingly picked up his attach� case and backed toward the door. "Well, thank you, sir. Thank you."
After the lad had left, Dinnie congratulated himself. He felt that he had handled his first interview very professionally. It had been difficult to tell the young man that he would not do for Amalgamated, but it was clear that the fellow had serious problems and might even be pre-psychotic. Telling Stonequist to seek help was painful but he had done it; he had faced the problem manfully without copping out.
He had done his job well, having screened out an obvious undesirable. Yet, Dinnie realized, this was only one part of his job. Ultimately, he would have to find someone suitable. Perhaps next time he should be more attuned to the applicant's positive potential.
The next applicant indeed seemed a more likely type. Unlike the close-cropped middle-American head of Stonequist, this new fellow's hair was long and flowing in the contemporary mode. He stood very tall and thin-Lincolnesque-and his name, Jimmy Gail, sounded right to Dinnie Galavan. His dark suit was interestingly shabby.
"Tell me all about yourself."
"I've traveled a ha-ard road, but the Low-ard Jaysus has.. . . "
"I mean your education, stuff like that."
"Washburn Trade School in Chicago for my haah school. Turret lathe major. Then a stint at the Moody Bible Institute before . . . "
"Where did you hear about us?"
"Ad in the paper this morning."
That was commendably direct. Dinnie was beginning to like this fellow Gail. "What are your feelings about Marketing?"
"I don't mind it, especially at the A&P," Gail guffawed, showing some blackened teeth, which were not good for his image but could easily be fixed, as Amalgamated spared no expense to keep their executives shipshape. The important thing was that the fellow had a sense of humor about his work. Didn't take himself too seriously. Very important. Dinnie liked the cut of his jib. He rose and held out a hand.
"Mr. Gail, I'm going to send you up to see our Mr. Seymour, but as far as I'm concerned, you're just what we're looking for."
By lunchtime, Dinnie felt much better about his new job. It was challenging, creative, he was actually beginning to like it. And feel, for the first time, a part of working America, one of the everyday people who make things go.
Exhilarated with his newfound role, his exciting new identity, Dinnie eschewed Priscilla's invitation to lunch at 21 and sought out instead a humble Blarney Stone where he could dine with his newfound peers. The steam-table food repelled him, but he elbowed up to the bar and ordered the classic workingman's drink, a shot of bar whiskey with a small beer chaser. A boilermaker. It tasted so good that he had another and another and never did get to the steam table.
Smartly back at work by 1:30, he was greeted by a comely girl outside his office. "Mr. Galavan?"
"Yes."
"Miss Luther had a small stroke and won't be here this afternoon, so I'll be taking her place. I'm Miss Schlemke."
Dinnie quickly observed that Miss Schlemke, despite her glasses and a certain common coarseness, possessed a wonderfully squishy and curvy body that would lend itself admirably to really dirty, animalistic sex.
"Can you take dictation?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Then come into my office. I want to send a letter."
Miss Schlemke sat down, her heavy knees primly together. But Dinnie could easily picture them being roughly pried apart as he wrestled his way between them, between her enormous thighs, to the hairy target that lay at the head of the fork. His mouth watered and his prick bristled to attention.
Dinnie knew very well he shouldn't be doing this. It was absolutely contrary to his new asceticism, but he felt that he had done such a bang-up job that morning that he had earned himself a small indulgence.
He knew what. He wouldn't ask the girl if he could screw her, but only if she would provide a little relief for his poor prick, which had lain unsullied and untouched since his party and was now painfully keen for action. That's all he would ask. Surely she couldn't object to so modest a request.
But first, the pretense of a letter, just to work up to the point gradually. "Ready, Miss Schlemke?"
"Ready."
"All right. Ah . . . 'Dear Mother how are you? I am fine. It is raining here. How is Dad? How is Stacey? How is Marie? How is the dog? I am.. . . ' Got it so far?"
"Yes sir." Miss Schlemke looked up expectantly, pencil poised.
Leaning back in the chair behind his desk, Dinnie unzipped his fly and let his rigid tool pop out. "Ahh, Miss Schlemke.. . . "
"Yes sir?"
"I guess we can drop the letter for now. But perhaps you would do something else for me."
"Yes sir."
"Ahh, would you please step over here for just a sec?"
"Surely." Obediently she rose and came to his chair, still not seeing the bristling object in his lap.
"Would you be so kind, please, as to give this thing a few strokes, so I can get some relief and relax?"
"Thing?"
"This thing-right here."
Miss Schlemke screamed, dropped her shorthand pad, and fled the office.
Dinnie wondered what in the world he had done this time that was so awful.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Dinsmore, you are incorrigible!" exclaimed livid elder Galavan.
"Gee Dad, I.. . . "
"There can be no excuse for your conduct. Miss Schlemke, a new employee, had to be treated for shock in our infirmary. Shock!"
"All I wanted was . . . "
"As if that wasn't bad enough, you insulted Bill Stonequist, a highly promising young man we were trying to recruit, but who now, thanks to you, has gone over to Consolidated."
"But he was obviously.. . . "
"And then, you sent up to our head personnel man, Dana Seymour, a wild-eyed religious fanatic with no qualifications whatever in Marketing!"
"He looked like top-echelon timber to me, Dad."
"He wasn't even mail room material! Any fool could have seen that at once. No, son," Grover Galavan said sadly, "I'm afraid I misjudged your potential as a personnel man."
"Might there be another job within the organization that.. . . "
"I'm afraid not. The fact is, I have serious reservations about your ability to stay out of trouble for more than an hour at a time. I fear that your only real potential with Amalgamated is to be an embarrassment to me. Even a man in my position-majority stockholder and therefore unassailable-must be cognizant of public relations. No, I wish I could fit you in somewhere, but I'm afraid it's impossible."
Dinnie felt terribly depressed at so emphatic a rejection, especially after he believed that he was doing so well.
"I suppose it's my fault for letting your mother spoil you so," continued Galavan senior sadly. "But now I just don't know what to do with you."
"What if I had a business of my own?" Dinnie inquired hopefully.
"You? A businessman?"
"Why not? I have imagination, talent.. . "
"What talent?"
"Well, I take nice pictures," said Dinnie. It was true that when he put his mind to it, he had a passable aptitude with a Nikon.
"Dinsmore, there must be a thousand highly skilled professional photographers in New York, only a handful of whom are making any money at it."
"Actually, I was thinking of cinematography. Making movies."
"What do you know about making movies?"
"What does anyone know?" Dinnie had his father there, for the elder Galavan had a low opinion of artists in general and movie-makers in particular.
"All right then, supposing you did manage to make a movie. Where would you sell it?"
Dinnie thought fast. "I know where. I know exactly where."
"You mean you know something about the market?"
"I certainly do."
"Well then, go to it. With your money you can certainly afford to make a movie if you want to. If you can make one, say, on a relatively modest budget and then sell it at a profit, I might even consider financing a second and larger effort. But you have to show me you can do it first."
"Then you aren't going to cut me off?"
"No, I'll give you another chance-a chance to do something on your own since you obviously are unfit to work for anyone. But if you blow this, too, that's the ball game. Muff this last chance, and you'll great well have to learn how to live on two hundred a week."
"I don't think I could, Dad. I'd have to kill myself."
"You'd learn how if you had to," said the old man coldly.
At their quiet table at Le Pavilion, Priscilla pouted over her Beluga caviar. "I was so proud of you, Dinnie, taking that awful job and all. And then you called this morning and said you were doing so well that you actually liked it. And then this afternoon your father called and told me what you had done. Why did you have to spoil things like that?"
"All I wanted was for her to touch it," said Dinnie.
"I know that what you meant was innocent enough, but that poor secretary must have been scared out of her wits."
"She'll be wiser for the experience."
"Oh Dinnie, won't you ever learn to function in the real world?"
"Don't despair, dear."
"But I do. Now you've lost your job and your father will probably cut you off from your money."
"What do you care? You're supposed to love me for myself."
"I do. It's you I'm worried about."
"Well, don't worry. I still have my money. And I'm going into business for myself. It's all settled."
"You are?" Pussy clapped her hands joyously. "That's wonderful! What kind of business?"
"Movie making," he said casually, flicking an ash.
"How exciting! Tell me all about it."
"I'd really rather not," he demurred. "I've got some ideas but I don't want to talk them out. Better simply to do it-and then let you look at the finished product."
"All right, as long as you know what you're doing."
"I do," Dinnie said softly, then, snapping fingers and speaking out confidently-"Waiter! Gar-con! A telephone, s'il vous plait."
"Oui, monsieur."
The phone plugged in, Dinnie dialed a number. "Hello, Cynthia?"
"That isn't Cynthia Hornaday, is it?" whispered Pussy anxiously.
Dinnie clapped a hand over the phone. "Yes dear, it is. But," he winked, "Don't worry. This is strictly business."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"You were so mysterious on the phone, talking about a business appointment," said Cynthia, crossing her ample but shapely miniskirted legs.
"I couldn't talk. My fiancee was there," said Dinnie.
"So what's the big deal? Talk now." Dinnie drew deeply on the cigarette in its long holder. "Well, I thought I'd direct a film."
"What about?"
"I haven't really worked it out."
"Well, shouldn't you get a script or something?"
"Not necessarily. I thought I might work it out as I went along, sort of the way those very arty foreign directors sometimes do."
"But they sort of know what they're going to do before they start, don't they, more or less?"
"I have an idea of what I'm going to do."
"What?"
"Well, I don't really have a story, understand, just an idea."
"Okay, so what is it?" the girl persisted.
"All right. Have you ever seen a hard-core pornographic movie?"
"Oh sure, I've seen a few porns."
"What do you think of them?"
"Well, they get me horny, all that fucking, close-ups and all."
"How about the movies themselves?"
"Hmm, well, the photography is in color and usually in focus."
"But that's about all they've got, right?"
"Yeah. With just a sort of framework plot to hang the action onto."
"Exactly!" Dinnie banged the coffee table decisively. "And that's where I come in! I'm going to make a movie with a real story, dialogue, music, sound, all the production values of a regular Hollywood movie, but with real fucking in it!"
He leaned back, pleased, to await the redhead's reaction.
"I suppose the reason why you called me is that you want me to be in it."
"Right. I thought you'd be perfect for the part."
"What part?"
"We haven't worked that out yet."
"We?"
"Sure. I thought you might help me work out a story."
If I can, will you pay me for it? And by the way, what might you pay me for acting in the thing?"
"Money? Just a bothersome detail," Dinnie made an impatient little gesture of dismissal with his cigarette holder. In truth, he had not considered the matter of compensation for cast and crew.
"Not for me it isn't. I need bread."
"Oh, don't worry-you'll be well taken care of. I'm a generous person. Of course I can afford to be, but some rich people aren't, you know."
"Okay. But what if I don't want to be your star?" asked Cyn.
"But why wouldn't you?" Dinnie was honestly concerned. "You've got a bit of the old exhibitionist in you, obviously."
"Sure, I get my kicks balling in front of people at parties," she admitted, "but those are private gatherings of like-minded individuals. Not quite the same as being seen by millions of men, all kinds of horny, creepy men, all over the world. Men with running sores, hunchbacks, men weighing 350 pounds-I don't know."
"What do you care? You don't see them."
"Just the same, it gives me the willies. Such a huge audience!"
"The only difference is one of degree," Dinnie pointed out logically, "except that when you perform at an orgy you're in the same room with your spectators, whereas on film there's a mechanical medium separating you from the audience."
"So?"
"So in a movie you can be even freakier."
"Hmm, you've got a point. Never thought of it that way."
"Beginning to see the possibilities?"
"Yeah," said Cynthia. "It would be kind of fun, wouldn't it?"
"Damn right. If it weren't for my father, I'd like to act in these things myself," agreed Din.
"Hey, what if my father saw me-oh boy! My stodgy old Republican Dad watching his sweet Smith-grad daughter getting humped by some grapefruit-balled super cocksman! Wow! Of course, he would never go to these movies himself, but maybe someone else would recognize me and tell him, and then maybe he'd go.. . . "
"You have the hots for your Dad?"
"Sure. That's what my analysis taught me. It's why I've turned into such a nympho."
"Well, now you can act out your fantasies on film, and maybe even get an Oscar for fucking, if there is one."
"Oh wow-this conversation is getting me hot," Cynthia allowed, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
"I have the cure for that," said Dinnie, whipping out his bristling prong.
"Oh, fuck me," moaned Cynthia as she yanked down her panty hose and threw up her legs to expose the hairy treasure between them. "No preliminaries, I'm too hot-just get right in there and do it."
Dinnie was only too glad to oblige, throwing himself into the task with great relish. He hadn't realized how excited he was; the exquisitely delicious sensation of his tumescent organ sliding into her slippery shaft was almost too much to bear.
He poked in a little farther, then still farther, until his sword was buried in its sheath right up to the hilt.
"Fuck me, fuck me!" cried the girl, locking her strong legs behind his back, drawing him still closer into her. Dinnie eased himself part-way out, then thrust back in again; out, in, out, in, outinout-inoutoutinoutin, balls slapping smartly on her fleshy pink upturned bottom-then spurt, spurt, spurt, spurt, pleasure unbelievably intense, spurt, spurt. . . . and limp.
"Oh wow," she breathed, "that was very nice."
"It was good for me, too."
"Can you get it up again?"
He could. It had been days since his last orgasm. He stiffened again, and resumed fucking the exquisite creature, this time really doing a job on her, reaming her expertly with his big prick, finger up her ass, sucking a breast, gyrating his rock-hard member so that it plumbed every cranny of her sensitized vagina, coaxing her up to a splendid screaming orgasm, then, after only the merest of pauses, stirring and steering her to another, even greater climax. Only then did he allow himself to come a second time.
It took at least three minutes for Cynthia's heavy breathing to subside enough for her to claim, "Wow again! You really are a very good fucker, Dinnie, when you put your cock to it."
"Sure. Didn't you notice that the other night?"
"Oh, the other night was so crazy, and I got so stoned; it seemed like every guy in the place was screwing me simultaneously."
"Actually, it was more like consecutively, except I remember once or twice seeing two guys working you over at once."
"Well, it's all a big blur to me, so no wonder I can't remember how you were, specifically."
"So now you know me."
"I'd know you anywhere, and you're nice," she kissed him on the mouth. "We'll have to do it again."
"We will," said Dinnie, finally pulling himself out of and off the marvelously pneumatic redhead, "we definitely will, and often, but not right now. This is a business appointment, remember."
"Oh yes," she said, sitting up again and smoothing her hair down. "Where were we?"
"Story."
"Oh yes. Now let me think. How about a lady psychiatrist who treats her patients with you-know-what kind of therapy."
"Hey, that's great!" enthused Dinnie.
"Naturally, her specialty is curing sexual hang-ups, and she does it better than anybody. All the Freudians are insanely jealous of her and try to get her license taken away, but she foils that plot by balling all of them, too."
"Wonderful! We'll call it 'Lay Analyst.'"
"Perfection itself!" she exclaimed.
"That's it-the framework we need to hang the action onto!"
"When do we start shooting, D.W.? "
"As soon as I buy a movie camera."
"You know how to operate one?"
"No, but I can ask the guy in the store. And then really learn by just doing it."
"You'll waste a lot of film that way, won't you?"
"Who cares? What's a few thousand yards of color film to a budding genius like me?" Dinnie leapt up and started prancing about the room, unable to curb his elation at having discovered a wonderful career-a creative career that was a sound business proposition as well! And to think that only the day before he had been deep in despair! "Whoopeeeee!" he cried like a schoolboy.
"Whoopeeeee!" echoed Cynthia, dancing along with him. "I've always dreamed of being a movie star!"
A
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"You wanna blow job, mista, or you wanna blow me, or what?"
"None of those things, Raoul," said Dinnie. "I brought you here for a different purpose."
"Huh?"
"You see, I'm making a movie, and I'd like you to play in it."
"Doin' what?"
"Well, your role is what might be called small but juicy."
"Yeah, but what am I suppose to do?"
"Just what you usually do."
"Waddya mean?" asked the dark, slim lad. "I do a lotta things."
"Ah right then, tell me what you do."
"Well, like you know, I work the east fifties, both cruisin' and regula Johns."
"Men?"
"Yeah, you know, businessmen who wanna get blowed or wanna blow me or wanna get it in the ass or screw me in the ass, or wanna be whipped a little-you know, the whole bit, man."
"But do you ever service women?"
"Oh sure, sure-I ain't no common fag. I got steady customers, nice ladies, some older, some not all that old, some widows, some just lonely during the day, you know, just want a real good screw which I can give 'em," explained Raoul.
"What is your secret?" asked Dinnie, genuinely curious.
"Nuttin', really. I got a big cock and I can keep it hard all day if I need to."
"Do you come a lot?"
"Only when I feel like it. I can hold it if I want to. And of course I'll do whatever they want. Like you know, man, I'm a professional, like it's a business with me."
"Do you ever have sex just for your own pleasure?"
"Can't afford to. In my time off I gotta rest. But then I get my kicks working-I enjoy my work."
"With whom would you rather have sex-a man or a woman?"
"Don't make no difference to me."
"I see. Very interesting. All I wanted to know, really, was if you had any objections to having sex with a woman."
"Oh no, man-any time, no problem."
"Good," Dinnie rose from the couch, "then come with me and I'll show you what I'd like to have you do today."
Dinnie led the pretty youth up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms, which had been done over in the manner of a doctor's office, with wall-to-wall carpeting, Venetian blinds, a Danish modern desk, a chair, a couch, pale green walls adorned with a framed diploma and a Rorschach-looking print.
Cynthia Hornaday, looking primly efficient in horn-rimmed glasses and tailored tweed dress, sat at the desk. On the couch sat two nondescript looking men.
"Raoul, this is Miss Hornaday. You'll be doing the scene with her," said Dinnie.
"Pleasta meetcha, Miss," said Raoul with a nervous bow, to which Cynthia responded with a curt nod. Raoul looked at the couch. "Who are those cats?"
"Oh, this is Eddie, the sound man, and Larry, who handles the lighting-" there was indeed a large floodlight on one side of the room, and a sinaller spot on the other side-"-and I run the camera, as well as direct."
Raoul looked about. "Uh-huh."
"Now then," Dinnie clapped his hands as if to summon everyone's attention, "here's the set-up."
"Wait a minute," said Raoul, "what set-up? What kinda scene is this anyhow?"
"A movie scene. And you're in it, if you don't mind."
"Mind? If you pay me for it TCI do anything, man, so wudda you want me to do?"
"I was just getting to that. Miss Hornaday here is supposed to be a psychiatrist, and you are her patient. You have come to her because you are a poor orphan boy who feels unloved and unwanted. You never had a home or a mother, and now you're shy and nervous; you feel completely unworthy, and, of course, you're unable to make love. Get the picture?"
"Yeah. Guess so. Then what?"
"Well, Dr. Sexauer-that's her name in the movie, Helga Sexauer-determines that what you need is someone to love and mother you, because you never had that, someone to make you feel worthy of love. . . . "
"Yeah? How?"
"By balling you, of course," said Dinnie.
"Oh, I get it. Yeah. When do we start?"
With a little help from the two technicians, who had been on many a movie set before, Dinnie managed to set and focus the big camera for a two-shot on the principals, Dr. Sexauer at her desk, and her patient in a chair. Dinnie framed the shot, feeling like a real professional. The sound man got his tape recorder properly placed to catch the dialogue, and the lighting technician flooded the area with strong light, using the small spot to kill harsh shadows.
"Now how do you start this thing?" asked Dinnie.
"That button there," said Eddie, the sound man. "I think."
"Okay," barked Dinnie, "let's roll."
In the scene, young Raoul was remarkably apt in the role of the poor orphan lad. His mumbling downcast manner perfectly suited the wretched character he was playing-a Method actor couldn't have done it any better-and Dinnie congratulated himself on his shrewd casting.
Cynthia was equally a natural as the lady psychiatrist. Having herself been to shrinks, she knew exactly the sympathetic manner they affected of neutral concern as they listened attentively to a tortured and inarticulate story, nodding occasionally, or interjecting a gentle question.
More, Cyn seemed to possess an actress's knack of projecting herself into the skin of the character she was playing. When she moved her chair over so that she might hold the sad young man in her tender embrace, one would never think to question that she was indeed a mind-doctor practicing, with professional detachment tempered with genuine warmth, her special therapeutic treatment for emotional disorder. And when she unzipped his fly and drew out the lad's enormous tool, her improvised line, "My, my, with a penis of this size, you should be very popular with girls," seemed just right.
Then things fell apart momentarily. Raoul's prick stiffened and snapped upright to an even more impressive size, and Cynthia hungrily went down on it, as if to suck out every drop of sex-juice it contained.
"No, no no!" cried Cecil B. Galavan, snapping off the camera. "Raoul, remember that you're supposed to be impotent. Keep that thing flaccid."
"How can I, man?" protested Raoul. "The broad's getting me all hot."
"Now look, Raoul," Dinnie scolded, "you're a professional. You should have better control than that. Think about baseball or something. Keep it soft for now. Later, you can let go, but for now, you're still scared to death. She has to seduce you to bring you out of it. And Cynthia-for God's sake don't seem to enjoy it so much."
"But he's so pretty and has such a nice big prick, I really want to suck him."
"Okay, but not quite so much enthusiasm, please. Remember you're a doctor."
"Oh, all right," grumped Cyn.
Raoul, closing his eyes as if in inner turmoil, was actually concentrating hard on the most revolting images he could conjure-assholes of withered 90 year-olds, lepers, starvation, illness, Viet Nam, filthy winos on the Bowery-and managed thus, with a great effort of will, to keep himself soft while Cynthia licked and nibbled and sucked at his limp organ. Dinnie zoomed in to a closeup of her pretty face and busy tongue working on the outsized genitals with nurse-like efficiency.
"Cut!" Dinnie called out. "Excellent! You both performed beautifully. Now, Raoul, you may let yourself get hard-but slowly, slowly--. "
The male hustler groaned at the difficulty of the assignment
"-and Cynthia, once he begins to stiffen, you pull off your panties and straddle yourself on top of him-we'll get a nice close-up of your pussy while you do this. And then-" Dinnie paced about as arrogantly as any tyrant from Hollywood's golden age "-then you, Raoul, go soft again."
"And then what?" sighed Raoul, resigned to the fierce discipline of turning off and on images of disgusting objects.
"Then Cynthia will get off and go over to the couch where she'll lay down and spread herself wide open, showing everything she's got. I'll get a good tight closeup of your snatch, Cyn, and then cut to a closeup of your face, Raoul, as you're looking at it-real wide-eyed, dig."
"Like this?" asked Raoul, doing a fair imitation of a small boy ogling an enormous banana split.
"Yeah, that's it!" said Dinnie. "Then we'll cut to your cock-it's completely hard now-and then you go over there and fuck the shit out of her."
"About time," said Raoul.
"I know, it's difficult," admitted Dinnie, "but the fucking is more exciting if you don't get right into it, but build up to it instead, right?"
"You're the boss," said Raoul.
"I mean, this is art. Okay, one more thing. When you're about to come, Raoul, I want you to pull out so you can spurt all over her belly. In a closeup, of course. That's obligatory in these films."
"I've got a better idea," said Cynthia. "Why don't I get my head down there and finish him off with my tongue? Then he can come all over my face, maybe get some of it in my nose or ears."
"Cynthia, you're wonderful!" exulted Dinnie. "Okay gang, get to your places. Let's roll!"
The scene played exactly as Dinnie had blocked it out. He got an excellent closeup of Cynthia's invitingly opened cunt, looking all moist and pink and fringed with soft and delicate blondish-red hairs; another fine closeup of the piston-like action of Raoul's long, glistening cock pumping vigorously home-this one artfully augmented with a sound tape that captured every little squish and slurp of flesh meeting flesh; closeups of their glazed, rapturous faces as they coupled hotly, and finally, a splendid, serendipitous closeup of Raoul's huge rod releasing its thick and copious juices in spurt after powerful spurt all over Cynthia's face, beautiful in its ecstasy even while being defiled, even to a large gob of the icky stuff dangling from her pert nose.
"Very good, Raoul," said Dinnie. "I think we've got a take."
"I hope so, man. I couldn't do it over again, not the same way."
"First take is often the best anyhow," commented Eddie, the sound man. "Catch the actors when they're fresh."
"And full of come," added Cynthia, dabbing the gooey stuff from her lovelyce.
"Are ya t'rough with me, then?" asked Raoul.
"Guess so, kid," said Dinnie. "Suppose you want some money."
"Well, like yeah. You know," Raoul was hoping for something like seventy-five dollars, the usual fee for a session of pornographic fUming.
"Will this be enough?" Dinnie handed the lad ten hundred-dollar bills.
"Gee, yeah. Thanks, mista." He backed toward the door, bowing stiffly to ah. "So long." And a special bow to Cynthia. "Niceta meetcha, Miss."
"So glad you could come," smiled Cynthia.
"Where do you have to go?" asked Dinnie.
"Got a date uptown in a half hour with a big advertising executive. But you can call me any time, mista-any time."
"What's his scene?" asked Din.
"Takes it in the ass," said the pretty boy. "Well, so long."
After he had left, Dinnie turned to Cynthia. "That was very good, dear. Only trouble is that watching it through the viewer got me all hot and bothered. I damn near came in my pants." .
"So now you want to screw me?"
"If you don't mind."
"I'd mind if you didn't. The kid got me all hot and bothered. Come on, honey," she spread her legs and leaned back. "Sock it to me. Finish me off."
Dinnie climbed aboard and went promptly about his business. So turned on was he by the unique voyeuristic experience of watching sex live through a camera viewer that he was unable to restrain himself from coming rather quickly.
"Oh damn, Dinnie!" Cynthia gasped. "You came just before I was going to."
"Sorry," said Dinnie. "I just couldn't help myself."
"But where does that leave me? Hanging, that's where."
"Ahhh, Miss-if I may make a suggestion . . . " it was Eddie, the sound man . . . "perhaps I could help out."
"Oh yes, yes!" cried Cynthia. "Fuck me, Eddie!"
And the sound man climbed on. He was middle-aged, balding and slightly overweight, but he had never in his life had the opportunity to fuck a woman as beautiful and sexy as Cynthia, and he was not about to muff the opportunity.
Consequently, Eddie gave Cynthia what many a woman might have considered the screw of her life, except that with the experienced redhead, who had aroused many a passionate man to new heights of achievement, it was just another good lay.
Larry, the lighting technician, was impressed with his colleague's prowess, and hoped that he might give at least a respectable account of himself when his own turn came, as he had every reason to believe it would.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Pussy Witherspoon had spent most of the day fixing up her apartment. Now everything was perfect, including herself, being carefully scrubbed, cosmeticized, perfumed, and in the flimsiest of negligees-all primed to greet her lover, the film director, one of the workers of the world.
The doorbell rang right on time and, of course, it was Dinnie. Pussy lit the candles and lowered all other lights. Music played softly. A fire crackled in the hearth to complete the seductive picture. As she answered the door, the candles and fire provided a gentle back-lighting to outline her slim and tender body through the almost invisible negligee.
It was enough to set any red-blooded American man on fire with lustful desires; yet Dinnie seemed curiously unmoved, his kiss only a dutiful peck.
"Tired, dear?" asked his fiancee as she took his jacket.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Long day of filming. A few technical problems, that kind of thing. Nevertheless, we got a lot of good footage in the can."
"How is it coming generally?" Priscilla's role was that of the good wife genuinely interested in her husband's work.
"Very well, actually. A few problems here and there, but that's to be expected. Yes, I'd say we're right on schedule . . . How about a geezer?"
Pussy was ready for that, for as the perfect American wife she was also quite adept at helping her hard-working husband unwind after a busy day. She fetched the pitcher of martinis, chilling in the fridge, and poured out two.
Then she leaned back on the couch dreamily, thrusting out her small but firm breasts to accentuate the graceful curve of her waist: the kind of pose that usually aroused Dinnie to rape. This time he seemed not to notice.
Well, she supposed, all his energies went into creativity.
Not quite, if the truth were known: some of them went into Cynthia Hornaday-five fucks worth, to be exact. The experience of watching through a camera viewer, as the luscious Cyn was getting thoroughly jazzed, acted as a powerful aphrodisiac on Dinnie. In recent days a pattern had developed of doing a scene, then Dinnie climbing aboard for a screw of his own. As director, producer and financier, it was surely his privilege to do so. Nor did Cynthia mind: sex on camera was fast becoming her favorite bag, and sufficient excuse, if one be needed, for still more sex off camera. Cynthia didn't much care where it happened, as long as it was sex.
But, of course, Pussy only knew that her lover was strangely cold-and so, after another martini or two, served up the delicious meal she had prepared, along with an excellent Bordeaux with which to wash it down.
Afterward, young Galavan attached himself like any American husband to a televised ball game and not far into it dozed off into a contented slumber. Most unsexy.
What a drag, thought Puss, who had been more or less anticipating a rousing good ball, upon viewing her somnolent mate. Through the negligee she began to diddle with herself, and considered bring the hairbrush handle into play.
Then, as many a liberated woman has done, she suddenly asked herself, "Why am I doing this? Don't I have sexual rights, too?" The answer, of course, was yes.
Impulsively she threw a Brooks Brothers raincoat over her negligee and dashed out into the night, telling herself that one drink, just one, at the 86 Club would be enough to cure her restlessness.
One drink, it turned out, was enough to make her want another. What with the martinis and the wine, she was beginning to feel giddy, and more than happy to join in light discourse with the attractive young man seated next to her, who, sensing a good thing, had subtly instigated the conversation.
The young man, whose name was Jock, seemed a pleasant sort: attentive, a good listener to her mindless babbling (she was definitely getting tiddly), generous (he bought more drinks), and a charming raconteur on his own. A bit roughly dressed in his surplus khakis, to be sure, but looking at least as if he showered with some regularity.
Pussy liked the lad, and thought nothing was amiss when he jocularly suggested that she accompany him to his lodgings with the intention of viewing his etchings.
"You mean you did them yourself?" she bubbled.
He studied her for a second; apparently she was serious. "Ah, yes-I did them all myself."
"Oh, I'd love to see them!" she clapped her hands.
And then, upon entering Jock's tiny apartment, "Where are they?"
"What?" asked Jock.
"The etchings," said Priscilla.
"Oh, the etchings," said Jock as he courteously assisted Pussy out of her raincoat. "I almost forgot. They're on loan to the Museum of Modern Art. I'm having a small show there."
"Could we see them there?"
"Not right now, I'm afraid. The place is closed for the night."
Jock was just now noticing that under her raincoat Pussy was virtually unclad, save for the sheerest of negligees. Her cute nipples, her frothy pubic hairs-all were revealed clearly, if in somewhat soft focus. The whole effect was even more provocative for being unplanned, Pussy having obviously bolted into the night without a thought as to her attire.
At last the randy fellow could stand it no longer and silenced the girl's inane prattling with a hot French kiss, which she seemed to like, and an exploring hand feeling her tits, which she did not resist.
Only then did Pussy remember what she was wearing, but by then she was so taken up in the mood of the moment that it didn't really matter. She let the boy reach under her skirt and stroke and caress his way into the downy gates of her quim.
A deeper probing with a finger revealed that lubrication was already underway. Then he guided her delicate upper class hand, which had never scrubbed a floor in earnest, to the rigid prick he had released from the confines of his pants. In no time he had three manipulating fingers plunged deeply into her cunt while her gentle touch inflamed his throbbing sex organ to the point of open rebellion.
The next logical step, of course, was to replace his fingers with his penis, and her fingers with her vagina. It was what both of them knew the evening had been building to, and now they let it happen, joyously and with abandon. Jock plunged his cock vigorously home, subjecting this pretty, wellborn girl to a good, old-fashioned, lusty animal fuck in hopes of providing a favorable contrast to the effete types she was accustomed to.
Pussy didn't know about his fantasy, but soon realized that she was indeed more than ready for a good screw, especially after being stood up by Dinnie, and so she gave herself freely to the rollicking, couch-jarring bang, wrapping her slim legs around behind Jock's strong back to coax him even farther into her, until, with a strangled moan and a last manic, bucking spasm, he released his seed to her answering moans and spasms, an indication that the orgasm was mutual.
"Oh wow!" he breathed heavily some moments after coming. "You sure turn me on, baby."
"You turn me on, too," cooed Pussy, nipping his ear.
"What about me?" A third person was present, standing in the doorway, a rather sultry looking brunette who, though now seeming sulky and sticky with sleep, was underneath it all quite attractive, with powerful, sexy curves lurking under her robe.
"Who are you?" asked Pussy in girlish pique. "I'm Bubbles. Jock's wife. Who are you."
"Tins is Priscilla," said Jock calmly.
"Maybe I'd better.. . . " said Pussy, looking about for the negligee she had but moments before tossed away in mad abandon.
"It's all right," said Jock soothingly, holding her in gentle embrace to prevent her from jumping off the couch. "We have this kind of relationship. Very free."
Pussy looked nervously at Bubbles, who smiled reassuringly. Something about the 'relationship' seemed vaguely menacing. She noticed Jock was getting hard again. Bubbles still smiled, and asked, "Mind if I join you?"
Priscilla did mind, but was unable to articulate her reasons in time to prevent Jock's wife from sitting down on the couch, on the other side of her.
"You seem nervous, dear," said Bubbles, placing a hand on Pussy's bony knee.
"Oh no, I'm . . . " protested Pussy, but before she could go farther, Bubbles had a finger inside her.
"He made you awfully wet, didn't he?"
"Apparently," admitted Pussy, giggling in spite of herself as she was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation. But her titters were stilled by a hot, wet kiss. Bubbles' lips were full and her breath had the metallic stink of too many cigarettes along with a funk of sleep. A tongue darted behind Pussy's teeth, dabbing down her throat. Pussy felt too weak, too spent, to fight her off. Bubbles seemed so strong and commanding. Besides, Pussy experienced a strange little thrill; she liked what was being done to her.
She let herself be eased back into a reclining position, and did nothing as Bubbles began to work her busy mouth down her slim neck, then to her small pert breasts, the big mouth suctioning up each in turn, a powerful wet sucking force, then releasing them and moving the darting, flicking tongue down to her navel where it dug up a piece of lint.
Then to the inside of her thighs, sucking and slurping as she had the breasts. A crazed tongue lapping at her anus! How perversely thrilling! And then, of course, to the target area, where it probed, plunged, dabbled, licked, diddled, scrounged, caressed, probed and plunged some more until it turned into a crazy vibration machine that had Pussy arching her slim back to the very ceiling, loosing herself into the freakiest orgasm of her life, and only then realizing that another orgasm was occurring inside her anal passage-it was Jock, who had utilized both the distraction of her extreme excitation and a jar of Vaseline to penetrate the lovely Pussy's a posteriori.
Pussy felt a little silly at having been double-done, but it was useless to deny that she enjoyed it immensely. It was not too much to say that never in her young life had she been so utterly thrilled, so profoundly sent.
All she could do was accept the cigarette that was kindly offered by Jock, lift it with shaking hand to her lips, draw on it gratefully in a deep inhale, and only then realize it was not an ordinary cigarette but one of those funny Mexican ones that Dinnie sometimes smoked. Another inhale and she was so dizzy and dry-mouthed and disoriented that she thought she might be in Indo China or Kokomo, Indiana; it was all the same.
Bubbles kissed her and brought her a glass of water.
Why did it thrill her so when Bubbles kissed her? Was it true that women really know best how to please other women? So it would seem. Jock, like any man, wished mainly to please himself, getting hard again and again and thrusting his prick into whatever slippery hole was handiest. It remained for his buxom wife to find the sensitive places and massage them with her expert tongue, bringing Pussy up, magically, again to an excruciating breaking point, then over the hump in ecstatic release.
This time they lay in a tangle of sticky sweating bodies, globs and slimears of icky, gucky, slimy, sticky-drying semen showing up in unexpected insteps and crannies of flesh. A delirium of sex. Another one of those funny cigarettes.
Then those crazy people were at her again. Pussy had the panicky thought that she wanted to cease this madness, to leave, to escape, to return to her Dinnie, or to her mother. But she could not get away, and in a moment or two got caught up in the thing again, to where she didn't want to leave, didn't want this lowdown dirty sex-play ever to stop. Jock was fucking her in the ass again while his wife was eating her from below and simultaneously pulling her face down into her own gaping slimy cunt.
Why not? Why stop now? Pussy had a fleeting moment of objectivity as she stared into the hairy maw, thinking, my but women's cunts are ugly, and they smell, why would anyone want to eat them and yet some people go crazy over them, and why not? Having gone this insanely far why draw the line here, why not taste it, taste of life, taste pussy, Pussy, taste it, what if mother could see me, ugh, what a dreadful thought, no, don't think thoughts like that, just plunge in with your mouth and tongue the way she's doing, why not?
And Priscilla Witherspoon, for the first time immersed herself in another woman's pussy, doing with daring abandon all the things she knew felt good because, at the very moment, they were being done to her from the other end: licking, kissing, probing, lapping, sucking, eating, while the husband's prick forced its way deeper and deeper in a weird pleasure-pain-OW! stop that! but no, don't stop it, don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop don't stop NCOOOCKDOOWWWWWWWWWW!! ! !
Jesus, did we do it again? Is that possible? All three of us at once? No. Impossible. Except that we did it.
Another cigarette? More sex?
No, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO!
I'm terribly sore and it's terribly late. What time is it? Four o'clock? I don't believe it, but there's the clock.
Bleary and crazy-haired, Pussy staggered to her feet, found her silly negligee and raincoat, and stumbled out the door and down the creaky Village-apartment stairs onto the street, too insane looking even to get mugged, back to the pad, in the door, close the door behind-close the door on the whole shameful episode.
She found Dinnie still asleep in the big chair in front of the TV set, which was flickering a test pattern now.
She threw a blanket on top of him, and fell onto the bed, exhausted.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"Sorry I fell asleep last night," said Dinnie over his soft-boiled eggs at breakfast. "It was a good dinner."
"That's all right and thanks," said Pussy from behind the Times. "What did you do."
"Oh, nothing much."
'You didn't do anything? Not even read or watch TV?"
"Not really."
"Gee, the way you were conked out this morning, sprawled on top of the bed with your clothes on or at least that negligee if you want to call that clothes, I thought.. . . "
"Actually, I did go out for a little while."
"Oh? With the negligee on?"
"Yes. Just threw on a coat over it."
"And then came home and conked out like that?"
"Mm-hmm. I do that sometimes. Just don't feel like getting ready for bed."
"You usually take hours getting ready for bed."
"I know."
"Guess I'll never understand women."
"Don't try."
Dinnie browsed through the sports page, chuckling over Red Smith. "See anybody."
"What? Where."
"Wherever you went."
"Oh. Not really. Just the usual."
"Uh-huh."
Dinnie carefully perused all the batting averages. "Did you get a little drunk."
"What? When?"
"Last night. Were you drinking?"
"O-o-oh, a little," Priscilla yawned.
"I know you had a couple before dinner, and then wine with. Then did you have some more after?"
"Mmmmmm . . . one or two."
"Or three or four."
"Maybe. I don't know."
"Where'd you go."
"The 86 Club."
"Anybody there."
"No."
"It was empty?"
"No. But you know, nobody special was there."
"Didn't you talk to anybody."
"Not really."
"Nobody? You had three, four drinks all alone? Listening to the juke box?"
"Oh, I talked to this one fellow, an older man, very interesting."
"How old was he."
"I think he said he was 80."
"No harm there, I guess."
"Nope."
"Well, time to go to work," Dinnie stretched and laid down his sports page. It made him feel good to think he had someplace to go to work.
"Have a good day, dear," said Pussy, giving him a chaste, wifely kiss.
In order to put his movie together as professionally as possible, Dinnie had rented editing facilities at one of New York's numerous film production companies. Despite the unusual nature of Dinnie's project, the studio was glad for once not to have to work on a commercial for an advertising agency, with its producer and nervous account executives hanging about and nit-picking every detail. Dinnie was agreeably casual about small details, being interested only in the big picture, just so everything more or less tracked. He also cared nothing about money, or time. An ideal client.
"What do you think of it so far, frankly?" Dinnie asked the editor who had been doing the actual splicing of film on Dinnie's instructions.
"Honestly, I think it's damned good for its genre," replied the editor. "You did a great job with the camera, especially for a first effort. Some of the scenes are technically a little rough, but they always are in these movies. Yeah, and some of the scenes are terrific. That broad-wow, like to fuck her myself."
"Turn you on, eh?"
"Oh yeah. If I were the kind of guy who went to these things, Td sure plunk down my five bucks for this one."
"So it's good enough, obviously. But would you say it's great? Like a breakthrough into a really superior brand of pornography?"
"Gee, I don't know about that" the editor hedged.
"What does it lack?"
"I don't know-a big ending, I'd say. A grand climax. That's it-it has plenty of small climaxes, one after another, but it needs a grand climax, a real capper."
"I think you're right, Irv-that's just what it needs. Guess I'll have to shoot one more scene, a big one. The biggest scene ever attempted in a pornographic movie. A real Hollywood extravaganza scene."
"Okay, but what's it going to be? What's the big capper?"
" "I don't know yet. I'll have to talk it over with the script girl."
"Script girl?"
"I mean the girl who's helping me with the script. Cynthia Hornaday, who is also the star. She's due here in a few minutes to look over these rough cuts."
"She's coming here?" asked the editor. "Sure like to fuck 'er."
"Stick around. Maybe you will."
"You're some kidder," laughed the editor, punching Dinnie playfully on the arm, not knowing that Dinnie was more than half serious. "Maybe I'll pop in later. Gotta work on a beer commercial right now. Pays the bills, you know."
As Cynthia Hornaday bent over to peer into the viewer of the editing machine, where the rough-cut film was critically assessed, Dinnie Galavan feasted his eyes on her magnificently blossoming ass. It was not often that a fellow had the opportunity to examine at his leisure so splendid a specimen of rump. His cock, which had been much exercised of late, tingled nonetheless pleasurably and began to stiffen in his drawers.
As for Cyn, what was holding her in such rapt attention was the unique experience of viewing herself as caught in the sex act. It was a little like viewing oneself from an unfamiliar side view in a three-way mirror-only much more vivid and real in living color, complete with closeups of glistening body parts and rapturous expressions.
There was a shot of Cynthia's bottom, shot from below as the enormous shaft of that day's "patient" drove purposefully home, huge balls banging against her squishy flesh. Cyn studied the pinkish membrane of her own pussy being slurped in and out by the thick, blue-veined organ. She could see the button of her own ass-hole and a few random silky hairs about the pubic region. She sighed in a sort of "Do I really look like that?" way.
A cut to her face in closeup, eyes wild, beads of sweat forming, spittle at the corners of her gasping mouth, an expression of transport that had not been faked: the stud's big cock was really doing that to her, getting her all riled up-ah there, the closeup now of her pussy contracting helplessly-a cut to her face and the sound of her howl of ecstasy-another cut to a confused thrashing about of body parts as the spasms of her massive orgasm all but shattered the bed and broke in half the hired stud-another cut to a closeup of his cock spurting its juices wildly and her mouth trying to catch some of the stuff in midair and eagerly lapping up that which she had missed. Wild!
So immersed was Cynthia that the whole episode seemed to be happening ah over-this time, the stud's friend, having been aroused by watching, mounting her from behind. It seemed so real! She could actually feel it! And no wonder-for in perfect sync with the action in the viewer, young Dinnie had slyly lowered her panties and inserted his own hungry cock, at first slowly easing it in and out, then accelerating into quick, stabbing, rabbit-like thrusts.
Cynthia arched herself better to present her rump to his rearward assault and let herself enjoy this quick morning fuck, even more for having been so primed, understanding also that Dinnie, sweet generous fellow that he was, simply needed this relief from gonadal pressures before being able to think about anything else.
Relief, that's what it was with Dinnie, a long exhalation as he spilled his seed into the always willing receptacle of her vagina, and then went limp-just at the point when Cynthia was about to get herself over the hump.
But good old Dinnie-in the morning like this he was able to get it up again so quickly it was hardly worth drawing it out and sliding it back in. He just left it in there as he regained his breath, and Cynthia passed the time by watching the action in the viewer.
It was another sequence now. A neighbor in Dr. Sexauer's office building, a dentist whose office is down the hall, has dropped in to say hello and have a cup of coffee, introducing himself and jocularly suggesting they should trade services, he fixing her teeth free, she listening to his problems.
The dentist then laughs and says, "No, that wouldn't be fair, though-I can fix your teeth a lot faster than you can fix my head," at which the good doctor says she isn't so sure about that, her brand of treatment works pretty fast. "What do you mean?" asks the dentist. "I can't really explain it," says the doctor, "I'll just have to demonstrate."
So she unzips the startled dentist's fly and starts to suck on his little knob, coaxing it up to a more respectable size and . . . by now Dinnie is hard again and beginning a new assault on her rear, this one longer, slower, more sustained.
Cynthia presses the rewind on the machine, getting rid of the fat Utile dentist, returning to the super-stud and his pal, particularly to the place where his pal is socking it home from the rear just as Dinnie is doing now, life imitating art imitating life. The conjunction of fantasy and reality is exciting and Cyndy herself spends, and then spends again as Dinnie gets his nuts off for the second time, just before which Irv the editor opened the door for a brief, embarrassed eavesdrop into the strange, steamy spectacle of man screwing woman viewing screwing.
His second coming relieved Dinnie's tensions so sufficiently that he was able to send out for two coffees and address himself to a story conference with Cynthia. He told her that what the movie now needed to lift it clearly above the run of the pornographic mill was a grand climactic scene.
Cynthia mused awhile as she sipped her coffee, absent-mindedly scratching her much-used pussy.
At last she spoke. "I think I've got it."
"What? What?" Dinnie was eager to know.
"Well, we already have Dr. Sexauer being jealously challenged by prominent members of the psychiatric establishment.. . . "
"Which she defuses by seducing the most prominent and expensive Freudian shrink in the entire country, the President's analyst."
The others are still skeptical.
"Right! But let's say that isn't enough. So she delivers a paper at their big convention at the Waldorf-Astoria. Still she doesn't convince them all. So she invites the skeptics up for a special demonstration. There's a reception first, with cocktails served-cocktails spiked with amphetamine, special vitamins and an extract of Spanish fly, which makes several of them unable to resist her when she takes off her clothes and starts unzipping flies---"
"No, no, no, no!" protested Dinnie. "I can see where you're leading, but it won't look good on film-all those fat, hairy old men with small penises-no, that won't do at all. Think of our audience out there, guys who are jerking off under a raincoat in their laps-they'll all get up and leave if you show them a bunch of psychiatrists with their clothes off. No good!"
"Hmmm, guess you're right," admitted Cyn. "It's the wrong image.. . . okay then, how about this? Let's say the psychiatrist's uprising has been quelled and the vindicated Dr. Sexauer decides to write a book. We'll call it 'Sex and Sanity! . . . "
"There probably is a book by that name," interjected Dinnie.
"Well, if there is, well think up another name, like 'Sex, Sanity and A Lasting Peace,' the thesis of which is that once man's aggressions and hostilities are worked off in a society of universal sex where everyone gets laid as often as he wishes, there will be no more need for war.. . . "
"I like it, I like it!" cried Dinnie.
"Okay, so since this book is all about sex by a reputable lady doctor, a leading publishing house is willing to put it out, and not only that but, willing to promote the hell out of it, knowing it's a sure-fire best seller if it gets a proper sendoff."
"Like a big cocktail party for important reviewers and big book retailers."
"Right! Which those people, plus all the hangers-on, beautiful people, smart-ass chicks and so on, who normally crash those parties, will attend," added Cyn.
"Many of whom are young and attractive."
"Right, right, right! So then, when you spike the punch and Dr. Sexauer takes her clothes off to demonstrate how well her treatment works-well, what happens then can be almost better imagined than described!"
"Right! Well get a bunch of orgy people up to my pad and get them stoned and start things going and just let the camera run-let the good times roll!" enthused Dinnie.
"Not quite so easy," cautioned Cyn. "You're going to have to keep yourself under control if you're going to be a director.. . . "
"Anything for my art."
". . . and you'll need, as I see it, several cameras getting as much footage as possible from all kinds of angles . . . "
"Plus hidden cameras in the bedrooms!"
"Of course! The whole idea being to get as much footage as possible, which you and that editor can then put together in an interesting way, with long shots of a whole roomful of people balling, plus lots of quick cuts between grappling bodies and closeups of cocks plunging into cunts and people chasing each other, a good twenty rninutes of this-all to give the feeling of the grandest orgy since imperial Rome."
"What a magnificent climax!" bubbled Dinnie.
"Right! That's the climax. Now for the denouement, the actual ending," continued the fertile-minded Cyn. "How about this? We fade from the gigantic orgy scene, a bunch of naked bodies lying about the day after, totally spent, though maybe one couple is still half-heartedly trying to make it, to a scene inside a very important looking conference room."
"Who's in conference?"
"The principle leaders of the world-representing Russia, China, the U.S., Great Britain, France, Japan, Germany, et cetera-all around this table, looking very benign. We move in on one of the leaders, let's say the big man in China, who is proposing a toast to this historic treaty of universal peace and brotherhood, ending wars forever, universal disarmament, the whole bit.. . . "
"I like it, I like it!" Dinnie clapped hands joyously.
". . . and we move slowly down to his crotch, where I, the miracle-working Dr. Sexauer, am copping his joint. Freeze, super-impose a peace sign, and that's the end. Like it?"
Dinnie lit one of his Mexican cigarettes and drew deeply on it, as if to celebrate the successful culmination of his big project, although of course the actual filming had yet to be done.
"Cynthia, dear," he pronounced, "I think you've done it again."
"Shall we fuck on it?" asked the redhead as she unzipped his fly.
"Why not?" said Dinnie, letting himself get splendidly hard.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Casting the climactic orgy scene proved to be more of a problem than Dinnie had anticipated. Many of his uptown friends were professional people-some were even celebrities-who feared that being recognized in an orgy scene might not be the best possible thing for their images. An any-thing-goes private party was one thing; a movie that might-these days-be seen by anyone, that was something else. It could cause incalculable harm to careers.
A few of those beautiful people did respond favorably, but not enough to make for a really impressive mass gang-bang of the sort that Dinnie had in mind. Clever camera work and editing can often make a few people seem like a crowd, as has been demonstrated in countless Hollywood battle scenes; but Dinnie disdained fakery. He envisioned, specifically, a long shot of his own spacious living room teeming with naked bodies grappling in carnal embraces-a veritable human can of worms. It was an effect that might be simulated with skillful use of mirrors, but Dinnie wanted absolute realism and would settle for no less.
He needed bodies. The Village bars could no doubt provide many, since a movie orgy was surely a more interesting way to make a few bucks than moving heavy furniture, but the habitu�s of Village bars were not on the whole the sort of people one might see at a publisher's chic cocktail party.
There were, of course, smartly dressed patrician types in Village bars, but these tended far more to alcohol than to sex; so Greenwich Village, the legendary hotbed of American Bohemianism, proved a surprisingly barren source of high-class orgy material, though the neighborhood did yield a suitable prospect or two.
Dinnie phoned his old pal Hedda Hooker, who predictably accepted with alacrity, and moreover promised to bring along a John of hers whose special kick was performing in front of a videotape machine and then watching the playback. The short barrel-house blonde who had been such an active participant at his last party also accepted, even though her husband did not.
Cynthia was able to round up three or four acquaintances whose love of orgies exceeded their fear of unwelcome publicity. Discreet inquiries uncovered three or four more prospects-persons who actually liked the idea that what is usually considered the most intimate and private part of their lives might be witnessed by millions.
Thus was an appropriately sizeable quorum lined up. Dinnie, still seated at his telephone, racked his brain for a final body or two. And only then thought of what should have been one of his original choices: Karl Stark.
"Yeah, he's been in here," sighed Red at the 86 Club, "getting bad again."
Dinnie realized he had all but forgotten his protege of late. "Bad again?"
"Yeah. He was just fine for awhile, never seen him look better, no stuttering, hardly any funny movements-he was in a-one shape, which means he wasn't coming in here much, just dropping in to say hello now and then, between looking for a job uptown."
"And then?"
"Same old thing. A little nervousness at first. Then starting in on the martinis, and before you knew it he was right back where he was before, only even worse, like a real troublemaker."
"Where is he now?" inquired Dinnie.
"Here. Conked out with his head on the bar. Wish you'd come and get him. An obstreperous drunken spastic isn't the best thing in the world for business, even in a joint like this."
"Okay. Just hold him there until I arrive."
"Don't worry. He ain't goin' nowhere."
Dinnie hung up, mightily pleased with himself. Of course! Karl Stark was absolutely made to order as the difficult subject on whom the good Dr.
Sexauer demonstrates her therapeutic technique to the assembled reviewers and retailers.
It would be a rough scene for Cynthia, but Dinnie had absolute faith that she could bring it off.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Priscilla Witherspoon sat curled up in a comfortable armchair before a crackling fire in her small but neat apartment, reading book six of "The Forsyte Saga" and thinking how cozy, comfortable and well-ordered her little life was.
If only she had a husband seated in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace, reading his own novel, perhaps smoking a meditative pipe, with a faithful hound snoozing at his feet, the picture would be complete, perfection itself.
Indeed, there were encouraging signs that Dinnie was beginning to outgrow some of his more flagrant youthful excesses, and coming, however fitfully, into his maturity. Surely she had never known him to show such sustained interest in anything as he had shown in this movie he was making. He didn't want to talk about it, true-but that was all right because he was obviously doing it, which was far, far better.
Pussy felt a gush of affection for her fiancee, rake though he sometimes was, and impulsively decided, laying aside her Galsworthy and her pert little horn-rimmed glasses, to pay him a surprise call this fine evening.
As she approached her lover's brownstone, she sensed that behind its drawn drapes something might be going on, and paused on the sidewalk, wondering what it could be. A crack in the drapes revealed that the light was bright in the living room, yet no loud music could be heard, only a muffled hint of activity within.
It was nothing, probably. So she ascended the front steps and inserted her own special key in the lock of the big front door, quietly, better to surprise him.
Instead, it was Pussy who was surprised. Overwhelmed might be a better word. Totally unprepared for the scene which greeted her horrified eyes.
The living room was so crammed with naked bodies in various stages and positions of copulation that Priscilla had the awful thought that she had overturned a large rock. It took her a long moment to be able to see beyond the writhing mass of flesh and begin to discern components thereof.
Overlooking it all was her own dear Dinnie, resolutely moving his big camera in a slow pan across the scene despite the distraction of a beautiful woman avidly sucking his long penis. She could see another camera-two, three-positioned elsewhere in the room. The barrel-house blonde was attempting to swallow a large male organ while being energetically mounted from the rear.
An attractive older woman and a spectacular younger woman were coupled in that mutual act of oral intercourse commonly known as soixante-neuf. A man lay helplessly on his back as one woman rode up and down upon his erection while another pressed her gaping snatch down upon his face; the two women, facing one another atop him, exchanged a passionate French kiss.
With a gasp of disbelief and dismay, Priscilla even saw three women hungrily loving one another in a mad oral daisy-chain. It seemed, in fact, that a large proportion of the ladies present were occupied with one another, rather than with suitable male partners.
This, of course, left a surplus of males. Three men, for instance, were attempting to disengage that awful little crippled fellow from the magnetic Cynthia Hornaday, to whom, evidently, he had been fastened far too long, so that it was clearly now time to allow others a fair crack at her.
The spastic, finally sprung loose so that another man might mount the luscious Cyn, spun about wildly, his enormous tool waving red and glistening, until he spotted the young and beautiful one of the sixty-nining pair of women, and, despite her vehement cries of protest, succeeded in formidably entering her even as her lady friend scratched and clawed at him.
So preoccupied had Priscilla become in witnessing this revolting, yet fascinating, mass spectacle that she neglected to consider what effect her own presence might have upon it. She soon found out, however, as three unattached men spotted her standing primly in the doorway and with coarse guffaws attacked and began roughly to disrobe her. When she refused to cooperate, attempting instead to fight them off, they simply ripped her clothes from her until only shreds of a once-expensive dress remained as hopelessly inadequate cover for her slim, pink body.
Pussy screamed, hoping to attract Dinnie's attention, but her lover's only response was to move the direction of his camera until it was aimed at her, adjusting the zoom lens to bring the action closer, though jerking the camera slightly as he released a splendid orgasm into the mouth of the woman at his crotch.
Poor Pussy realized then that, just as with those awful moving men, she was caught in a situation from which there was no escaping. All she could do was cope with it, as gracefully as possible. She closed her eyes, trying to get herself into the mood, trying to get a little lubrication going, thinking hard about her favorite fantasy-lover. Thus did she smooth the way for the man who was forcing his tumescent member into her.
She settled down for a good screw, knowing that it would surely be followed by another, and another, and God knows what else, until the long night had mercifully passed.
It was a far cry from "The Forsyte Saga."
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
"Dinsmore, my auditors tell me that you have already expended several hundred thousand dollars on this movie project of yours," said Grover C. Galavan, addressing his son over lunch at the Harvard Club.
"Why not, Dad, it's my money."
"That's true. I did agree to let you handle this matter in your own way. Nevertheless, I'm curious. What kind of a movie is it?"
"Dad, I'd really rather not talk about it," said Dinnie.
"Why not? Are you ashamed?"
"Not at all. It's just that I don't want to make the mistake so many creative people make of dissipating their best ideas in talk. The real artists don't waste their energy talking; they just do it."
"An admirable attitude, and one that I can readily understand. Still I'd very much like to see what you've got so far."
"I'd rather not show it to you until it's all put together just the way I want it."
"Will you show it to me then."
"No."
"But why not?" the elder Galavan banged the table, drawing an inquiring glance from a solicitous waiter. "What can be your objection?"
"Dad, didn't we agree that the only thing that really matters is whether the thing makes money?"
"That's the crucial consideration, no doubt about it."
"Well then, hold up your end of the agreement."
Father Galavan had no answer to that one, and finished his meal in silence. As his son rose to leave, however, he had one last word: "All right. I won't say anything more about it. But that movie of yours had better earn back what it cost to make, or at least come reasonably close to doing so, or I may have to take a long, hard look at your entire financial situation."
Dinnie's next stop was in a setting quite different from the Harvard Club, a musty old building on ninth avenue that housed the grubby offices of several film distributors. As "Lay Analyst" whirred to a halt in the smoky little screening room, Morrie Goldfish, gnawing on the slimy butt of a cigar, grunted.
"Like it?" asked Dinnie, hopeful of encouraging comment.
"Yeah, it's a good porn. The broad is terrific.
Great scene toward the end. Wuddid it cost yuh to produce?"
Dinnie thought a moment "Gee, I have no idea."
The cigar slid wetly from Morrie's fat lips. "You don't know."
"Uh-uh," admitted Dinnie. "No idea."
"More than ten grand?"
"Oh yes-Fd usually spend that much in a day. At least"
"And how long were yuh shootin' it?"
"I don't remember, wasn't paying attention, three, four months I guess."
"Wow! You prolly spent a couple hunnerd grand."
"I'm sure. More than that, probably. Much more. I was always very generous with the actors and technicians and things."
Morrie Goldfish looked Dinnie over as if he were a Martian. "You don't expect to make all that back, do yuh?"
"I certainly hope to. Dad whl be awfully pissed off if I don't."
"Ferget it. No way."
"But the movie ought to make money, oughtn't it?"
"For the theaters, sure."
"But what about me? I made the thing." . "That don't matter-you'll get screwed."
"But if theaters all over the country are making good money on my movie, why can't I get some of it?"
"It don't work that way."
"Why not? Can't I ask to see their receipts or something?"
"Sure, but they'll never show you the right figures."
"How can I know how much money I'm supposed to be getting."
"You can't."
"There must be some way."
"No way."
"No way?"
"No way. Unless you own all the theaters."
"Whew!" Dinnie exhaled in relief. "You had me worried there for a minute."
"But you ain't worried now."
"No. Got it all figured out."
"Yeah? How?"
"Very simple. I'll just buy the theaters."
"All of 'em?"
"No. Just one in every large city."
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
As she approached Dinnie's brownstone this time, Pussy Witherspoon was understandably wary, opening the front door just a crack and peeking shyly in to ascertain that the house was more or less empty before entering
She also hoped that Dinnie was not at home. She wished to do her business quickly and quietly, pick up a few of her things-a toothbrush, diaphragm, some cosmetics and perfumes, two or three dresses hanging in a closet, a treasured book or two she had loaned her onetime fiancee-and then leave the place forever, seeing neither it or its owner ever again. She wished the break to be surgically clean.
But she found Dinnie in the master bedroom, packing two suitcases. In one he was tossing clothing and toilet articles; the other, which lay open, was crammed full of hundred-dollar bills, large batches of them wrapped with rubber bands.
"Oh, hi, Puss," he greeted her, and then, seeing that she was also bearing a suitcase, "Where are you going?" When she did not answer, he continued. "I'm going to take a little trip around this wonderful country of ours-I was just about to call and tell you. Just a whirlwind trip to various cities here and there-" he squinted at a gas station map of the U.S.A. spread out on his bed "-like, you know, Boston, Cleveland, Atlanta, Memphis, Indianapolis, Denver, San Francisco, Chicago and . . . I don't know, I'll just play it by ear. Gunna buy me a few theaters."
When she still did not answer, he turned to look at her as she neatly folded dresses into her suitcase, tight-lipped and grim, as austere as any of her Puritan ancestors.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You sore or something?"
Slowly she turned to face him, her small face livid and tense with ill-suppressed rage. She seemed to be searching for adequate words, moving her lips silently, then shook her head brusquely and returned to her packing.
"You are angry," Dinnie pronounced. "What on earth for?"
She whirled on him: "What the fuck do you think I'm angry for you rotten mother-fucking creep of a sex maniac!"
"Oh, you mean the other night?"
"The other night I was raped! Raped by at least a dozen men! And women! At least there were no animals, that I remember at least!"
"Apparently a lot of people consider you sexually desirable. I should think you'd be pleased," offered Dinnie.
"And while they were ripping off my clothes . and fucking me," she screamed, her contorted mouth drooling spittle as she pointed a shaky but accusing finger at him, "you were taking pictures of it! Movies! Moving fucking pictures!"
"But, don't you understand?" Dinnie gestured pacifically, trying to explain. "That was the best part of the whole scene, because it was so spontaneous."
"Oh God!" Priscilla cried, smiting herself on the forehead.
"I mean, the others did all the right things, but they were kind of mechanical about it. Whereas, when you walked in cold, looking all prim and proper and as if you'd come to the wrong place, and those guys grabbed you and ripped off your Saks Fifth Avenue dress and then screwed the shit out of you-that was magnificent cinema! Serendipitous! The kind of thing that can't be planned or rehearsed, it has to just happen-and I got it all down! On film! It's the last beautiful touch that makes the movie!"
"If you put that in your movie, if you ever, ever show that in public," Pussy said menacingly, "I'll sue you for a zillion dollars. I'll strap you with the biggest lawsuit in history!"
"I knew it!" Dinnie declared triumphantly. "I knew it-you're a gold digger! You're after my money!"
"Money, hell-I hope I don't have to sue you! I hope you'll just leave that part out of your rotten fucking movie. It's not money, it's my reputation -don't you understand?"
"Reputation? But nobody you know is going to see a movie like that."
"How do you know nobody I know.. . ? "
"And anyway, it was obvious that you were being forced into it against your will, so it doesn't really reflect badly on you at all," Dinnie explained, pleased with his cool logic.
Pussy sighed. How could one reason with such a madman? "All right. Regardless of what you think is right or wrong, I'm simply telling you now that if you use that part in your movie, I will simply sue you for an enormous sum of money. Is that clear?"
"Well, in that case," Dinnie threw up his hands-how could he reason with someone so stubborn?-"I'll just have to hire a more expensive shyster than you can, or maybe buy off the judge. There aren't too many judges around who won't give you a break if the price is right."
Despite her sheltered background, Priscilla knew enough of the world to realize that there was truth in what Dinnie said, and that perhaps she had better adopt a different attack. Her manner softening, she went over to Dinnie and leaned against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I just feel so helpless sometimes. I'm a woman. I need someone to protect me."
"There, there," Dinnie patted her, a little surprised at her sudden change of heart but knowing that women often did such things, "it's all right I understand."
"Then you'll take care of me? Protect me?"
"Of course, dear."
"And you won't put me in your movie?"
"No, you stay in the movie because it's the best part, and I must be true to my art, regardless of personal feelings."
"Putty putty pwease?"
"No, dear-it stays in," he declared, gently but firmly.
Another tack. "Dinnie, do you want to fuck me?"
"Of course." His ever-ready cock stirred to life. "I want you to. I'm dying to feel you inside me.
Dinnie realized he had been so busy lately he hadn't had sex in three days! A tidal wave of desire surged through him, a sudden, overwhelming hunger for Pussy's pussy, with its fine hairs framing it, its soft tissues, its gentle musk. He wanted to eat it, ravage it.
In no time he had her on the bed, panties off, spread wide, and was eagerly gobbling away at her honey-pot, rimming and ramming and prodding with his tongue, digging deep, slurping like a dog at his dish while fitfully rubbing his hard-on against the mattress. Somewhere above him he could hear Priscilla talking.
"No, dear, no!" she cried, pulling at his head as if to draw it away. "Not unless you promise not to use me in your movie."
Unable to wrench his head from the object to which it had become so firmly fastened, she managed to twist her body around so she was facing away from him, thereby removing him from the cunt he so coveted. "Promise not to use me," she commanded.
His only response was a tormented little moan as he returned to his mission with renewed zest, orally attacking now her rear, licking and tonguing her anus with the same insane enthusiasm he had applied to her front, biting her cheeks, trying to force his tongue into the very aperture:-how fortunate that she had showered just before corning. Or how unfortunate.
"Stop!" she cried. "Stop this at once." She locked her legs tight together, using all the muscles developed on ski slopes or playing field hockey, confining his incursion to her rear, let him lap at that as much as he liked, as if to say, "Kiss, my ass."
If Dinnie felt limited, his actions did not show it. His crazy mouth and tongue played hell all over her round little bottom as if it were the Garden of Eden, her button the original forbidden fruit. It was exciting, she had to admit. Slightly, involuntarily her legs parted just a fraction of an inch, but his ambitious tongue exploited the fissure instantly, probing forward to find again her magic slit, his nose now fixed into her anus. She relaxed a tiny notch more.
That was all Dinnie needed. In one quick movement, he was atop, behind and inside her, ramming his big cock into her main treasure from behind, in the fashion of dogs, forcing it farther and farther in until it was buried to the hilt.
As he worked into the primal rhythm of his sex movement, Priscilla had to admit that there was just no getting around it; it felt awfully good.
Dinnie missed the plane he was going to catch, in fact, the next several. But that was all right. He didn't know where he was going anyhow.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
In the back seat of a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce which he had rented for the occasion, Dinnie Galavan, dressed to the teeth in the almost-obsolete splendor of white tie and tails, read with deep satisfaction the full-page ad in the Times. In the kind of imagine script normally reserved for formal invitations, a discreet, dignified announcement, set amid a sea of white space, read:
We are proud to announce a historic breakthrough in film-the world's first true hard-core pornographic epic, in which all the resources of Hollywood movie production have been applied to create a motion picture designed especially for mature audiences-a film which breaks all previous bounds in showing intimate acts in intimate detail, a film which as none before will shock the prude and delight the connoisseur, a film which simply has to be seen to be believed.
Its showing to the mature viewing public, for the first time anywhere, will commence today. Be among the first to audit this landmark in motion picture history. 'Lay Analyst' is an experience you will treasure for the rest of your days, and nights.
Dinnie slapped the folded newspaper onto Cynthia Hornaday's sequined knee. "There it is, baby -class!"
"Full page in the Times," the redhead mused, stunning in mink and a specially fashioned gown. "Must have cost a pretty penny."
Dinnie dismissed this small consideration with an impatient wave. "The Times and fifteen other papers, one in each city where it's opening."
Cynthia glanced out at the milling Broadway crowd through Which the limousine was making slow progress, a melange of muggers, thrill-seekers and bewildered tourists. "But don't you think maybe it's a little over their heads?"
"What do you know about their heads?" asked Dinnie. "There's a great audience out there."
The limousine drew up in front of the theater premiering "Lay Analyst." It was a onetime cinema palace whose business had so decreased since the great days of the Depression that it had been available for purchase at a ridiculous price. Though its veneer of Moorish splendor was somewhat faded and cracked, the place still possessed a certain grandeur if only because of its immense size.
On seeing the marquee, which proclaimed her as "the greatest sex-sation in movie history," Cynthia's eyes misted: she had always wanted to see her name in lights. Out on the sidewalk, passers-by and a few scraggly idlers watched in gape-mouthed curiosity as a little man in brown coveralls aimed an enormous spotlight at the dank, smoggy skies blanketing Manhattan.
As the chauffeur opened the limousine door with a flourish, Dinnie aimed a polished pump at the mucous-pocked sidewalk, emerged, carefully adjusted a top hat upon his head and glanced about aloofly before taming about to assist Cynthia through the same door. Arm in arm, the two posed for non-existent flashbulbs and a growing gathering of gaping onlookers before sweeping grandly into the theater, nostrils aloft, Dinnie with his Jack Norton white silk scarf, Cyndy with her huge Southern California sunglasses, envy of the unwashed rubble.
Even Dinnie, who was not always the most practical fellow, realized how incongruous was his little show of pomp; yet it appealed to his sense of the romantic, evoking as it did memories of mighty Hollywood in its glory days of insouciant gaudiness. It was an indulgence to which he treated himself, as a small boy might to an enormous concoction topped by whipped cream and a cherry.
It was also, whether or not he realized, a nice touch of showmanship, unnecessary yet intriguing. At least three or four bystanders who had been loitering ambivalently in the area, trying to dope out whether or not this strangely advertised new porn release might actually be worth their five dollars, were sufficiently impressed by Dinnie's grand entrance to form themselves into a small but spontaneous line at the box office. Others, coming along, saw the line and joined it. "Lay Analyst" was launched on Broadway.
Inside, the crowd seemed at first disappointing, but this appearance was deceptive, for the auditorium was a vast one, augmented by a spacious balcony which could accommodate a goodly number of paying customers without seeming crowded. Dinnie congratulated himself on his shrewdness in buying up such palatial antiques in each of sixteen cities, for they provided an ideal setting in which to view pornography.
At most times of the day or night, a man could seat himself in an area sufficiently isolated to allow him to build a cocoon of private fantasy. With no close neighbors, if the action on the screen sufficiently stimulated him, he could masturbate. Or screw his girlfriend in a remote part of the balcony. Dinnie had instructed his managers to be as permissive as possible of such goings on. "I want my customers to have fun," he had said.
Now, in his very own New York theater, he and Cynthia sat down to watch their masterpiece play for the first time before a paying audience. The occasional titters upset him, for it had not been Dinnie's intention to make a comedy; but more often the rapt silence spoke volumes and the suggestion of heavy breathing or the muffled slapping of flesh was music to Dinnie's ears.
Cynthia, for her part, savored the onanistic thrill of seeing herself being ravished on the screen, her very own cunt in varied glistening hues of pink, red and purple, 20 feet high, now being penetrated by a purple-veined cock 40 feet long, soft, wet lips forced inward by the thrust, drawn slurpingly back out, in, out, in, out, faster, faster, faster until the log-like cock pulls out and spurts a geyser of thick, milky goo upon Cynthia's Mount Rushmore profile. "I love it, I love it!" she whispered, directing Dinnie's hand to her sopping cunt while groping for his granite rod.
At last, Cynthia, squirming uncomfortably on her seat, excused herself, ostensibly to visit the lady's room but actually to quietly tour the theatre and see with her own eyes the effect her movie-self was having on various members of the audience. It excited her that she might be exciting them.
In the balcony she found what she was looking for: a salesman with a raincoat in his lap to conceal what was almost surely a self-manipulation of his penis. Cynthia slid quietly to a seat just behind the man until she was certain, then she eased next to him.
Embarrassed, he stopped whatever he was doing and stared fixedly at the screen where Cyndy, as Dr. Sexauer, was now helping a character portrayed by Hedda Hooker overcome her fear of a lesbian relationship. As the two luscious beauties voraciously ate each other, the real-life Cyn groped a hand under the salesman's raincoat and found, sure enough, a penis outside of its pants, though flabby now from fear of exposure.
A bit of sympathetic fondling and the thing was stiff as a post and leaking like a squeezed toothpaste tube. The only humane thing was to relieve it and Florence Nightingale did just that as she slyly lowered her head onto it. The man must have been well-primed, for a little tonguing and one good suck was all it took for him to fill her mouth with his spending.
Not being a swallower, Cyn spit it out upon the floor, snipping off the last dangle with her ladylike pinkies, then favored the stunned gentleman with a smile of thanks. For the first time he got a good look at her face and clearly recognized it as that which was also showing on the screen. When he told friends later what had happened, they didn't believe him (but several went to see the film anyway, just in case).
"Did you get lost?" asked Dinnie when she returned. "Never mind-I can guess what you were up to."
And they settled back to watch the movie. It was the final orgy scene. Cyndy watched her benevolent influence transform Karl Stark, in an implausibly short time, from a frightened cripple into a raging bull. "That little guy sure can fuck," she said admiringly.
Then Priscilla entered the front door, looked aghast upon the seething roomful of coupling flesh, was set upon by three sex maniacs who ripped away her clothing and had at her in a rape scene of stunning realism.
"Either she's a great actress or she's really being raped," commented Cynthia.
"It's the latter," said Din. "She just wandered in."
"And you let them do that to her."
"Sure."
"But she's your fiancee."
"I know, but I get my kicks watching her get it."
"Would you like to watch me giving it to her?" asked Cyn.
"Yeah! Maybe we could work out a little menage a trois."
"I ate her pussy at that earlier orgy, but she was pretty stoned. Think she'd go for it sober?"
"If we twisted her arm a little."
"She does seem pretty square."
"She is. Upper class girl, went to all the proper schools, and then Smith College. You know the type."
"She went to Smith? My God, so did I." They sat in silence until the movie ended. "Let's split," she said. "Where to?"
"Someplace where we can ball. Watching myself on the screen like that gets me all horny."
"How about the Plaza?"
"Sure. In the bridal suite."
Once in the room they could hardly get their clothes off fast enough. As often as Dinnie had fucked the redhead, she continued to excite him inordinately. Hers was exactly the kind of just slightly overripe body that drove him mad with lust.
For an hour they went at each other like two animals in heat, fucking on the bed, on the couch, on the floor, on the table, in the chair, in the bathroom, until at last they were spent enough to send for champagne, watch television and drift off to a contented sleep.
In the morning Dinnie awoke to find his penis resting between the cheeks of Cyndy's large ass. He immediately stiffened and reached around to touch the silky fur of her front, probed with a finger into her slit, found the clit, toyed a bit, felt it moisten as the business end of her stirred awake.
She pressed the cheeks of her rump into his belly as if to indicate she was ready. He guided his prong through the slippery labia, still wet from his profuse spending of the night before, into the proper hole, savored the delicious sensation for a long moment, then began to move his big shaft in a rhythmic prodding.
As always when he entered her from behind, the feeling of pressing against her marvelous rump brought him quickly to a high state of excitation. Knowing that she was just getting warmed up, he tried to hold back his coming, but the excitement was too high and the itch too excruciating. His thrusts got out of hand, and before he knew it, much less could stop it, there he was, spending again, his guilt at a perhaps premature ejaculation tempered by the sheer thrill of it. Oh my.
He knew he had left her hanging, but he just couldn't care very much. "How about some breakfast?" he asked.
As he picked up the phone to call room service, he realized that Screw magazine was due out that very day, perhaps with a review of Lay Analyst, and he suddenly felt like a playwright hungering for the first word, good or bad, from the critics.
"Two large orange juice, two bacon and eggs, wheat toast, a large pot of coffee and a copy of Screw."
When the order came Dinnie opened the door, naked, his big dong dangling, and indicated where he wanted the cart. The bellhop could see enough of Cynthia in the bed to guess that she, too, was naked. In fact, one of her breasts was showing.
The bellhop set places at the table, neatly laying out the silver and napkins, then stole another quick glance at the lady in the bed. Now both of her breasts were showing. He looked quickly away, but she spoke to him. "What's your name, boy?"
"Carlos," he answered, too quickly, looking about nervously as if to find something else to do.
"Carlos, come get in bed with me, please."
He looked again. She had thrown off the sheets and was all spread out. He looked at the man, but he was busy turning the pages of Screw. He looked back at the woman; She was gorgeous. And smiling. "Come on, Carlos," she purred. "It's all right."
Dinnie looked up to see Cynthia's come-hither pose directed at the confused bellhop. "It's all right," he assured the lad, "she's all yours. Think of it as an extra tip."
Timidly the bellhop sat down on the edge of the bed. Cyn unzipped his fly, found his frightened bird and began to coax it to life. "My husband," she said, indicating Dinnie, "left me too soon this morning. Now you must take over, Carlos. Let's see how big you can get. Hmm . . . ah yes, very good! I think you're going to be all right."
Dinnie looked up again to see the bellhop being pulled down onto Cynthia, who wrapped her legs firmly around him to make sure he stayed there; although his mind was on something else.
"Here it is!" he cried out. "Al Goldstein's review. He gives us a super-super rave, says we're miles ahead of 'Deep Throat' and-get this!-the rating he gives us on the peter-meter-200% Wow! Ain't that something? Means we're home free! Free! WHEEEEE!"
And he tossed the paper into the air where it fell apart and fluttered back down in a dozen sheets. But the couple on the bed weren't paying attention. They were too busy screwing.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
"Would you care for a cocktail before we order?" asked Grover C. Galavan of his son.
"I will if you will," replied Dinnie.
"Very well. I think I'll have a bourbon Old Fashioned. And you?"
"Mart rocks twist."
"What?"
"Martini on-the-rocks, with a lemon twist."
The elder Galavan studied an oil portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, one of the many Harvard men who became President, on a distant wall, thinking of a diplomatic way, in this dignified setting, to broach the subject which weighed unhappily on his mind.
"My auditors tell me," he began, "that this movie project of yours cost somewhat in excess of a million dollars to make. It would have to be a feature film. Yet I've never heard a thing about it. How can this be?"
"Does it really matter if you've heard about it?"
"Not really. Our agreement was simply that the thing show a profit, or at least make a respectable attempt to do so."
"Well, I'm no bookkeeper," said Dinnie, digging several scraps of paper from various pockets, tossing them on the table, and reading from one of them, "but this says we did 35 thou last week in Cleveland. And this one says 28 in Denver, this one says 41 in Frisco, 33 in Dallas, 29 in Omaha, 30 in Cincy-"
"Are these thousands of dollars you're dealing in?"
"Yes, Dad-thousands."
"Those figures, then, represent what your movie earned for a week in each of those cities. I assume that means what was taken in at the box office. Now how much of that money are the theater owners letting you have?"
"I don't understand."
"Do you rent them the film, or do you have some sort of percentage-of-the-gross arrangement?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. No, I own the theaters. I am the theater owners."
"I see. And how much did it cost you to buy up all those theaters?"
"Damned if I know. Quite a bit, I imagine."
"You imagine? Don't you know?"
"Actually, I was able to get most of them fairly cheap, considering how big they are."
"You mean you bought up a bunch of old white elephant movie theaters left over from the '20s?"
"Right. And they're ah doing great business. 'Boffo' is what Variety calls it."
"Boffo," mused the elder Galavan. "Hmmm. Well, back to those figures, do they represent net or gross?"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Ahhhh, hmmm, well. . . " hadn't his son learned anything in all those expensive schools? ". . . gross is the total of what comes in, net is what's left after overhead."
"What's overhead?" asked Dinnie, all innocence.
"You mean you really don't know?"
"No. Why would I need to know an obscure thing like that?"
"It's not so obscure if you're in business."
"Okay, so I should know. So what's overhead?"
"Overhead is simply your expenses, your operating costs, the total of what you pay out in rent, taxes, upkeep and salaries."
"Oh wow."
Galavan senior could see that after all the years of trying to stress the importance of a balanced budget he was going to have to give his son a lesson in elementary accounting. "Well now," he began wearily, picking up one of the scraps, "let's take Minneapolis here. Do you have any idea what your taxes are there?"
"I think the guy said a thousand or so a year."
"That is very little for a commercial property. It must be in a rundown part of the city."
"It is."
"And the rental you pay to the landlord?"
"Oh, a few hundred."
"And what do you pay the manager?"
"There are two of them. They each were getting one-fifty a week, which I thought was awfully little so I raised it to two-fifty."
"And the ticket takers?"
"Doubled their salaries to two hundred each. And the projectionists-well, that's union."
"I see. So the total in salaries still can't be much over fifteen hundred a week. And the rent's a few hundred. Let's say the whole shebang shouldn't cost you more than, say, three thousand at the most."
"That seems about right."
"And you brought in thirty-three thousand last week."
"That's right."
"So your net profit on that one theater was thirty thousand for last week."
"That's right."
"If you're doing as well elsewhere, I'd guess that you'd earn back your costs of production in about two and a half weeks."
"Something like that. Is that good?"
"Good? My God, Dinsmore, that's phenomenal! In all my years in business I've never heard of such a quick return on an investment. Of course the cost of the theaters also represents an investment, but at this point I'd say a very sound investment." Galavan senior continued his estimating, his figure-keen brain whirring like a computer as he blocked out in broad strokes the potential profit for a year, five years, ten years.
He seemed stunned, disbelieving that his own profligate son could have, by all evidence, engineered such a fantastic coup, but finally, as if resolving ah doubts on the subject, thumped the table heartily and exclaimed, "By God, Dinsmore, you are a chip off the old block! I knew you could do it, boy, I knew it!"
"What did I do?" Dinnie inquired humbly.
"Two things, boy. One, you pulled off a damned slick deal. And two, you showed me that you can take a chunk of money and make it grow, and grow big. Damn it, boy-you're all right!" he clapped a meaty hand on his son's shoulder. "Let's have another snort on that. Waiter! Two more and make 'em doubles."
Dinnie was embarrassed by this wholly unprecedented show of parental approval, the first time since his childhood that his father had been anything but reproachful toward him.
He looked shyly down, then, noticing all those scraps of paper, began scooping them up, a reflex that probably stemmed from when his father made him sweep the sidewalks as a child. His father idly picked up a scrap and looked at it.
"There it is. Indianapolis. Bijou theater. 'Lay Analyst' does 37 M. Beautiful. So that's the name of the thing, is it."
"What?" said Dinnie.
" 'Lay Analyst.' The name of your movie," said his father.
"Oh," said Dinnie, and to himself, Oh-oh: the old man mustn't know. "Ah, no, that's not it."
"But that's what it says on these scraps-'Lay Analyst.' That must be the title," insisted Gala-van senior.
"Oh. Well, yes, but.. . . "
"Don't be so modest, lad. It must be mighty good if it's bringing in that kind of money. Come to think of it, I remember seeing a full-page ad for it in the Times not so long ago. Didn't read it-but a full page in the Times . . . damn it! I haven't seen a movie in years, but I'm going to see that one!"
"No, no, Dad-I really don't think you'd like it."
"Fiddlesticks, my boy! If you did it, I want to see it."
"You'll hate it, Dad, you'll hate it."
"I'll love it, Dinsmore. I'll love it."
Dinnie could only hope that his Dad's enthusiasm would pass, that somehow the press of business might prevent him from going to see 'Lay Analyst.' Otherwise . . . he hated to think of the consequences.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
As if to consolidate his gains, or at least to get some idea of what they might be, Dinnie Galavan himself hired an auditor, whose task was to gather together all the little scraps of paper and backs of envelopes, then put the figures derived there from into neat columns of intake and outgo, all boiling down to the key question: how much are we gaining (or losing)?
The auditor's complex calculations pretty much verified what Grover Cleveland Galavan had quickly estimated: that son Dinnie, in owning both a chain of theaters and the perfect product with which to generate revenue in them, had indeed stumbled upon a winning formula of enormous profit potential. In fact, "potential" is hardly the proper word, for the profits were here and now and impressively large.
It would seem, moreover, that all this money Dinnie was earning on his own might provide a hedge against whatever punitive financial measures his stern father might take against him.
Still, Dinnie could not feel easy about the situation.
For one thing, all that money he was making meant nothing more to him than a bunch of figures on a piece of paper; since he had always had an unlimited supply of money, what did it mean to have more?
Also, he could not bring himself to believe, really, that his new fortune was not a castle built on sand, that it would not disappear as mysteriously as it had materialized, that it would not one day simply dissolve into thin air, with no explanation or reason whatever, as if the whole business were some elaborate plot to build him up just so he could be brought rudely down again, a sly torment to make of him a true Kafka victim.
At least, in the week since they had lunched together at the Harvard Club, he hadn't heard from his father. Apparently the old man had forgotten about going to see 'Lay Analyst,' and there was a good chance he never would get around to it, for his time in the city was habitually spent either on Wall Street or the Harvard Club: he had little use for the varied entertainments New York offers. It was hard to imagine him going to a movie, even one his son had made, even if his own son were a Stanley Kubrick or John Huston.
Then, just as he thought the threat had blown over, Dinnie got a call from Dad. It was immediately clear, not so much from what he said as from the way he said it, the suppressed outrage, the implied menace, that he had indeed seen the movie, and that a time of reckoning was at hand, and soon. Dinnie was "strongly requested" to "come home" for the weekend. It was an offer he could not refuse. At least he didn't think he could.
So Dinnie grimly awaited the weekend, wondering what horrors were in store. Perhaps this was part of the torture his Dad had in mind, his clever, diabolical way of grinding poor Dinnie down into dust, reducing him to a beaten dog cowering cravenly at the feet of his master, hoping pathetically that the feet would not kick him, hoping for nothing more than the absence of acute pain and an occasional scrap from the table.
Well, damn it!-he would not wait for the weekend. He suddenly decided late Thursday afternoon, before he could lose his nerve, to jump on a train at Grand Central, and, well fortified with tranquillizers and a good stout snort of coke settled down for the two-hour ride.
The baronial mansion seemed oddly quiet as he viewed it from the driveway, which was more like a country road. Few lights illuminated the huge place. He remembered something about his Mums being down at Palm Beach for awhile, but his Dad was supposed to be at home, as of course was sister, Stacey.
Dinnie found Stacey in her room. "Hi, Stace. Where is everybody?"
"Pee-pee me, pee-pee me."
"No, no-not now. Where's Mom?"
"Mom, palm, bitch, beach-the sun is falling, falling."
"She is at Palm Beach. That's what I thought."
The next question was "Where's Dad?" but Dinnie didn't want to ask it, not yet. Now that he was here, he was in no hurry to see his father. So he asked, "How's the world treating you, Stace?"
"The world unfurled is imperiled. Should be curled, squirreled, and steriled."
"I agree completely. But what I meant was, how's the world treating you?" It had been the wrong way to frame the question, but then, anything could set Stacey off.
"After all is said, for one well-bred, there's always bed-and better bed than dead, I said, better fed than wed."
"Stace, you really ought to be a poet."
"A poet I am, a dram of ham in ma'am, God damn!" And she spread her legs invitingly, displaying all she had, for she wore no underpants. "Fuck the muck, buck. Drive truck through muck, no luck, get stuck, suck duck.. .
"No, no-not now," said Dinnie sternly. It had been a long time since he had fucked his sister and he was tempted; they'd had great times together in those early experimental days. But not now, not when he had come to face the music. Besides, what if Dad caught them at it? That would be too much. Just too much.
"Where's Dad?" he asked at last.
His sister, closing her legs again, also pursed her lips, clammed up. Wasn't she going to talk? Finally, she did.
"Sex hex wrecks rex," she said.
But what was that supposed to mean? Was she talking about a dog, or did "rex" mean king, or master, or what? Dinnie decided that he'd have to hunt down his father himself.
Dad was not in his bedroom, which was actually a grand suite of rooms, each with a fireplace. He was not in the living room, or the study. Not in the basement recreation area, with its swimming pool, pool tables, two-lane bowling alley, gym, sun room and sauna bath. Not in the dining room, card room, kitchen, pantry, library, ball room or masterwork gallery. Not in any of the bathrooms.
Obviously, his Dad was not at home at all. He must have stayed in the city for some reason, or perhaps had been called out of town on business. One of the servants would know, no doubt, but Dinnie decided not to bother them in their quarters upstairs. Dad would surely be back by the weekend, having instructed Dinnie to be present at that time. Dinnie would just have to wait some more in dread anticipation.
And meanwhile, why not a little diversion to pass the time. Fuck his sister? Mmmmmm-well, he could do that any time. How about that French maid? Dinnie wondered if she was still around. Probably not; he would suppose that even as large a household as this one would prove in time far too confining for a young woman of such obvious attributes. But why not have a look anyhow?
Stealthily Dinnie climbed the creaky back stairs in his tennis shoes, not wishing the other servants to hear just in case Marie was still there. Her door was closed. Dinnie pressed an ear to it
Something was going on in there. A woman's voice. Did it have a French accent? Hard to tell, it was so low. Another voice. A man's, low, muffled. A little giggle, a good-natured protest, a small commotion. What was going on? He had to find out.
Dinnie remembered climbing about on the roof as an explorative adolescent. An attic window that could be wriggled out of. Clamber up over the eaves to the roof beam, down the other slope, around more eaves, and this window should be the one that looks into the room the French maid had occupied.
Dinnie peered cautiously under the curtainsthere was just enough of a gap to see through without being easily seen, and enough light to discern that something was indeed happening on the bed.
A pair of stocky thighs, a darker form between them, a rhythmic movement that could only mean one thing: man fucking woman.
A cloud drifted away from in front of the full moon, allowing its silvery light to flood in through the uncurtained upper part of the window, to illuminate the room and allow Dinnie to see the forms on the bed much more clearly.
The face on the pillow, lips parted in half-smile of sensual pleasures as she clutched at the back of the man amount her, was unmistakably that of Marie! Dinnie envied the long, hard tool that drove deep and strong into the French girl's succulent treasure; his own prick stiffened in sympathy. He wished with all his being that he was the one who was Doffing Marie.
The pair on the bed were rising to a higher state of agitation, the man driving harder, Marie panting and clutching and-now scratching and kicking as the man filled her with seed at the same time her own contractions gave her blessed fulfillment.
The action subsided. A few words of endearment, muffled. A light went on and Marie reached for a Kleenex. The man turned to allow semen to be blotted from.. . .
The man was Grover Cleveland Galavan!
Dinnie threw up the window and vaulted into the surprised room. "You're right, Dad," he said triumphantly, "I am a chip off the old block, you . . . you mother-fucker!"
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
A bell rang at the front door of Dinnie's Village brownstone. It turned out to be Priscilla Witherspoon, looking contrite, eyes lowered.
"Pussy, what a nice surprise," said Dinnie. "But I thought you had your own key."
"Oh, I threw it away the last time I was so mad at you."
"Are you still mad at me?" She sighed. "I guess not. I'm really more disgusted with myself."
"Why?"
She sat down in her favorite chair by the fireplace and lit a cigarette, which she rarely did: she hardly knew how to smoke, took tiny puffs which she blew out quickly. "I've been having an affair."
"Oh?" said Dinnie. "Well, that's perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with a healthy girl like you in this day and age having an affair. Was it fun? Did you do lots of nice fucking?"
"It wasn't just an ordinary affair," she said.
"Affairs never are. They're always special."
"This one was very special. For me at least."
"How so?"
"It was with a woman."
"Oh? Did she please you? Did she give nice head?"
"Don't be so crude, Dinnie." Pussy snuffed out her cigarette; only slightly burned, the thing buckled awkwardly in the ash try. "We were in love. Truly in love."
"Oh? That's nice."
She seemed to want to talk about it further. "Of course there was sex, lots of it, every night and every day, beautiful love-making that just happened also to be sex."
"So if it's so wonderful, why are you so down at the mouth? Is it all over?"
"Yes," she said, miserably, fighting back the tears.
"What happened?"
"She went away."
Dinnie poured himself a few fingers of Scotch and held up the bottle to Pussy. "Have a geezer? You look like you could use one."
"I rarely drink, but-all right."
Dinnie poured her a healthy slug over ice. "Who was the lady, if I may ask? Anyone I know?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I really shouldn't tell you."
"But you will."
"No, I think I'd better not."
"Oh come on! Now that you've told me it's someone I know, you've got to tell me who it is."
"All right. It's . . . Cynthia Hornaday."
"I'm not surprised. She said she had eyes for you," commented Dinnie. "You know where she went, don't you?"
"No-where?" asked Pussy.
"Hollywood."
"Hollywood? Why?"
"To be a fucking movie star, that's why. Some slimuck producer caught her in 'Lay Analyst' and decided she was definitely star material. I helped him get in touch with her. Then she balled him silly, of course. Now he really wants her in Hollywood. What's more, it looks like he's really going to make her a star. Her first picture is already in the works, contracts signed, everything but the script, but it's all set."
"But won't that awful movie of yours hurt her professionally?"
"Nah," said Din. "They have plastic surgeons out there you wouldn't believe."
"But Cynthia is already a beautiful woman," protested Pussy.
"They'll make her even better. And change her name, of course, I think they're calling her Roxy LaRoche . . . Sexy Roxy, get it?"
Pussy's tears seemed even closer to the surface. "I guess there's no place for little old me in that kind of glamour world."
"Ahh, you're okay," said Dinnie, clapping a firm hand on her bony shoulder. "Just stick with me, kid."
She looked up, brightening. "Do you mean that?"
"Mean what."
"Stick with you."
"Sure, kid."
"You mean I should stay here with you?" she persisted.
"Why not? Everyone should have a home. Remember Karl Stark."
"The spastic?"
"Yeah. He has a home. Hedda Hooker took him in. He's happy as a lark because he gets his nuts off plenty with Hedda and her friends-they all love him. And she's happy because she keeps a rubber on him all the time and collects his semen regularly, sort of as if the rubber were a diaper, to use as the basis of her special skin cream formula that she's beginning to market in a limited way now.. . . "
"That's all very interesting, but.. . . "
". . . uh-huh, she calls it something like 'Hedda's Hormone Formula No. 3 special skin food! Hedda's kind of a health food freak, she's always swallowed semen and believes it to be highly nutritious and packed with minerals, but it would be hard to package and market in that form so the next best thing is to use it as a facial cream, which it's also very good for.. . . "
"Yes, yes, very interesting," interrupted Pussy. "But as you were saying about me staying here with you; now does that mean you'd like to marry me; because if it doesn't I won't stay. That's what I'm holding out for this time, marriage; marriage or nothing.. . . "
"What? What?"
"Do you want me to marry you?"
Dinnie looked at the girl with her pinkish eyes looking even pinker when rimmed with tears and felt a wave of warmth and generosity. "Sure, why not?" he said.
"Oh, Dinnie-I'm so happy!" she gushed, throwing her arms about him. "When shall we do it?"
"What?"
"Get married, silly! Shall we do it Saturday? I love Saturday weddings. It will be such a surprise! My parents will just die, but seriously they'll be very pleased, and I'll get my college roommate, Mary Jane Stockmaster, to come and be my bridesmaid, and-oh, there's so much to do.. . . "
She looked about the room. Despite its expensive furnishings, it showed a clear need for a feminine hand. Her first impulse was to be that feminine hand; then she thought of all the hard work involved. "You don't think it would be possible for us to have a maid, do you? I mean, it's not as if we can't afford one."
"I think you're right. Absolutely we should have a maid," he agreed readily. "In fact, I've already made arrangements for one."
"Oh goodie! You're such a nice husband," she kissed him again.
"As long as you don't expect too much," he said.
"Oh, poo! You're going to be the best husband ever, I just know it."
"Sure, why not? And now, if you'll excuse me for a few minutes, I have some things to do upstairs."
"Of course. I'll straighten up a little down here."
Dinnie bounded up the stairs, all the way to the third floor, to a back room, where the lady in the bed emerged smiling from her slumbers, stretched and yawned. In no time Dinnie had his clothes off and was in the warm bed with her, smelling the musk of her sleep and, farther down, that of her juicy cunt.
His tongue found her clit, again-it had been all of three hours since his last sex bout with the luscious Marie and he was keen for another. Switching himself about so that his bristling cock was poised so near her face that, there was naught for her to do save nibble upon it.
Oh, how nice it felt! And how insanely the musk and slime of her hairy treasure aroused his tongue! He simply couldn't get enough of it and lapped away as voraciously as a bear in a honeycomb until the tingle in his prick told him it was time to switch about again. As marvelous as his cock felt in her mouth, and as sensual as was his mouth and tongue ravishing her nether regions, it couldn't hold a candle to the good old-fashioned sensation of his cock nested firmly in her cunt, where he could grasp the cheeks of her extraordinary rump to provide added leverage for his thrusts.
And so he got on top and socked it home vigorously, knowing very well that he could fuck better than his father could if only because he was only half the old man's age. Fuck you, Dad-fuck you! fuck you! fuck you! fuck you!-with every thrust he outdid his Dad-and come he did in an outpouring impressively copious, considering how recently he had spent himself dry. But he was a big spender, perhaps the last, far bigger than his Dad, Marie had said as much and he believed her.
Yes, he was a lucky fellow, was Dinnie Galavan: still young and attractive, sexy as the very devil, vastly wealthy, unburdened by guilt, shame or morality, blessed with a lovely soon-to-be wife, and now possessed even of a sexy French maid!
Who could ask for more?
He rolled off the marvelously pneumatic peasant girl and thought of some of the ways he would fuck her in the future: get her all trussed up in waist-pinching tight girdles to make her incredibly curvy body even more curvy, with mesh stockings and black lace this and that, straight from a Fredericks of Hollywood catalogue, and he would fuck her from behind and from below and from every which way at once, and every now and then get the girl to do something domestic in order to justify her existence in the household to Priscilla, not that he needed to justify anything to Priscilla or any other female, but it would indeed be nice anyway to have a maid. "Ah, Marie."
"Oui, mon cher Dee-nee."
"Ce soir . . . tonight . . . tu f ais cuire le diner . . . you are going to cook the dinner . . . okay?"
With raised eyebrows and winsome pout, pointing at herself, a finger on one of her splendid bosoms, she sought to clarify her instructions. "Me? . . . Kook? . . . "
"Sure, why not?" said her master. "You're French, aren't you?"
