As her hips nipped and tucked in emancipated wantonness, Clarisse saw, as if a dream, other figures crowding around to witness the act. "Attababy, ride her!" shrieked Hound as Lance quickened his passionate movements, causing the girl to swivel faster in a frenzied match of endurance and consummation. Clarisse looked up wildly at the faces which stared down at her. As she entered the throes of her final transport, her radiantly beautiful face stretched in a hideous grin. For all around her were bunched the witnesses of her gratification.
She could see the bulge in every tight pair of jeans and knew it was the sight of her depraved union that was stimulating the youths. The spectacle of one of the boys kissing Angela, his hands burrowing into her sweater and down into her jeans, increased her own ardor. Pride mingled with the pulsating roar of her gluttonous surrender because she knew it was her quavering loveliness that had magnetized and aroused the group. Uninhibitedly she moaned as the first waves of fulfillment rolled up her body. Then she cried aloud as she felt Lance coil and explode within her...
She cried even louder as he left her, staggering away on his knees and leaving her to hungrily clutch the empty air.
But no sooner had he abandoned the voluptuous place of command than the youth named Grunch threw himself down on Clarisse's boiling body. "Hurry, hurry, oh please, take me, take all of me," she babbled, pulling the second figure to her heaving chest.
Hardly had the two conjoined when her frantic mind touched the thought, "who'll be next. I can't wait!"
CHAPTER ONE
Clarisse leaned against a brick wall at one of the entrances to the college yard. Holding her books high against her chest, she felt the late afternoon sun cut through the chill autumn air. Although she was standing out of the wind, she felt the cold slice between the stockinged warmth of her legs, causing her to press her thighs more firmly together. Ordinarily Clarisse never paused when she was on her way to something or someone, but a new and different sight had caught her eye.
Across the street two lean and muscular blue-jeaned legs straddled a motorcycle such as Clarisse had never seen. Around the campus she had already gotten used to seeing and dodging the myriad scooters and small foreign motorbikes her fellow students used for commuting. There was something about this particular machine and its rider, though, that actually seemed magnetic. Even though the cycle was idling, unevenly with a low rumble, she could feel the pulse of power reach through the air to where she stood. Her feminine eye tried to appreciate the geometry and functions of the mass of dark blue and chrome metal that vibrated as if seen through a mirage. Unable to feel anything but awe at the throbbing machinery, she turned her attention discreetly to the rider.
He stood evenly, balancing the huge vehicle between his legs as he talked to a girl on the sidewalk in front of the cafeteria which someone had pointed out to Clarisse as the beatnik center of the university. Although she couldn't see his full face, she surveyed the rugged profile and the powerful angles his shoulders made under the tapering black jacket. Even though his hair, long and obviously filthy, was the sort Clarisse associated with hoods, she was surprised to find herself admiring it.
The rider's hands gestured in the air as he and the weird-looking girl he was talking to laughed obscenely. From across the street Clarisse blushed, wondering what they were saying and feeling oddly envious of their superior air. For the motorcyclist had double-parked in the middle of a busy pedestrian walk, and he and his girlfriend were obviously oblivious to the neat, serious students who scurried back and forth around them. Clarisse watched them, amazed at their brazenness as they kissed each other fiercely, the girl wrapping herself to die leather-clad body as the rider's own hands positioned themselves at the gleaming handlebars.
Faster than her eyes could follow, one of the rider's hands flicked and Clarisse jumped at the raw snarling crescendo with which the motorcycle responded. She felt an insane impulse to run across through the traffic to the source of the noise, but before she could move the rider had pushed his girl away and lowered himself on the thin leopard-skin seat. To her amazement, as the noise thundered again from the short, shining exhausts, the cycle reared like a stallion in the midst of the startled crowd. As the pedestrians parted in panic, the boy lunged forward, standing on the pegs and shooting ahead as the front wheel touched the ground. Clarisse's wide eyes followed him down the street as the powerful machine cleaved through the narrowest gaps of jammed traffic, leaving behind the pungent smell of oil, and the crazy laughter of the girl who had applauded the breakneck departure. Clarisse herself smiled as she watched the alarmed pedestrians waving their fists in futility at the disappearing menace.
Regaining her composure, Clarisse headed back to her dorm, looking back over her shoulder at the slovenly but sensual girl who was heading back into the cafeteria. Why did she feel so funny, she wondered. It wasn't just because she loved fast vehicles. Her friends had been amazed last summer when she had accepted an offer to ride in a prototype Ferrari around the Monte Carlo circuit the day before the Grand Prix. It had been exciting and the driver, a good friend of Daddy's, had been impressed at how calm she was after the hectic few minutes of screaming tires and yowling engine noise. But Clarisse had always had speed around her fast cars, fast planes, fast friends.
With a shock she realized that it had been the boy herself who had been the center of her attention. She had read plenty about gangs and toughs of the kind that made up Hell's Angels. And her friends had already told her, in the last few days, that the university was only an island of students in a big and threatening city. But even in New York, she had never come closer to a hood or tough-guy type than being in the same subway train, and that only rarely. This was actually the first time in her life she had seen a gang-type motorcyclist or at least that's what he had looked like, and even so it was from across the street.
You've led a very sheltered life, she told herself ironically, thinking how sophisticated it was, even by the standards of most of her classmates. Sure, she'd had access to what the press had finally gotten around to calling the jet-set, nearly all her life. Raised in Manhattan, private schools all the way, the last two years of which were in an exclusive, finishing hostel in Switzerland. Half her teenage life had been spent in Europe, and a summer in the Far East. At the age of eighteen Clarisse was an accomplished horseback rider and a practiced skier. She was crazy about tobogganing, and had learned to surf in the wake of one of the first high-speed hydroplanes in the Mediterranean, a specially-equipped yacht piloted by a ship owner friend of Daddy's.
But that was just the general thrill of having a wealthy widowed father who traveled continually and had taken her everywhere. She had more friends on the continent than she knew people in Manhattan. She had been a debutante in both London and New York. She spoke three languages, had always had clothes from the most expensive Parisian salons, and, in short, had been well on her way to becoming an international socialite. At an age when most of her foreign friends were modeling or joining the film colonies in Rome, Paris, and London, Clarisse had returned to the States to attend the very best Eastern university. It had been a hard decision to continue with school, but Daddy had convinced her that beautiful young debs had, for the most part, a short and empty life. Between them, as their standing joke went, they had decided to "get her some book-learning". Besides, Daddy had pointed out, four years of college couldn't be too bad when her schoolmates would comprise the most gifted students in the States.
Clarisse bowed her head to the wind, her feet kicking pertly through the swirls of fallen leaves that blew along the pavement. And what did all this add up to? Here she was, coming home from an advanced freshman seminar, wearing two hundred dollars' worth of clothes, and thinking about a grimy hood on a motorcycle. There was no question that her mind didn't want to let the image go. She had that distant tingling in her tummy the feeling that usually gave her the warning at cocktail parties. And inside her bra she could feel the separate nubs of each breast chafe at the lace with a stiffness that wasn't happening because of the cold.
Wise up, little girl, she told herself. There was no point in getting a thrill out of the kind of person she never had, and never would, come into contact with social contact anyway. She kicked at a piece of paper in her own amusement. The last conversation with Daddy, before she had flown to college from Madrid, came back to her. "There's nothing wrong with being a virgin, Clarisse," he had said, with that candor that had held them so close as father and daughter. "Nine times out of ten a girl your age sleeps with someone only because she's rebelling against something, usually her parents. And I don't think you have much cause to rebel, considering the kind of life you've led. So don't play yourself for a fool." And, of course, he had been right, as always. Daddy had always been one jump ahead of her, giving her ground when other fathers or parents would have mistakenly laid down rules that would suppressed the wishes and whimsies of their daughters.
Clarisse had talked to him, though, because she felt uncomfortable at being the only girl among her friends who was still a virgin. He had mistakenly thought she was seeking permission to go ahead with some project of her life he probably had had the Spanish Consul's son in mind, who had been heavily dating Clarisse at the time. But this once he hadn't understood her. For what bothered Clarisse was her lack of desire for men. Ever since she could remember there had been boys, young men, even well-known and famous men courting her attentions. And ever since she could remember, she had felt desire, the same flowering of passion that had carried most of her contemporaries to the emancipation of womanhood. And yet she had rigorously repressed it, for the awful truth was, she knew, that the physical aspect of men frightened and disgusted her.
She remembered something her father had long since forgotten; when as a little girl of nine, already precocious and beautiful, she had sat on her father's lap before going to bed one night. It had been following a party in their London apartment. Clarisse had come downstairs to say good-night to the guests, and sleepy-eyed, had curled up on her father's lap. He had had a good deal to drink, and she still remembered how he had been unable to finish his bed-time story because he had started weeping and pronouncing the name of Marguerite, Which was all Clarisse knew of her mother. She had been so confused, just a little girl trying to comfort her idol of a father. And as he had buried his head in her soft hair against the soft flannel of her pajamas, the world had suddenly seemed terrifying to her. For her Daddy had hugged her and kissed her, drunkenly crooning the name Marguerite, and as she had struggled and squirmed with confusion on his lap, she had felt something large and stiff pulsing beneath her childish bottom.
Not until she had started crying in fright herself had her father come to his senses and tried to soothe her, carrying her upstairs, and still weeping, tucked her into bed. She had long since come to realize how lonely her father had been since the death of her mother, and that terrifying night in her childhood had been an expression of his long-buried grief. Still, it was from that day on that Clarisse had avoided intimate contact with members of the opposite sex. At the age of sixteen, when her body was beginning to rebel against her self-discipline, she had again been jolted by a young man exposing himself. That had happened at a drunken reception for a novelist in Paris, and everybody had been amused except Clarisse, whose emotions at the time had made her physically sick.
It was strange, she thought, entering the women's campus, how with such an active life behind her, she had avoided contact with men so completely. It was probably all the pressure put on her by European suitors that had made her develop the art of social and sexual self-defense at such an early age. Now, at eighteen, she was perfectly competent to check the most ardent advances of some Latin lover or impetuous French escort. And yet she had the feeling she was missing something. And her talk with Daddy had led nowhere-he had as much as given her free rein, for the wrong reasons. It was simply that she couldn't talk to him about her fear. She knew that he thought she had been on the verge of making the crucial decision, and that he thought she would be responsible about it. But nothing could be farther from the truth.
And now, on top of everything else, she was a college student, in an intense and competitive atmosphere, where if people weren't sleeping with one another, they were thinking about it all the time. From the first day of school all the girls had talked about at meals in the dorm was boys, their attractions and their approaches. Clarisse had expected some relief from this feminine Chatter, hoping that her fellow students would be interested in more intellectual pursuits. But most of the freshmen girls were from places that, to Clarisse, seemed like small and provincial towns, and they were primarily interested in the prospects afforded by a coed college. At least her roommate had more sense, she thought.
They were a funny combination. Clarisse was the perfect young female, with a slim, high-breasted model's body, sharp features, and lovely, shoulder-length black hair. Tamar, her roommate, was the epitome of the average pretty college girl: short blonde pixie hair, a somewhat heavy build with phenomenally large breasts, and a cute but undistinguished face. Tamar was from Los Angeles and while she was very pleasant and intelligent in a modest way, she and Clarisse hardly had anything in common. In fact they had hardly seen each other the first few days, with all the rush and frenzy of registration and choosing classes. Clarisse had been highly grateful when she realized that Tamar wasn't going to be a drag, but was a girl who obviously enjoyed her own version of independence as much as Clarisse did hers.
There was a loud honk and Clarisse dodged just in time as a carload of boys and girls shot out of the driveway. She could hear the laughing voices and a beer can fall from one of the windows as the car sped down the street. They were like children, Clarisse thought, children engaged in a mad game of dating and drinking rituals. It was not her idea of college. But like it or not, and she smiled grimly as she considered it, she had the same problem as many of these girls. All the worldliness and sophistication of her life so far didn't give her a single advantage where it mattered most. And that matter was her virginity. There were days when she didn't know if she'd be able to stand the desire she felt, but to even picture herself petting, much less enjoying normal sex, disgusted her.
Greeting the girls she knew who were lounging in the hallways, talking about the studying they hadn't done before getting ready to go out for the night, Clarisse headed for her room. She dumped her books on the bunk-bed and sat down, not bothering to take off her coat. The situation really depressed her at times. For instance, in four days of school, She had been approached by nine different boys, most of them upper-classmen, for a date. They were all nice enough, and all of them knew a good thing when they saw it, but she had turned them all down. How, she thought, was she going to get through four years in an atmosphere populated by fifteen thousand intense and interesting students and graduates, without solving this problem. Only when her body really distracted her, usually just before her period, was she forced to attempt self-satisfaction. And only rarely had she ever gone through with it, since the act of fondling herself inevitably stimulated the mental picture she had of an anonymous maleness.
Clarisse lay back on the lower bunk, letting her legs dangle over the side of the mattress. Working with her toes she freed her feet from the expensive Italian heels, and massaged each foot in turn with the other. The dinner chimes sounded from downstairs, but she made no move to get up. Even if I meet the most cosmopolitan students who are here, she reflected, I won't have all my usual outlets of recreation. She knew that it would be at least a month before she could go skiing anywhere; she knew no one yet with a fast car except a boy she had met in Paris who had an E-type Jaguar and that wasn't fast enough, at least in a city. There were virtually no water sports, except swimming at the indoor pool and that was dull. She could take flying lessons, which Daddy had recommended as being essential for the modern woman of her status, but that wasn't really exciting. An upperclassman she knew from New York had taken her for cocktails and suggested sky-diving, but she knew she wouldn't be able to get permission, as a minor, from Daddy to join the club. One of his best friends had been killed in an exhibition free-fall in California and, besides, he thought the sport was ridiculous. It would be no use phoning Madrid to argue about it-when he made up his mind, he made it up firmly.
Well, she thought, what did that leave? There were no toboggan runs approaching those she had thrilled to in the Alps. It was a thousand-mile trip to Florida and the only decent skin-diving. She hated mountain-climbing and similar pursuits. About the only prospect was skating in the winter-at the university rink, and that was far from stimulating. As Clarisse lay in the darkening room, vaguely counting the bedsprings of the upper bunk, her mind wandered its complete circuit and returned to the sight she had witnessed that afternoon. The raucous roar of the motorcycle filled her head again and she vividly pictured the strong masculine body hugging the enormous glittering machine. She sucked her breath in again sharply-now there was something! Something she hadn't ever tried.
Now that she thought of it, she remembered that a boy had invited her for a ride the second day of school. But his bike hadn't seemed at all exciting, and in his tweed jacket and glasses, it hadn't been an exciting prospect. She remembered now how clumsily he handled the cycle as he had driven away. From her long experience with racing cars, she knew that he had missed his shift, and at the time, had contemptuously dismissed the episode from her mind. But today-that had been a different story. She recalled how startled and excited she had been when the shining machine had leaped high on its rear wheel alone and plunged away with a shattering roar. That was something else entirely. Clarisse absently placed a hand on her stomach, to quiet the fluttering she felt merely thinking about the animal blend of man and machinery.
"Hey, stranger, what's up? Having a meditation session?" It was Tamar, back from dinner.
"No-hi, I was just lying here," Clarisse responded, lifting her head from the dark bed.
"That I can see, barely," laughed Tamar, "mind if I turn on this light."
"No, no please do," Clarisse fumbled, trying to regain her composure.
Tamar switched on the dim desk light. "Don't you feel well?" she asked, shading her eyes as she looked down at her roommate.
"No, really, I was just lying here and thinking."
"Well, at least take off your coat and think in comfort," Tamar joked. "Did you miss dinner?"
"It's all right," Clarisse said, "I'll go up to the square later and get something." Clarisse removed her coat and sat upright on the edge of the bed.
"Why don't I bring you something? I have to go out with one of our football stars, but I'm too tired to make it a late date. And the least he can do as my date is chip in for my roommate's starvation fund."
Both girls laughed. "That would be darling of you," accepted Clarisse. The blonde girl had switched on the radio to the university's classical station and was shuffling the clothes in her closet.
"What should I wear to discourage a horny jock?" Tamar asked.
"Burlap," replied Clarisse, "it's the stereotype costume of the college."
"Oh, that would be a little too blunt," mused the blonde. With a natural oblivion Clarisse hadn't witnessed before in the girl, Tamar unbuttoned her sweater and chucked it aside. As she bent over to remove her skirt, Clarisse was unable to take her eyes from the bountiful breasts which hung captive in the large white cups. The girl was really stacked, she thought, and shamelessly let her eyes appraise the rest of the solid body that stood with its back to her. Tamar stood on tiptoe to reach the clean underwear she had piled on her closet shelf, and Clarisse, as she watched the buttocks flex under the silken panties, felt an interest in this girl's wholesome body she had never experienced before. All the girls she knew abroad were slim and compactly built like herself, but there was something very ripe about Tamar which dispelled the thoughts of the motorcyclist and instead substituted an admiration of the fecund form rearing in front of her.
"Here's the damn thing," Tamar exclaimed as she drew a clean bra down. Ignoring Clarisse, the blonde girl unsnapped the bra she was wearing, letting it drop to the floor. Clarisse found it hard to believe that a girl her own age could have such fantastic breasts. The amazing thing about them, she thought, was they didn't sag at all, like those of the tired starlets who romped in bikinis on the Riviera. Each creamy globe jutted out from the girl's thick chest, their large ruby tips glowing in the soft light. Clarisse couldn't draw her eyes away as the girl fitted the clean white cups to the sensual mounds which strained at the lace pockets as her arms fastened the snaps in back.
"I'm going to have to invest in the kind that snap in front," Tamar said, addressing no one in particular. "Every time I dress I think I'm going to break something."
Clarisse said nothing, but continued to watch the feline figure as more clothes were added, obscuring the delicious body from her immodest gaze.
"How do I look?" Tamar swirled in a circle in front of her roommate, the skirt flaring up to reveal the strong shapely thighs.
"Marvelous," responded Clarisse, choking back the unusual thickness in her throat. "What time are you going to be back?"
"Oh, a couple of hours at the most. Listen, how about if I bring you a hamburger and some tea? Sound good?"
"You're a dear," the dark girl said, "have a good time," she barely got out before Tamar had grabbed her coat and disappeared.
Flopping back on her bed, Clarisse heard the girl's swift steps echo down the hall. The image of those tawny thighs came back to her, strangely mixed with that of the rearing, snorting motorcycle. Shivering with feelings that her tired mind couldn't sort out, Clarisse curled up on her side and shut her eyes. How was she going to live with this tension, she thought to herself. Why had Tamar, of all the exotic girls and women she had known all her life, stimulated her so just now? Palms together, Clarisse tucked her hands between her thighs, bunching the skirt tightly against herself as her thoughts tumbled over each other and she fell asleep.
* * *
It seemed like only five minutes later when a hand gently shook her shoulder and stirred her awake. "Wake up, dream-girl, it's chow time," purred a voice in her ear. Groggily, Clarisse rolled over, her hands, which had still been folded like a little girl's between her legs, falling to her sides. Opening her eyes she saw Tamar bending over her in the soft light, holding a paper bag in one hand.
"Here, eat and ye shall be satisfied," smiled the blonde, handing her the contents of the bag as Clarisse sat up, shaking the sleep from her head. "Satisfied!" she drowsily snorted, mechanically trying to arrange the take-out meal on the nightstand.
"I don't get ... no-o ... satisfaction," crooned Tamar, as she lazily undressed, once again revealing the sumptuous body to Clarisse's alerted stare. In a few seconds, though, she had grabbed a bathrobe and darted into the bathroom.
Clarisse settled reluctantly into the business of eating, listening to the shower fall like rain on a boat-deck during a squall at sea. Just as she was sipping her tea, Tamar re-emerged, patting her nude body with an enormous Turkish towel. "Clarisse," she said, "the wallflowers in this dorm hate you for being beautiful and not going out every night, the way they'd like to. But I must confess your self-control is something I could use. I don't know why I go through the routine of dating these guys. I guess it's just something to do."
"Why?" Clarisse asked, interested for the first time in another girl's date, "is it that bad?"
"It's not that bad, it's just that every time-oh hell, I don't want to bore you with high school gossip."
"No, really, Tamar, I'm interested-go on," Clarisse said, all of a sudden obsessed with a desire to know what her roommate did.
"Well, it's really nothing-or probably tame compared to the kind of thing you're used to, from Europe and so forth," Tamar started. "You know, a typical American college date. The boy has a big car, he's a drag, you go to a drive-in movie. At approximately fifteen minutes after the credits, he suggests you both get in back. You do, for some insane reason. After five minutes, he moves next to you, on the pretext of screening his legs between the bucket seats-Detroit's great contribution to juvenile delinquency. Then comes the heavy arm around the shoulders. Next, just like clockwork, comes a few kisses in the ear and some mumbled formula, while you stare straight ahead, trying to pretend you're paralyzed-that's part of the game, even though you want it as much as he does."
Clarisse was shocked by this candid statement, but listened with fascination as Tamar sat naked in the chair opposite her, smoking a cigarette like a nightclub comedian and continuing.
"Then comes the delicate advance feelies-the old light-as-a-butterfly approach, to convince you he really knows what he's doing. But his breath all this time sounds like the wind machine in a high school play." Both girls laughed and Tamar shifted in her chair, ignoring Clarisse' gaze which, despite herself, roved over the portions of the girl's figure the draped towel left uncovered, fixing once again on the bare breasts which stood out so arrogantly.
"He brings his hand-as stiff and cold as a corpse's, to the front of your blouse or whatever, and fumbles around with the buttons. Meanwhile there's more slobbering in your ear, or if he's an intellectual, up and down your hairline, right?" Tamar mimicked the motions with one hand on her breast and her head cocked coyly. Clarisse didn't move, transfixed by the sight of the blonde girl's hand caressing her own breast, in spite of the intended humor of the acting. "If you're lucky, he stays on your nipples, once he's gotten you stripped to the waist, long enough to really arouse you. Usually you just freeze from the cold as he moves on, unless you go into a clinch, but that only slows everything down."
"You mean you just, must keep sitting there?" Clarisse stammered.
"Well, I don't, not always. By the time he's played with my boobies, I'm usually kissing him, unless he has bad breath. But I usually play with his pants, just so he doesn't get disheartened. That really sets them all off-it's such a big mark of honor with them. But, anyway, then comes the long period while he figures out what kind of skirt you have on and how he's going to go about removing it. But that's only if he's an amateur or really bullish. I like to keep my skirt on, since I have a thing about going down in the midst of a thousand or more people. But he gets his hand up your legs and then it starts getting good."
Clarisse ground her knees together as her roommate's words suggested the feeling to her, starting a slow tickling ember deep within her body.
"I love it when someone really knows what he's doing. It's practically as good as the real thing, especially if he's got big fingers. But, I'm telling you, I really go off like a bomb when they get inside my pants. It's the same with us all-past the point of reason, right? When he really gets in there, I lose all control. I just get into his pants and work on him as fast as I can, in order to keep him going and . .
"What do you mean, you work on him?" blurted Clarisse, embarrassed by the admission of her ignorance.
"Hey, come on, you weren't born yesterday. You want every detail? Get serious. It's more than most of us can do to think about it afterwards, but at the time, well, it just happens. I never go down on a guy, though, unless, he's really put himself out for me in the same way, and then only in private. Well, so what happens? You're just starting to peak, and like the day of judgment, he's all over you. It's all you can do to hold on to him, and you don't really want to, but he needs it as much as you do. Only bang, he comes, and it's all over. You're still high and you've got a handful of nothing, and instead of bringing you off, he settles back with words of truce or some big, profuse apology, like he's not usually like this. And you say to yourself, I know; only before and a little later. So you suffer in silence and he brings you home, all very gallant and gentlemanly, and that's another exciting evening in your wide, wonderful day. Crap!"
Tamar got up and dropped the towel, stretching herself in a giant yawn with her hands over her head. "I'm going to start staying home and studying, unless I get a serious thing going."
"You don't actually do this all the time," Clarisse asked falteringly, unable to digest everything she'd just heard from the blonde's flippant mouth.
"I don't suppose I'm worse than any of the rest of us. But I need it when I need it and I can't see any reason to stew over it. What about you? You must have something going-you're always so relaxed and unconcerned. Do you have some steady, a secret lover? Hell, I don't want to pry; we're all entitled to our privacy, but none of the young innocents in this prison seem to appreciate it."
Clarisse didn't answer immediately. She realized she was now really meeting the girl she'd be living with for a year. And she was disturbed by the same shivering excitement she'd felt that afternoon. Normally, Tamar's description of the torrid date would have struck her as girlish and immature. But as Clarisse sat on the bed, trying to sort out her reactions, she knew she was learning about a part of her own country which she had never given any thought to. Sex had always been a matter of sophisticated jokes or worldly confidences shared with her most intimate and mature friends. Now all the tension in her, especially the confusion aroused that afternoon, was coming to a head.
"Actually, I don't have a steady," she said, wondering how much she should tell the cocky blonde.
"Well, I didn't assume that you did, at least just yet," Tamar said. "Anyway, I had you figured for someone who's above that sort of thing. Hell, a girl like yourself must have been dating grown men for as long as I've been going out with high school jocks. You know, there's a rumor going around the dorm that you were a model in France?"
Clarisse forced herself to laugh. "Not quite," she volunteered. She was feeling more uncomfortable with every moment, watching Tamar's nude body. The blonde had crossed one leg over her knee and was paring her toenails, bending down for a close look at her foot. The heavy breasts hung in the shadows by her body and the towel in her lap only barely covered her femininity in the contorted position.
Clarisse cleared her throat anxiously. "Tamar?" she said, as the other girl looked up into her eyes, "do you, well, do you really like that sort of thing-with men?"
Tamar swung the slanted leg to the floor, looking intently at Clarisse. "Honey, it's about the only way out. Doesn't the urge ever get ahold of you?"
Clarisse didn't know what to say. The conversation was trapping her on unfamiliar ground. She felt a slight dampness under her arms. The room felt very warm. In spite of her blinking, trying to focus her eyes in the dim light of the room, Tamar's beautiful body seemed to loom everywhere in front of her. Her feelings were reaching the point they often did in her day-dreams, but this time she couldn't generate any shame. Only an insatiable curiosity about the blonde, tawny body sitting so close to her.
"It certainly does," she faltered at last, breaking what seemed to be an endless silence as the two girls stared at each other. "But I, well I simply ... Tamar?" The other girl cocked her head quizzically. "Tamar," Clarisse admitted softly, "the truth is I'm a virgin-believe it or not."
Tamar gave a low whistle, her face assuming a momentary expression of incredulity. Clarisse decided to stumble on.
"The rest of the truth is that it drives me crazy-the urge, that is. I just never got around to sleeping with a man. I actually don't think I could. They're all so, well, just awful and ugly."
Tamar, to her surprise, got up from her chair and crossed the room, plumping herself down on the mattress next to Clarisse. "Honey, you've really got it bad. Did something bad happen today?" she inquired in a kind voice.
Clarisse was even more unnerved by the closeness of her sensuous roommate. "No, nothing bad. I just saw this boy on a motorcycle and for some strange reason it brought the old problem back to me. Tamar," she appealed in a choked voice, "I want it, I really do. I just can't bring myself to stand it. It scares me," Clarisse ended in a high sob, instinctively turning to the other girl and, ignoring the warnings that screamed through her brain, burying her head in the ample bosom as the hot tears started.
. "Hey now, settle down, it's not that bad, calm down, honey. It's all right now," the blonde responded, drawing Clarisse' quaking body close to her supple warmth. Clarisse wept uncontrollably, feeling a violent outpouring of emotion for the strong friendly girl who held her in her arms and stroked her hair.
The music from the radio gradually filtered into her consciousness again as the weeping subsided. Slowly she became aware of herself and of the other girl, against whose sweet-smelling flesh she was being hugged. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she saw the blurred outline of the curving breasts she was hugging herself to. Her cheek felt the presence of the deep cleavage and its glowing warmth as her eyes fixed furtively on the great rose center which loomed only an inch or so in front of her.
"You know," Tamar continued softly, "when I came in after dinner I figured that's what the trouble was, though I don't know why. But more than anything else you looked like a scared rabbit. And like a frustrated one, too."
Clarisse smiled guiltily in the refuge of the inviting bosom, wiping the tear-stains from her cheek with one hand. She felt as though she could sit there forever in the snug security of her self confident roommate. But Tamar had taken her by the shoulders and was now holding her at arm's length.
"Come on, relax. Let me tuck you in bed," she said, as Clarisse shook her head dumbly.
"Don't be proud," the other girl continued, "friends, especially girlfriends, are for confiding in. We all need each other at one time or another. Besides I like to play Mommy."
Tamar's joke registered in a funny way on Clarisse, but the blonde's dulcet voice had made her feel like a little girl again. She dropped her eyes and stared vaguely at the bedspread as Tamar's competent fingers undid the bow of her chic, silk blouse. She felt the light hands unsnap the hook at the back of her neckline and closed her eyes as the filmy material was drawn over her head, stretching her arms out as she bowed her head. Once the blouse was off she felt curiously ashamed of her own small breasts, now partially visible to the prodigiously developed blonde.
Tamar was humming to the music now, working impersonally at Clarisse' expensive skirt. The large girl dropped off the bed onto her knees, swinging Clarisse's legs out in front of her with the efficiency of a nurse as she drew the skirt off. Clarisse felt her senses galvanize as the girl, still on her knees, unhooked the sheer stockings and peeled them, one at a time, down her slender legs. She still couldn't take her eyes off the creamy globes whose fullness obscured the rest of Tamar's body from sight.
Then, as if in a dream, Clarisse felt the larger girl pull her to her feet. Automatically she helped as Tamar pulled the silken slip over her head, inflaming her contusion as the material slid along her sensitive upraised arms. She stood like a child in just her underwear as Tamar, still humming to the music, turned back her bed, drawing down the covers and plumping up Clarisse' two pillows.
"Come on now, pop in," she instructed the slender nervous girl who awkwardly complied with the command. But as Clarisse sat on the cool sheet and tried to draw the covers up over her knees, Tamar sat down on the bed's edge. Reaching out with one hand, she stroked Clarisse' dark hair, her fingers lingering on the slender neck, as the girl again looked away from the penetrating gaze.
"You really were upset, weren't you?" she asked. Clarisse nodded. "I know how it is, believe me. And I know the best thing for it, honey." Before Clarisse knew what was happening, Tamar had reached around in back of her and swiftly unfastened her delicate bra. She turned her head away, unable to get control of her emotions, but feeling both ashamed and proud as she felt the blonde's eyes devour her small, perfect breasts.
"I wish I had your figure, Clarisse," the fulsome girl said softly, "and your skin. You have such beautiful skin." A taut band of tension snapped in Clarisse' tummy as she felt Tamar's fingers emphasize her words by brushing her bare breasts. Never before had anyone, much less a girl, touched her naked skin there in the way Tamar was touching it. She kept her eyes averted as the music filled the silence, surrounding herself to the excitement that was sweeping through her body. Neither one of them said a word as Tamar brought both her hands into deliberate play on her pert breasts.
It was all Clarisse could do to prop herself up as the blonde's fingers, like airy wings, fluttered on her flushed skin. She felt the fingertips trace the classic round profile of her sensitive swells. They seemed like an independent part of her body and yet the novel fire that Tamar was inciting was spreading down through her body. With a slight gasp she arched her back as though jabbed from behind when the roving fingers flicked at the small buds of her nipples.
No longer able to avert her eyes she watched the knowing hands cup her twin mounds, squeezing them alternately in a subtle rhythm of lovemaking. Clarisse felt more inadequate than ever when she saw how the golden hands nearly covered all of her firm bulbs. She tried to avoid moving as the other girl's grip triggered a charging need in the small mounds. Tamar moved closer up the bed and released her grip now, only to start a relentless fluttering of her fingertips on Clarisse' pink nipples. As she stared, fascinated at a phenomenon which she'd never before been able to bring herself to witness, the aroused buds pushed forward, swelling out to taut buttons of pleasure. Unable to control herself at the sight of her own stimulation, Clarisse found relief from the unbearable sensations in a long sigh.
"It's good, isn't it, honey?" Tamar said, taking each stiff nipple between thumb and forefinger and moving her hands as if to rotate each breast individually. "Lie back and let me show you how good it can be," the blonde urged, increasing the movements of each hand so that the delicate swells stretched with tension. Clarisse collapsed gratefully onto the pillows, allowing herself the luxury of writhing under the strange manipulations. "Like it, honey?" the low voice asked again.
Clarisse nodded, shutting her eyes with the pleasure and pain of the novel treatment. She could feel the heat radiating from the blonde's body and heard the sound of quickened breathing mix with her own as the hands started to caress more of her body. The relief of their contact with her burning skin was overpowering, and she clenched her fists with determination as the specter of the word 'Lesbian' faded away like a train on the horizon. All she wanted, she knew, was for the hands to keep going, to rove over her entire being, to satisfy the frustration she had kept walled up for so long.
Feeling a hot breath on her face, she opened her eyes in time to see Tamar's full mouth close wetly on her own. Obediently she parted her lips in response to the wet, searching tongue. The briefest flicker of nausea died forever in her as she came alive under the delicious liquid contact their two mouths were making. Tamar's flying hands were unlocking new areas of stimulation all over her body, arousing the energy Clarisse had kept buried deep within herself. When she felt the brushing fingertips sweep up and down her thighs, teasing her flexed legs open, she was unable to control herself.
Giving way to desire that was stampeding her senses, she grabbed for the pendulous breasts which swayed above her. An electric thrill shot through her as her hands closed on the ripe globes, her fingers digging deep into the soft flesh. God, but they were marvelous, she thought deliriously, as she tried to encompass their swollen weight in her delicate hands. She heard Tamar moan with satisfaction as she copied her lover's caresses, rubbing and pinching the burgeoning nipples until they rose swiftly under her touch.
With a spastic motion, Tamar threw her leg over the slender, writhing Clarisse, straddling her with her golden strength. She lurched forward until one of the heavy breasts swung against the dark girl's glazed face, thrusting the turgid teat to Clarisse's open mouth. "Take me, dammit, take me," the blonde demanded, mashing the creamy fullness into the other's mouth. Deliriously, hardly hearing the urgent commands, Clarisse submitted to the enthralling prospect, and closed her mouth over the amazingly large nipple. Once she felt the passionate tip between her lips her tongue acted instinctively, lashing frantically at the captive jewel.
"Oh, yes, oh, that's much better," Tamar chanted drunkenly, gripping the narrow waist of the prone body with her meaty thighs, as she pulled the breast away and swung the other to the lovely mouth. Reeling with the contact the new mound made as she pulled heavily down on it, Clarisse stirred with further passion as her arms went around the body that had mounted her. Nothing could describe her elation as she encircled the muscular torso with her graceful arms and felt the broad curving expanse of the straining back. With renewed fervor, her mouth absorbed as much of the pliant cone as her jaws could stand, her tongue redoubling its slippery defilement of the turgid peak.
"Bite me, honey, come on. Make me feel it. Hurt me," the words came frenziedly as if from another planet and Clarisse responded tentatively by locking her teeth around the prodigious nipple. "More, dammit, really bite me," Tamar gritted out between her clenched teeth, squeezing one of Clarisse's tender mounds at the same time. Unwillingly the girl closed her sharp teeth more tightly on the wet skin, moaning at the same time as the larger girl clamped down harder in coercion. But as she tossed her head in pain, her sharp teeth raking the hard coral of the breast in an effort to get free, Tamar released her cruel grip, giving a low moan of pleasure. "That's much better, much better," repeated the blonde, offering both breasts to be torn again by Clarisse's now slavish teeth.
Tamar shifted her position and began her caresses anew, never letting the other girl stop her snapping and tearing of the vulnerable ripeness. Even though she tasted blood where she had broken the skin in response to the other's commands, Clarisse now enjoyed her control over her lover. Gratefully she pulled and twisted with her now vicious mouth as her screaming body felt Tamar's hands slide under the taut plane her panties made over her hips. She had never felt so aroused in her life as she did now under Tamar's hands, which pinched and stroked her, threatening with every movement to approach her femininity.
Frantically she tossed her hips to help shuck the restraining material as Tamar eased it down her legs. From deep within her craving body came little whimperings of lust, mingling with Tamar's masculine grunts of pain and pleasure at the welcome bruises being inflicted on her. Hardly knowing what she should do, and caring only that the strong girl release her from her agony of passion, Clarisse became an animal, bunching the sheet with the wild scraping of her buttocks, and thrashing out with her long legs.
When Tamar finally glided over the tufted hair and touched the exposed apex of the tossing body, Clarisse thought she would cry out. Sucking at one of the battered globes in desperation, she pulled the blonde down to her as she felt her body melt with urgency under Tamar's searching caresses. Locking their gasping mouths together to silence the noise of their lust, the two girls grated their bodies together, thigh to thigh, in the uncontrollable embrace of love. Clarisse could feel her head pounding with cries that could find no escape as her loins strived to match the gyrating friction of her heavy lover. Hands flying from each other's hair to their buttocks, large and small breasts fusing together with the sweat of their fury, the two girls rode each other mercilessly, sliding and writhing to the summit of abandon. As the bizarre mating reached its turbulent climax, Clarisse felt as though she were blacking out with heavenly sensations that were a thousand times more intense than anything she had felt before.
Only when the distant sound of music seemed to drift into the room again did she realize it was all over. Reluctantly she released her intense hold on Tamar as the other girl proceeded to kiss her slowly on her flattened breasts. "You were really something," the blonde said, pausing in her homage. "I hardly ever get it that good with men. How long have you been saving that?"
"A long time," Clarissee mumbled, as she lay exhausted, feeling the last echoes of passion fade away to their hiding place somewhere in the very core of her being. Well, now she knew for sure, she thought. She hadn't been exaggerating the frustration she had kept bottled up. Tamar hardly seemed important to her, now. The real point was that there was a new threat to her stability. She knew it would be ridiculous to be ashamed of the ecstasy she had just experienced. But the problem would be keeping further attacks of lust under control.
"I knew you needed it," Tamar broke in, kissing her full on the mouth again. Clarisse was surprised at how strange it felt, so soon after what had happened. "Thisll be all right, once in a while, but you're going to need a lot more than me, honey. What is it about you and men anvway?" Tamar followed up. "Are you afraid of yourself? There aren't too many girls who let themselves go like you do, either way. Hell," she laughed, "you're a tiger-is that what bothers you?"
Clarisse felt increasingly uncomfortable as she heard Tamar's unwitting words confirm the truths she herself had just arrived at. "No, it's not that. I just haven't been able, well I simply can't stand the thought of their thing." Clarisse was desperate as she realized that none of the props of her life modified the shock her naive words were having on her roommate.
"You don't need me to tell you this," the blonde said, "but you really have a problem. And it's nothing you can solve by sleeping with girls, honey. Jesus, I hate to think of you hooking up with some of the kids in the dorm, any of them, in fact. It doesn't seem like it would be your style."
Clarisse nodded, biting her hp, as Tamar shrugged and got up to go to the bathroom. "It's a bad trip, honey, for a girl with your background," came the words over the sound of running water. But Clarisse hardly heard her. Face turned to the wall and covers drawn up, she was weeping again at the impossible prospect of reconciling her woman's needs and her childish phobia. The bunk shook as Tamar climbed into the top bed. "I think you're wonderful, Clarisse. Really, you were great. I hope we stay good friends, apart from everything else." Clarisse turned her head to her pillow in the darkness, mumbling a reply as the blonde settled herself with a last "good night, honey."
CHAPTER TWO
It was almost ten-thirty when the brilliant sun finally woke Clarisse. Groggy from a nearly sleepless night of tossing and worrying, she realized she had already missed her first class. As she showered and dressed, the events of yesterday and last night flooded back into her mind, provoking the nervous hp-biting again. She took nearly an hour to get ready, following her daily ritual of hygiene and beautific discipline. But as she was finishing the brushing of her hair, a hundred strokes on each side, Clarisse was dismayed at the sight of the deep circles under her eyes.
She had always been a fastidious dresser and the slightest marring of her appearance annoyed her, much less the ugly teU-tale strain from lack of sleep. But she simply hadn't been able to get to sleep. Long after Tamar had fallen into a deep coma, desire had returned to Clarisse, accompanied by the images of her recent love-making and that of the motorcyclist. And the more she had cautiously caressed and explored herself, the more unsatisfied she had become, until finally her tense body had relaxed just before dawn. Now she was acutely aware of her body: the touch of her thighs above the stocking tops when she moved, the restlessness of her lively breasts in their lace confinement, even the shifting of her slip on her buttocks when she walked across the room.
It was ridiculous, she thought, walking to her second class in the mild warmth of a clear day. If only she could find some source of excitement, something, some thrill to distract her from the double distractions of her mental pictures and the disgust they inevitably generated as the general images led back to her specific obsession. Maybe she could find someone of her own social standing who knew how to ride a motorcycle, she thought, in which case if she learned how to control one, she could get Daddy to buy her a machine. At least it would be one way out of the problem. As it was, she simply couldn't discipline her mind to ignore what seemed to be the pre-occupying impulses of her body.
* * *
Tamar was having discipline problems that day, too. After her poetry seminar she had accepted the invitation of the assistant professor who ran the course to come to his apartment. Supposedly, he was going to show her the proofs of a brilliant article he had written on the Caribbean lyric tradition. But he was too young and good-looking not for her to be on her guard.
She was impressed by him, though, and by his apartment. She had always heard that students never got to know their teachers well, but here she was, after the second meeting of the course, sipping a scotch-on-the-rocks and discussing the elegiac poets of the Honduras. He was brilliant, she recognized, as with loosened tie and gesturing hands, he rambled from vast erudition to academic gossip. And Tamar had never seen anything like his apartment, whose furnishings constituted the ideal bachelor's hideaway, except for the reminders of poetry magazines and anthologies scattered everywhere. In spite of her misgivings, she was proud that he had taken a liking to her and was devoting so much time to entertaining her.
His name was Corey Young and, he related, he was the victim of his wealthy family's conspiracy to produce an outstanding scholar from generations of Yankee traders. When Tamar asked him if his wedding ring was for real, he had explained that he wore it to keeD young scheming girls at a distance.
"That's pretty cocky of you, isn't it?" she had asked, amused by the answer.
"Not at all," he replied. "Three girls out of ten among the undergraduates think that seducing the teacher is the best way to better grades and graduate school."
"What about the graduate school students?" Tamar rebutted.
"Ah," Corey said, "that's another reason for the ring. All the graduate girls are so tired out after college that healthy young men such as myself are forced to court Venuses from the college. And a ring gives me the necessary air of integrity while I circulate in the madding crowd and look for a likely prospect."
"Mr. Young!" Tamar reproached him. "You mean you're unscrupulous enough to go after girls who are still wet behind the ears?"
"I'm an evil man, I know," Corey replied. "But to be quite serious, there's no point in drawing any lines in a community such as this. For instance, last year, the chairman of the philosophy department divorced his second wife and married a junior in the college. And she was a girl who hadn't even taken his course. I happen to know they met one night on the river-old man, young girl, and like two kids, they took it from there. That's one of the nice things about staying in school, Tamar, there are always fresh faces surrounding one."
"Something like myself, I suppose," Tamar giggled, feeling whimsical as she tucked her bare legs underneath her.
"Exactly," replied Corey, "something like yourself!" He walked around to the back of the couch and bent over her.
Tamar didn't look at him, but made a deadpan expression straight ahead, toying with her drink as she felt his breath on her neck. "Well, now, Mr. Young, this is only my first week at school and I'm sure you don't want to confuse an impressionable freshman."
"I'll take the chance," he said blowing softly into her open collar, the modest V of which rose and fell with her breathing. "And there are always the excellent services of the university psychiatric clinic for confused freshman."
"What it comes down to," Tamar said, "is that you don't know about my chance, and I don't know about your services."
"It doesn't quite scan," Corey offered, "but that's more or less the picture. You're a very attractive girl and I'm getting to be a desperate old man."
"I'll bet," Tamar laughed, as she felt his lips nuzzle at the base of her neck. Corey moved to her ear and humming softly, flicked his tongue around the sculptured cavity.
"Ooooo, that tickles." Tamar tried to dodge the unnerving kisses that flitted behind her. "Suppose I tell on you-I could ruin your reputation."
"My reputation," Corey murmured, "wouldn't suffer if I was caught with the Dean's wife." Tamar leaned her head back as his kisses started down her face, their mouths meeting casually in an upside-down embrace. Now that the fun she was over, she was setding in for some healthy pleasure. Reaching up, she curled her fingers in his long, distinguished hair, her neck straining as she drew him further over the back of the couch. While the long kiss continued, their tongues meeting and probing, Tamar deliberately arched her back, thrusting her breast out against the light fabric of her blouse. She loved to have attention lavished on the ripe mounds and with great difficulty had relinquished tight sweaters when she arrived at college.
Corey did not hesitate to rise to the bait. His eyes drinking in the sight below him, he unbuttoned the blouse, letting the white prominence of the huge cups glare out. Without breaking the kiss they maneuvered so that he could ease her blouse off her back. His hands paused as he devoured the temptation of the creamy flesh jutting forward against the strict lines of the bra. As Tamar voiced a guttural approval, he unclasped the garment, gasping with excitement as the delicious globes swung free of their constriction and quivered separately against the air.
"They're marvelous," he blurted, breaking the kiss, "fantastic." With both hands he cupped the surging flesh from underneath, measuring their weight and firmness like so much gold. Tamar reveled in the attention being paid as she watched him test her glory for a slackness that didn't exist. In spite of their abnormal size they hovered rather than hung on her chest, two snowy mountains capped by scarlet sensitivity. The bruises and scratches that Clarisse had left from last night didn't seem to bother Corey in the least.
On the contrary, as if sensing what she most desired, he gripped them almost cruelly with his strong hands, sinking his fingers deep into the resilient tissue. "Oh, yes, Corey," she breathed, "please do." They both watched as he pulled the great cones away from her and then crushed them to her chest.
"You're just fantastic, Tamar," he said, hobbling the round melons in amazement. "I've never seen such a pair on a girl your age, or your size. These are the kind I have nightmares about. Lean back for a moment."
Tamar obeyed in rapture, cradling her head back against his hard groin, enjoying every second of his awe. As if he were tasting some incredible delicacy, Corey licked each nipple with his tongue, sending a shiver of excitement through her. He bit each peak gently and then nipped at both ruby tips while Tamar's head tossed as if on a roller coaster. "Oh, Corey, darling," she huskily uttered, as he very precisely flicked both nipples as if snapping a fly with his forefingers. The pain was sweet, however, and he varied it by pinching the softest, most delicate contours of the swelling expanse.
Gripping his wrists with her own hands, Tamar guided his hands to untouched areas, making sure the delightful goads would cover her entirely. Corey was getting more inspired by the moment. For a few terrible but wonderful seconds, despite her clinging hands, he slapped the globes back and forth sharply, each smack sounding like a shot through the living room. Then he emptied her glass and taking an ice cube in each hand, ground the agonizing icy fire against the stubbled teats. Tamar cried out unrestrainedly at the torture, her body involuntarily seeking escape even as she begged incoherently for more.
When the entire discolored areas of both peaks were thoroughly numb, Corey again brought the torture of his warm mouth and merciless teeth into play on the frozen tips. In the unmatched height of her pleasure, tears streaming down her cheeks, Tamar fought to turn herself around on the couch until she was kneeling toward him. Choking back the screams which his fingernails inspired as he threatened to sever the brutalized nut-hard nipples from their roots, her hands lurched for the belt buckle opposite her face. Yanking his pants open, she ripped the lower buttons of his shirt off and tearing open the fly of his boxer shorts in order to fully reveal the goal her frenzy drove her toward, he checked her, restraining her seeking head with a firm hand.
"You don't have to, we can finish it," he said. But Tamar thrust the obstructing arm back to the urgent need of her inflamed beacons.
"I want to, Corey, I really want to," came her distraught words, choked amid sobs. "Please let me, I know how good it is for you, please."
Corey Young steadied himself in astonishment as the frantic girl buried his need in her tempestuous mouth, her arms clinched ferociously around his muscular buttocks. The room swam around him as the golden head bobbed and twisted, forcing groan after groan of delirious pleasure from his contorted mouth. It was all he could do to remember the magnificent breasts and finally he gave up his efforts to arouse her further. As the wanton mouth whined and gasped, filling every fiber of his taut body with shrieking lust, he knotted the flashing hair in his fists. Together they cried out when the girl's furious bestiality triggered the bursting explosion of his passion and he toppled over the couch as she pulled him down.
When it was over, he finally lurched off the couch, still amazed by the willing abasement the sleek young blonde had so willingly subjected herself to. As he rose unsteadily to his feet, stepping out of his crumpled slacks, Tamar again threw her arms around his waist, thrusting the lush breasts against his spent passion. "Was it good, Corey?" she pleaded, "tell me it was good. Please, honey, did I satisfy you?" Her shining face nuzzled his bare stomach as the words tumbled out.
"It was wonderful," he stammered. "Really, Tamar, you're fantastic. You just caught me off guard. I mean it, you were wonderful. But most girls..."
"I know what you're going to say," she broke in, in a thick, muffled voice. "Most girls wouldn't do that to a stranger, and now you think I'm just a slut or abnormal."
"Hey, no," Corey stopped her mouth with his hand, dropping to his knees and kissing her as he tried to express his gratitude. "You have me all wrong. Of course most girls don't do it, at least the way you do it. But it's terrific, really. You're just one of the few girls who really knows how to satisfy a man."
"I'll do it again, if you want," Tamar said, gazing deep into his eyes, "I'd love to give you more pleasure and I can make it twice as good."
"Hold on a minute, there's plenty of time," Corey replied, checking the submissive movements of her. "Listen, we have all the time in the world. But tell me something: it's not possible that you're a virgin?"
Tamar laughed, breaking her own trance. "Hell no, you didn't think I was trying to buy you off? I'm just sick of going out with kids all the time. You really make me feel like a woman-I guess because of your age and everything. I just went crazy for a minute is all."
"Well, we have a lot of going crazy to do," Corey said meaningfully, tickling the sore nipples with his fingertips. "It's a real relief to find a girl who knows her own mind. Most of the girls who've been around the university a while act as if they have something coming to them. Your kind of healthy approach is rare, but it's an approach I really appreciate." He climbed onto the couch and held the half-naked girl close to him, continuing to caress the magnificent battered balloons.
"Oh, Corey, that feels so good," Tamar said, watching lustfully as his hands titillated the great globes. "Ever since I was about thirteen, I've gone crazy whenever anybody has touched my breasts. I used to get so embarrassed in high school. The kids used to call me power-pack, and I was really ashamed when I developed so large. I never wanted to go out on dates because it was always the same old story. I could control the boy and myself indefinitely if we were just making out. But as soon as they got to my breasts, I'd go wild. I'm just super-sensitive, I guess."
"It doesn't bother you, does it?" Corey asked, rubbing his hands abrasively across the raw rosy peaks.
"No-God, the truth is I can't get enough. Sometimes just wearing a bra drives me nuts, especially on a warm day. But it made it kind of difficult to stay a virgin. I held out the way all girls try to, but I was going steady with this guy my last year and he really used to capitalize on my weakness. He wouldn't even take my clothes off. We'd sit there in the car and he'd arouse me through my sweater or whatever I had on, until I had to satisfy him to make him stop. And then one night we got carried away and he laid me, right in my own living room." Tamar paused to look at Corey, who was listening to her story intently as he increased the pressure of his inflammatory motions. "I hope you don't think I'm being too frank. It's just that you really make me feel self-confident."
"Ah, the gift of the poet," Corey smiled. "Tamar," he said, facing her as she grimaced under the force of his relentless hands, "you certainly impress me, compared to most girls your age. There aren't many kids who face facts the way you have and still keep some self-control."
You're telling me, thought Tamar, picturing her confused and tremulous roommate. But it was hard to concentrate any more, as her aching breasts started her body heaving with desire. She prayed that Corey would take her, since a few more minutes of the excruciating pleasure would drive her, she knew, to fresh degradation. But her fears were in vain.
Corey had bent forward and taken one of the jutting cones in his mouth. "Oh, darling, oh yes, Corey, please my darling," Tamar signed as she fell back along the couch, holding on to his large head for dear life. "Oh, my darling, don't stop, on please," she begged, as he mouthed each swelling with liquid homage, "hurt me, Corey, please, bite me darling." When his teeth grated on the tough throbbing nipples, she tossed wildly, babbling to him, exhorting him to fresh attacks. "Oh yes, darling, bite harder, harder darling, oh yes, oh Corey!" she shrieked as his teeth nearly amputated one of the rock-like extremities.
Her hands worked quickly at his tie and shirt as her body begged for fully exposed contact with him. The sight of his muscular tan shoulders doubled the effect of the painful sensations that were now nipping at both breasts. She moaned with relief as his hands slaked down her tense figure, and shredded her skirt and panties down her legs.
"Oh my darling, I need you so much, oh please, darling," she pleaded as she parted her freed limbs and guided him between their boundaries. Tamar's hips strained up to meet the body which was hunched over her, the expert head still fastened to the pliant breasts. Her sensitive skin felt the welcome bulk of his powerful hairy thighs against the smooth contact of her own. "Please, darling, I need it now, I can't wait," Tamar bleated as her hands sought desperately for his renewed splendor. "Oh, yes, oh thank God, oh you're so big, baby" she babbled as she grasped and pulled to her.
With one hand clenched at his buttocks she forced Corey to her before his body had even fully asserted itself again. But the seeking embrace easily absorbed him as her loins ground to his hard stomach. Biting her tongue to keep from screaming with delight, Tamar felt him coil and thrust against her swiveling body. "Ooooh-oh-ooooh, oh yes, oh I can't stand it," she groaned as the rhythms of their lust met in frenzied synchronization. The moans of her ecstasy filled the room as Corey churned against her, each driving thrust doubling her frantic delight. Her nails raked down his back as her lust increased and she felt her ankles knot above his back as she gasped for more of the heavenly satisfaction.
When she felt the first tidal waves of consummation break over her, her hands tore at him and her animal wails reached a siren crescendo. But no sooner had it begun to ebb than she felt a renewed storm welling up from his sustained plunges: She went down like someone drowning as the endless, shattering spasms of her second delirium plunged her into an almost suffocating abandon. Just as her devastated senses thought it would never end, her body numbly felt Corey shudder like an avalanche, her ears heard the hoarse grunts rattle over one another, and as she hugged him in soaring anticipation, his crashing explosions lifted her to a third and final insensibility.
* * *
Clarisse had had a miserable day. Depressed as she was, her body had not for a minute ceased to remind her of her general confusion. Each one of her three lecture classes that morning had been absolute hell. She had arrived at the first meeting ten minutes before it was over, in time to hear the professor wind up what seemed to be an important explanation of evolution. And before she could copy half the diagrams on the blackboard, standing at the back of the hall, the bell had rung from the memorial chapel, signaling the end of the hour.
Then she had to sprint to an introductory class in creative writing, at the other end of the campus. The small room where the class of fifteen students met was hot and stuffy, and Clarisse had felt almost faint. To top it off, the instructor had read aloud from the last chapter of Ulysses to illustrate stream-of-consciousness writing. Although she knew the book well, the last few pages with the long sexual monologue had distracted Clarisse further. She had tried to shut her ears as the instructor, a young and scruffy-looking graduate student with a terrible complexion, had endlessly intoned the descriptive sounds of desire. But the long poetic passages had wormed their way into her mind as the unattractive reader lingered over each syllable, obviously relishing the opportunity to embarrass his new students.
Clarisse had been able to sit still only with great difficulty. Her armpits felt unpleasantly sticky, and in spite of the fact that she almost never perspired, the sheer material of her panties had clung uncomfortably to her damp buttocks. More than anything else, she had wanted to run and throw all the windows open, to feel the biting air on her shoulders and legs. Her discomfort had increased when, coming out of a day-dream, she realized that the instructor who was droning comments to a bored class, was actually gazing shamelessly at her slender legs and lovely knees. Even when she deliberately glared at him and pulled down her skirt, he continued to look at her with his unhealthy, watery eyes. She had never had to stand for such rudeness before, but she said nothing as his eyes devoured her, mentally undressing her before the entire group. When the bell rang faintly, Clarisse had bolted out of the room with her coat and books, ignoring the sound of her name being called over the scuffling of the exiting students.
With great reluctance she had gone to her third class, an overcrowded lecture course on Icelandic art and architecture. It had a popular reputation for being a snap, and consequently, more students had signed up than the overheated hall could seat. Clarisse found herself wedged in between a fat, smelly girl in shabby clothes, and an enormous football-player type. She hardly had room to write notes in, much less take off her coat once the lecture began, and had simply resigned herself to an hour's suffering.
But there had been about twenty minutes of semi-blackness while colored slides were shown to illustrate the theme of the lecture. And during that time Clarisse had become intensely aware of the contact her leg was making with that of the boy wedged in beside her. Try as she might to concentrate on the blurred pictures and the professor's commentary over the giggling and whispering of the several hundred students, Clarisse found her thoughts ixmning away with her. Desperately she had squeezed her hands together on her notebook, trying to dismiss the feeling of solidity and warmth against her thigh. She realized that the boy didn't even realize his leg was pressing against hers, but its presence almost made her squirm.
Shutting her eyes tightly to black out the sensation of the crowded room, she pictured herself water-skiing on the Mediterranean, with some of her friends. Then she thought of skiing itself, the sharpness of cold mountain air, and the cheeriness of the big lodges in winter. But none of this mental evasion worked. The skin of her shapely thighs crawled underneath the silk slip. When she tried to move her leg away, she was startled to find herself concentrating on the sensuality caused by the contact of her inner thighs. In the darkness she tried to push her dress and the slip between her legs to get rid of the temptation, but she had only succeeded in drawing the material well up above her knees.
Clarisse fought with herself to keep her eyes from admiring the graceful shapes of her bared lower thighs, but she realized with dismay that she was furtively enjoying her own exposure. As she sat, her back muscles stiff with the tension of the mental struggle, the images of last night returned again to plague her. At the very instant she remembered the delicious sensation Tamar's leg had stimulated between her thighs, Clarisse felt an alarming restlessness in the pit of her tummy. The confused memories of her involuntary love-making flashed through her brain, setting up a further itching deep inside her.
Her fatal mistake had been to try and scratch her belly with her notebook. The first discreet motion she had made under cover of the darkness had bunched her dress up further, until it was more than halfway up her thighs. Clarisse didn't know what was happening to her. Never before had she yielded to such immodesty. But then never before had her general state of being been so tempestuous. All morning the thought of men had darted into her head, and with it came the disgusting association of maleness, an image which actually made Clarisse shake her head in repulsion.
But she was smart enough to know that the activity of the night before had set off a chain reaction-one which would keep her body chemistry in turmoil until she resolved her need. It was this same uncertain and feared desire she recognized, as her tan thighs shone dully in the gloom. The boy next to her was looking at them now, Clarisse knew, but she made no move to pull the material down again. Keeping her eyes riveted on the pictures ahead of her, she began what she thought would be a bizarre experiment.
Pushing inconspicuously with the notebook in her lap, she inched her dress further up her legs, baring more of the inviting velvet skin. She could feel the boy's eyes burning holes in her exposed flesh like a magnifying glass, but she maneuvered the notebook again. Now the cloth and the silk slip had risen as high as it could go, unless she raised her legs from her seat. The bunched material felt good as she pushed the folds down against her belly with an invisible pressure from her wrists. Cautiously, her cheeks burning with shame from her childishness, she arched her chest slightly to emphasize the profile of her small breasts.
She thought she could hear the boy breathing now and felt his leg give way a little. As he made room, she tentatively spread her knees apart until she had afforded him a full view of her seductive inner thighs. Clarisse seemed to see her whole life passing in front of her mind-the parties, the formal dinners, the receptions, even the many balls she had attended since she was little. But all these aristocratic social trappings faded away as she sensed her own arousal from the display of nudity she was making. Not daring to look at the eyes she felt so intentiy on her, she stared at the screen but, trying to make the movement seem natural, slid down a little ways in her seat.
The feel of the silk slip riding up the underside of her legs confirmed for her the fact that her legs were virtually naked. Clarisse was infinitely grateful for the darkness and the jumble of coats and notebooks which effectively shielded her from any other eyes. Allowing herself a glance, she felt a surreptitious thrill as she saw the full length of her nudity. Spurred on by the reckless and debasing adventure, she opened her legs a little more, hoping in her wantonness that her admirer would be able to catch a glimpse of her panties.
A slight increase in the loudness of the breathing told her she had succeeded. Her restlessness increased as she sensed the boy's hungry gaze on her. Clarisse even smiled as she remembered how annoyed she had been when the instructor in her first class had looked lecherously at just her knees. Now, she realized, she was experiencing the same tension she had felt last night when Tamar had seated her nude body on the bed next to her.
She felt the large body next to her shift, and saw out of the corner of one eye that the boy was pushing his overcoat over the tops of her legs. For a minute she wondered if he was scorning her attempts at seduction. But then her entire body stiffened as she felt a hand touch one bare leg under cover of the coat. Instantly she recalled a story one of her school friends had boasted of, how on a bus from Madrid to Lisbon the girl and a stranger next to her had fondled each other by night in similar secrecy.
Clarisse fought to control her instinctive reaction of disgust at the masculine fingers as they rested casually on her lower thigh. Somehow, she reasoned, she had to get used to the idea, to the touch of a man's hand on her body, and this was the only way she could bring herself to do it. With all the concentration she could muster, Clarisse tried to breathe evenly as the unmoving hand seemed to melt through the sheer nylon onto her sensitive and nervous skin.
Even as she gritted her teeth at the unfamiliar presence of a foreign agent on her body, Clarisse realized that her emotions were becoming increasingly turbulent. She froze, holding her breath, as the large fingers swept in a small arc and crawled further up her leg. The sureness of the caress was creating an unbearable ticklishness, but the hand moved on. When the alien fingertips actually brushed the bare buttery skin above the hem of her stocking, Clarisse fought a gasp.
Now that the light, seeking fingers were only inches from the electrified zone of her femininity, Clarisse almost panicked. As the subtle and confident hand crept farther up the tingling expanse, she awkwardly brought her legs together, checking the sensual threat at the last possible instant. Her whole body quivering with the excitement of the violation, Clarisse strained the tendons of her model's legs to trap the intruder. Except for last night, she had never been so fired by guilt and desire. There were only a few times in her life when she had permitted someone to pet her, and then it had usually been in play. This sort of galvanic danger was completely new to her.
And abruptly, even as she was inching her dress back down around the entrapped arm, still looking straight ahead, the slides ended, and the fluorescent lights glared back on. Immediately the hand was withdrawn, leaving a glow between the hot crevice of her thighs. Clarisse bent over her notebook, writing feverishly as the professor continued the lecture. When the class broke up, after what seemed an eternity, Clarisse, without looking at the boy, stumbled from the hall and walked quickly away from the building.
Only when she was sure he wasn't coming after her, did she slow down, her face burning as she wondered how she could have possibly have instigated such a bizarre intimacy. Coming out on one of the main avenues amid the brisk cold and bustle of the traffic, Clarisse regained her composure and once again resumed her normal bearing. From years of association with her international set of friends, she had learned how to carry herself with an almost noble air. Head held high, and dark, lustrous hair blowing freely, her willowy figure swept along atop the clean, staccato movements of her legs. Clarisse always carried herself as if she were emerging from the world's most elegant salons. But far from being snobbish, her lithe body and attitude suggested the poise and grace of a truly sophisticated beauty. And, of course, she was aware of the impression she made among the bulk of her sloppy fellow-students, which was why she was jusdy proud of her chic clothes and worldly manner. Her actions of half an hour ago seemed like those of a different person, she rationalized, as the tension of the morning eased with the activity of walking.
* * *
"Well, honey," Tamar asked lightly, as the two girls came back from dinner, "and how did your day go?"
"It was fun," Clarisse half tied, preferring to forget the events of the morning. "I went out with Theo this afternoon for coffee. He's the boy I met at the Cannes film festival this summer, remember? I was dying for some excitement and he has a Jaguar, so I decided to teach him how to drive it."
"Really," Tamar said, "I didn't know you drove. What kind of Jaguar?" To Tamar it didn't seem that her roommate, who was such a child when it came to sex, could be quite so daring in another way. Tamar herself had a healthy fear of fast cars.
"Oh, he has a new XKE roadster-he got it this summer and brought it back to school. I don't particularly like Jags, but even his will do a hundred-and-fifty in street trim."
Clarisse was interrupted by a deafening noise, like a squadron of fighter planes heading directly for the dorm. Both girls rushed to the window. When they looked down on the quad's main driveway, they saw, to their surprise, at least ten leather-jacketed teenagers cruising slowly in tight formation. By the lights from the dorms around the quad they could see the glinting metal of the huge motorcycles each boy rode, the vulgar colors and masses of chrome flashing in each other's headlights. Over the thundering roar of their engines, which were raced defiantly as they coasted slowly down the drive, Clarisse and Tamar heard lewd invitations shouted up to their windows. As they swept by like juggernauts beneath the girls' window, Clarisse gave a gasp of surprise. For at the head of the pack was the boy she had seen yesterday charging through the traffic on his brilliant blue cycle. Heart beating furiously beneath her hand, she watched him, cool and arrogant, as he led the group to the main street and with a roar from his exhaust, gave the signal for a mass scrambling exit.
"Damn show off punks," Tamar spat as the silence of the evening once again settled on the deserted quad. "I suppose they think we really get hot pants from watching them cruise around." She shut the window and, picking up a textbook, went to one of the small room's work desks.
Clarisse made no reply. She was leaning against the window-frame, staring out at the glow of lights on the tranquil drive. The clamor of the motorcycles still seemed to reverberate through her body. She imagined the leader of the pack as she had seen him yesterday, clasped to the girl on the street in a rebellious show of passion. Again she saw the handsome mass of machinery rear suddenly on its hind wheel, like a living thing, before it and its rider had sped off. Deep in her stomach the distant fluttering began once more. Seeing that Tamar was studying intently with her back to her, Clarisse allowed herself the forbidden luxury of wrapping her legs together in a pose of wantonness. For a minute she considered rubbing one of her hands against her prickling tummy, but with all her self-control, restrained the impulse.
At last she sat down at her own desk and for more than three hours, tried to concentrate on a novel by Henry James. But with every minute dragging more slowly, and the elephantine prose aggravating her restlessness, she got little accomplished. Sitting in the same position until her whole body ached with stiffness, Clarisse wondered if this was how people went insane. One thing was for certain she wouldn't be able to sustain this disquieting tension for much longer. Hardly five minutes passed now without some reminder of her plight corning back to her. Occasionally she thought of the blonde girl sitting at the opposite end of the room; or of die darkened lecture hall that morning; or the events of last night. Clarisse even discovered herself imagining how the leering teacher in her writing class had probed her with his eyes.
"Well, that's that," Tamar said, closing her book and leaning back in her chair with a great yawn. Clarisse looked up out of her reverie as the blonde tossed her shining hair and stretched her arms over her head. She could just see the side of the large breasts which rose with the yawn from where she sat. Remembering the ferocity she had expended on them last night as Tamar had unlocked the fire within her, Clarisse pictured the mammoth breasts as they looked without clothing. She was hardly surprised when the image stirred her again and she rubbed her thighs together under the desk.
"Honey, you'll never guess what I did today," Tamar announced, scraping her chair as she faced her lovely roommate. Clarisse shrugged as if she gave up. The blonde leaned forward in her chair, the material of her blouse creasing with the strain of the thrusting mountains. "I slept with an assistant professor," Tamar said, trying to temper the proud statement with modesty.
Clarisse wasn't even surprised. Somehow the other girl's proclamation seemed perfectly natural and only increased her depression. Finally she spoke, knowing Tamar was waiting for some response. "Weren't you afraid of getting involved with a faculty member?" she asked, feigning slight shock.
"Well, you know, I was for a while," the blonde explained. "See, he invited me up to his apartment after class. He teaches that poetry seminar I'm in. He's really smart too, and real Yankee upper class. But everything just happened so naturally. It wasn't like he was just seducing me. Because afterwards we talked for hours. He told me all kinds of gossip about the administration."
Clarisse didn't respond to this information. "For instance." the other went on, "did you know that one of the school doctors had to be fired last year for attacking a girl? He really did. They heard her scream from his office and when they went in, she was completely naked, lying on one of those inspection tables. You know, the kind with the sliding stirrups for your feet for when they check out your uterus?"
"I don't believe it," Clarisse said, not knowing but remembering how afraid she'd always been of having a male doctor one day give her a gynecological examination. She'd heard stories of how embarrassing and even painful the process could be.
"It's the truth, I swear," Tamar said. "He'd gotten her to strip completely and tried to arouse her with the rest of the physical. But he misjudged her. When he started purposely stimulating her, she just screamed for help, and they fired him to hush up the scandal. Want to know something else? The woman who's head resident in the dorm next to ours is a dope addict. No fooling. Corey says it's one of the best-kept secrets in the university."
"Who's Corey," Clarisse asked, trying to assimilate the strange news about her own institution.
"Corey, silly. He's my poetry instructor," laughed Tamar. "Oh, Clarisse, I wish you could meet someone like him. He's really so much more your type. And he's not at all like the undergraduates around here. He doesn't make fun of sex and put you on the defensive. And he's so good-looking. Kind of like Gary Cooper--eastern style. I even read some of his doctoral thesis. It's really brilliant."
Clarisse tried to imagine the kind of faculty member who would fit such a description and the same time go around trapping freshman girls to sleep with. She wasn't fooled by Tamar's cheap sophistication, much as it bothered her and reminded her of her own problem. But she was sure Tamar had been taken in. After all, there were literally thousands of pretty girls for any attractive teacher to pick his mistresses from.
"You know, Clarisse, the real reason I wish you'd meet someone like Corey is that he's so, well, he's just so healthy. I'm sure you'd get over your fright if you had someone like him to show you the ropes. Really, honey, I sympathize for you, but you'll never get anywhere with the kids our own age around here. like tomorrow, I'm seeing him again. You know what he told me to do first?" Tamar giggled, taking a small paperback book from her drawer. "He told me to read this. Here," the blonde handed it to her roommate.
Clarisse studied the cover. She immediately recognized it as one of the many pseudo-philosophical handbooks on Oriental love techniques. Unable to resist the temptation, she opened it at random and read a few paragraphs. Instantly she was shocked by an explicit step-by-step explanation of a weird position to make love in. At the bottom of the page there was a small woodcut, illustrating the lewd position.
"He told you to read this?" she asked, giving the book back to the blonde as she blushed with embarrassment and partial disgust.
"Well, actually he asked me to," Tamar replied. "He said I was a terrific lover, but that I had a lot to learn about certain refinements. So I'm going to beat him at his own game."
Clarisse was truly puzzled. Everything she had heard in the last few minutes seemed to challenge her conception of the university as an exclusive and superior institution. She had looked forward to meeting people who had more on their minds than sleeping together, and dissipating themselves, like so many of the people she had met all her life abroad and in New York. More than ever, she felt an ironic sense of being left out as her roommate, who was really just a small-town girl from a big Southern California city, enthused about her faculty lover. Somehow, Clarisse had thought, she had expected people to be above this kind of behavior.
"You know what he did to me, honey?" Tamar continued. "When we made love he rubbed ice on my breasts. God, it was heavenly. No one's ever done that before. He's a fantastic lover," Tamar said, brazenly squeezing her own breasts right before Clarisse' eyes as she rhapsodized about the afternoon. "Gee, honey, I hope I'm not being rude or anything. But you can't know what it's like honey, you really don't know what you've been missing all these years."
"I don't want to know," Clarisse said sharply, irritated at her own discomfort, and biting her lips again.
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry," Tamar blurted, "I'm really being tactless. I'm such a bitch, I didn't mean it. I really care about you, honestly."
"Well, I'm sick of the whole subject," Clarisse mumbled, fighting back the tears welling up from her confusion and self-pity. She got up and quickly undressed, going into the bathroom to brush her teeth. On the edge of the sink was a small plastic pouch, covered with dime-store-like floral patterns. Without thinking she un-snapped the cover and peered in at the contents. After a casual double-take she suddenly recognized the function of the rubbery disk and curved plastic rod inside. Even as she fumbled with the kit, trying to re-snap the lid of the pouch, she felt her roommate's presence behind her.
"I didn't know what it was, I'm sorry, Tamar," she stammered, feeling for some reason as if she had violated the blonde's privacy.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. Haven't you ever see one before?" Tamar said easily.
"A few times," Clarisse replied, flushing like a schoolgirl caught with a cigarette, "but I didn't recognize it. It was just lying here."
"I know. I washed it before dinner. You should learn to use one," Tamar smiled quickly, "I mean, when the right time comes."
"You can show me some day," Clarisse said, relaxing a little under the blonde's straightforwardness.
"Hell, it's simple, look," Tamar instructed. Before Clarisse could catch her breath, the other girl had lifted up her skirt and pulled her panties down her legs. Stepping out of them, she raised one leg and placed it on the clothes hamper, holding her skirt up above her naked midriff. Clarisse steadied herself against the wall as the blonde held the applicator in one hand. In one deft motion the disc disappeared and then reappeared. "Simple?" joked Tamar, unaware of the impact her exposed sex was having on the dark girl.
Clarisse mumbled an answer as she clutched her bathrobe to her body, her senses swimming with desire at the voluptuous nakedness. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the bulging contours of the honey-colored hips and the sleek lines of the golden legs. Despite her vows she had made all evening, she knew she was succumbing to the seductive magic of her roommate's sexuality.
As if sensing her unrest, Tamar coolly removed her blouse and stepped out of her skirt as the frozen girl watched with mixed dismay and excitement. Clarisse was paralyzed at the sight of the sumptuous flesh straining at the prodigious bra, the only article of clothing left on the girl. "You do like me, don't you, honey," purred Tamar, her own desire aroused by the naive girl's awe and admiration. She moved close to Clarisse, taking the wrists which had been crossed in front of the transfixed girl's small bust and gently lowering them to her sides. "I like you too, Clarisse, you're one of the most desirable girls I've ever seen, and I don't go for girls in a big way," the voice purred as the hands parted the bath-robe to reveal the graceful tan body underneath.
Clarisse was unable to move a muscle as she let the large girl slide the bathrobe from her body and drop it to the floor. Her eyes averted Tamar's face, only to catch sight of her boyish nakedness in the mirror over the sink. The broad body with the white bra in the mirror shifted and she was cut off from the spectacle of herself. like a frightened puppy she flattened against the wall as Tamar moved directly in front of her. All her breeding and background cried but silently as the heavy lips sought her delicate mouth and she felt the aggressive tongue flicker with the quickness of a hummingbird.
"You're so beautiful, Clarisse, every time I see you without any clothes on, I can't control myself," whispered Tamar, her voice growing husky with adoration. "Let me show you an old trick, honey. I want so much for us to make love again," the girl continued. Clarisse remained in her wooden position as the blonde reached out and turned on the sink faucets. After testing the water, she took a bar of soap and worked up a rich lather in one hand, rolling the bar over and over. Then she transferred the soapy film to both hands, and without any warning, placed her slippery palms on the brunette's exquisite breasts. Slowly she slid her hands back and forth, covering Tamar's with the sensual slickness of the wet warmth.
"Isn't that wonderful?" she asked, as Clarisse squirmed with excitement and released a long, quivering sigh. Her delicately moulded mounds felt like jelly under Tamar's liquid caresses, her own fingers curling and uncurling at her sides in anticipation. "Take my bra off," Tamar commanded in a voice that lapsed into harshness. Uncertainly, Clarisse' hands fulfilled the order and the impressive globes swung free of their imprisonment. "Now, hurry, soap your hands," the active girl continued, giving Clarisse access to the sink. "Oh, yes, oh honey, do it," breathed the blonde when the glistening hands completed the silky contact.
Both girls stood, rocking on their heels, as their mounting passion shared the weird excitement. Their arms twined and bumped as each sought to increase the coverage of the molten caresses, the rich lather oozing down their bodies. Although both their bosoms were saturated with the foamy covering, their respective nipples stood out prominently like drops of blood in the snow. Water splashed from the sink to the floor as they worked to anoint more and more of each other.
"Oh, my darling, it's so good," gasped Tamar, lurching forward. Sliding one arm around the brunette's incredibly slim waist, she reached out to turn on the shower. Both girls stepped as one into the refreshing stream, the hot water coaxing the caked streaks of their pleasure from their bodies. Tamar drew the lithe girl out of the direct line of the shower and grasping a bar of soap, furiously worked on Clarisse's body until the tanned skin disappeared under the frothy costume. She knelt on the floor of the stall, both hands kneading the girl's firm, athletic flesh and thickening the slippery coating. Up and down the long legs went the bar of soap as Clarisse clutched at the supplicant's shoulders for support, her joints melting and jerking with excitement.
Then it was her turn and soundlessly, she labored to produce the same effect on the dripping promontories, the lush hips, and supple legs. When she had finished, Tamar grabbed her in a bear hug, sliding the full expanse of her slimy figure across the darker girl's taut body. Their glassy breasts bobbed with the fury of mutual contact as they swayed and gyrated in their varnished union. Arms locked around one another, they mashed each other's mouths and slaked their hips in frenzied delight. When Clarisse hung from the blonde's neck and slid her thighs up and down the other girl's, the slushy friction became unbearable for both of them. Grunting with their efforts, Tamar supported Clarisse by her hard buttocks as the slight girl locked her legs around the blonde's ripe hips in a bizarre enactment of the illustration in the little book.
With her roommate clinging to her, Tamar's legs bowed with the strain of supporting their locked bodies. But the sensation of the tight body locked around her drove her hands to relentlessly burrow for Clarisse's exposed portals. Her fingers quickly discovered the blatant expanse of the other's searing secrets. The lust they unlocked in the hanging figure forced Clarisse to lock one arm more tightly around Tamar's neck and plunge a free arm between their bodies to her steed's hungry want. In the small chamber of the shower their grunts and cries emphasized their mutual labor as sweat mingled with soap on the enmeshed forms. As Clarisse mimicked the other's manipulations, Tamar buckled with lust and slid slowly to the watery floor. With Clarisse on her lap and their breasts still bobbing in ecstatic union, arm pushed against arm as each girl renewed her plunging efforts with toiling fingers. Whimpering and nodding to each other in blissful abandon, they paced their idolatrous pleasure, glutting themselves in grappling satisfaction. Their eyes widened with the spectacle of their knowing flurries of activity until their mouths met and sealed the epilogue to their mutual cresting.
Even after the lust in their bodies had been fully satisfied, Tamar forced Clarisse to suckle at her aching breasts as the shower rained refreshingly down on. them both. Reluctant at first to repeat last night's worship of the pendulous spheres, the slim girl soon willingly worried the soft summits. Delighting in the variety of impressions she could create with her tongue and teeth, Clarisse was rewarded by the blonde's renewed searching at her feminine secrets. By caressing and contorting the super-sensitive summits, she was soon able to bring Tamar to a new and different peak of satisfaction as her own body flamed once more with fulfillment.
But after they had exhausted each other and emerged from the shower, Tamar toweling both their bodies with sobering vigor, Clarisse had fled to the separate security of her bed. Once again Tamar had fallen almost immediately to sleep in the upper bunk while she lay awake, thinking and worrying. On the one hand, she reasoned, if she enjoyed the contact with a female body so much, surely it would be better doing it with a man. Yet, on the other hand, what if she couldn't bring herself to cope with finding a natural outlet for the demands of her body which had been confirmed now beyond all doubt? Even though she couldn't control herself at the moment of contact, Clarisse knew that further indulgence with her roommate would break her entire character down. She simply wouldn't be able to reconcile her concept of life while living a secret lesbian existence.
This was about as far as she could get. Thinking in specifics brought her to the specter of her irrational phobia. Maybe she could meet someone who would gradually prepare her for the feared assault, as Tamar had suggested. Certainly she had to stop this acting out of her adolescent fantasies. How she did what she did with a stranger that morning was now beyond her comprehension. Even Daddy would condone a healthy affair, but when she thought of him witnessing her lurid behavior of the last two days, she wrapped her pillow around her head in shame. I will not, she promised herself, I will not degrade myself again, especially with Tamar. She remembered Daddy's favorite phrase: "You've got to get things moving," and teeth clenched with determination, she finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
For the rest of the week, however, neither girl had much time to think of anything but schoolwork. Corey had phoned Tamar the morning after their torrid afternoon and explained that he'd had to postpone their next meeting. Insisting that he wasn't giving her the brush-off, he'd told her to drop up on Friday afternoon after the seminar. And for some reason he'd asked her if she was interested in movies. Tamar had affirmed this particular liking of hers and Corey had approved, because, he said, a friend of his who made art films would be there Friday. So Wednesday and Thursday Tamar had spent most of her time studying in the library where undergraduates often met one another for the first time.
Tamar had thought it best not to say much to her roommate, especially anything about her "problem". For Clarisse had been tense during the rest of the week, hardly talking herself. Tamar saw her briefly at night and occasionally on the campus where from a distance, she admired the graceful girl's appearance of beauty and wealth. Clarisse, she noticed, never failed to turn heads when she walked from class to class or from the dorms to the university. She had the poise of a leopard and meeting her face to face, she seemed to have the same serene attitude that concealed an animal's viciousness. Tamar wondered how many people would guess, from looking at her, that she was a virgin. To her roommate, Clarisse looked more exotically sophisticated than the Hollywood starlets she had seen all her life in L.A. bars and restaurants.
* * *
Clarisse was tense and consciously held herself aloof in classes and the dormitory, as her roommate had observed. But shame and confusion were only part of the reason' for her strange detachment. On Wednesday she had talked to Daddy, who had phoned from Tangiers. He was with a group of financial investigators from some big manufacturing concern, whose home offices were in the same city where Clarisse was going to school. He had wanted her to go meet the old Yankee family who controlled the stocks of the corporation and relay the first-hand information he was giving her by transatlantic phone. Clarisse had often performed this service for Daddy when he didn't have an assistant on tap. He believed in personal contact and evaluation rather than written reports, and she knew this was one of the reasons so many business people turned to him for advice. Even now he was with the concern's foreign representatives and they were sending enormous files of information back to the states.
But in twenty minutes he had outlined the situation to and asked her to give it to the family firsthand. This had been much easier than she had expected. When she looked up the name in the telephone directory, there were several numbers, one of them at a university address. She had called that one first, suspecting that a son of the family was at school with her. And she been right. He had come over to her dorm and with great surprise, they recognized each other as acquaintances who had met at the Antibes Jazz Festival a year ago on the Riviera.
His name was Roger and he was a freshman like herself. Together they had gone to his home in the Maserati he had bought in Europe just before their meeting at Antibes. They had had tea with Roger's family, who had been utterly charming and very New England, living in a modest house in the city's colonial quarter although their fortune went back almost two centuries. Roger had made fun of the hide-bound family tradition, still Puritan and austere, and boasted jokingly that when his ancestors had come to the New World, it was they who had sent for the Mayflower. Clarisse had told the family the impressions her father had related to her concerning their venture in North Africa. The Flecknoes had been extremely impressed by her account, as well as by her obvious intelligence and breeding. And Clarisse and Roger had escaped their dorms the following night to dine with the family in grand style.
"I think my parents want to throw us together," Roger laughed as they had driven back across the shining river late that night. "As a matter-of-fact, my father told me very confidentially, of course," Roger mimicked, "that your father was one of the few New Yorkers he respected."
"But Daddy isn't really from New York, anymore," Clarisse said. "We've lived in Europe most of my life."
"Well, in this city, the upper crust tend to classify any American according to what part of the country he's originally from. They have an expression to guard their ridiculous society with: N.O.S.D. It means Not Our Sort, Dear."
"I think that's bloody silly," Clarisse said emphatically. Right now all the city and its famous university meant to her was cold weather and authors such as Henry James. She was dying for excitement, the change of pace in the last two days having relieved her of thinking about that eternally persistent subject.
"Excuse me, Roger," she said suddenly, "would you mind if I drove your car?"
"Why no, you can actually drive one of these?" he asked with surprise. "It's pretty difficult, you know, and it has a five-speed transmission."
"I know, I know," Clarisse answered impatiently. "Look why don't you pull over at this exit and we can change." Roger was awfully nice and provided amusing company, but like all American boys, he was a bit too conservative, at least about his opinions on what women could and couldn't do.
But he obeyed and swung off the parkway. As he walked around the car, Clarisse eased herself across the hump into the driver's bucket seat. At last! she thought. As Roger got in on the other side, she disengaged the clutch, which fortunately wasn't a racing set-up. It was perfect easy action, she smiled to herself, as she checked the sequence of the five-speed gate. She blipped the precision racing engine up to five thousand, then seven thousand r.p.m.
"Hey, take it easy," Roger laughed nervously. "This set me back about fourteen thousand and I don't feel like scrapping it yet."
"I'm cleaning the crap out of the engine," she said mercilessly. "If you keep driving around die city in third gear lugging it as you do, you'll ruin the car. This is a total performance machine," she continued, easing back onto the parkway. Roger's face was a mixture of annoyance, admiration, and humor.
"Let's go," Clarisse said, throwing the stick into neutral and coasting almost to a stop. "Ready?" she asked.
"I guess," Roger replied, "if you are," But his last words were downed out as the four-liter engine screamed to life. Clarisse threw the car in first and let out the clutch without slipping it. The car shot forward, throwing Roger's head back. "Listen to it," she shouted over the roar of the engine which changed pitch with each deft gear change. By the time Clarisse had reached fourth gear the double-overhead cam V-8 was propelling them at 120 miles an hour.
As Roger clutched at the passenger handles, his face frozen in a grotesque gaping smile of amazement and fear, Clarisse effortlessly steered the car in a racing course down the almost deserted riverbank drive. The winding and poorly planned road was unbanked, but it didn't bother her in the slightest as she skillfully slid through the curves in racing drifts. When they came out on a straight stretch, she floored the accelerator again, speed-shifted, and pushed the responsive machine to 145 miles an hour in fifth. At this speed it was relatively quiet as the beautifully crafted automobile settled into its real pace. Only the slight atonality of the engine told Clarisse that it was working above it normal cruising rate.
She heard Roger gasp inarticulately as the dead-end of the rotary loomed up in front of them. She chuckled as she brought the car down to seventy miles an hour, flashing through the gear changes and sliding into the one-hundred and eighty degree turn. Bracing herself with excitement, Clarisse laughed above the piercing squeal of the tires as she skated the car around the circular junction at the end of the drive under power. Dropping down another gear, she eased off the disk brakes and floored it again. Skating like a hummingbird across the road, she felt the tires finally grip with the power, straightened out of the turn doing sixty-five. Rapid seconds, another shift, and another, and they were sailing back down the drive at a 110.
Clarisse's legs ached with excitement and the pure joy of speed. Her mouth was dry and she felt sticky with elation and the concentration of driving. For the first time in her life, though, her rapture at the thrill of speed was accompanied by an outside image; namely, the repetitious picture of the brutally handsome motorcyclist who obviously shared her enthusiasm for kicks. The very thought produced the butterfly reminder of sex in her tense stomach. She thought of the handsome, refined boy next to her.
"Jesus, Clarisse, can you drive!" he finally exclaimed from his paralyzed silence. "I thought for sure you were going to kill us both."
She smiled at his adolescence, and her smile deepened as from the corner of her eye she saw two highway patrolmen scramble for their cruiser which sat in a breakdown island. Flicking her eyes to the mirror she saw its headlights blur with the red blinker. She floored the car again.
"What're you doing?" Roger asked, as a mile later, Clarisse turned off their lights and they slid miraculously to a halt behind the cover of an overpass support. "Hey, are you in control of your senses?" he asked again, as the cruiser shot past them and Clarisse immediately pulled out again. She could time it just right, she thought, accelerating the responsive machine and following the cruiser with her lights still off. At the other end of the drive, which they were headed for, there was another circular junction. She estimated she was matching the cruiser's speed of about 105. Then about a mile ahead she saw the lights of the rotary exits.
The car leaped forward to her bidding, its blazing road lights catching the distant speck of the cruiser as they leaped down the road. 120, 130, 140, 150, 152 miles an hour, she estimated calmly as they shot past the startled and incredulous police, passing within inches of the slower car. Smiling with victory, Clarisse used her feet and shifting hand as they approached the curve. With Roger braced in terror, they fishtailed as the brakes caught violently, and entered the turn already sliding in an angle.
Clarisse very nearly lost control of the Maserati this time, the gleaming wire wheels coming within an inch of the rounding barrier in the rotary. This time they came crazily darting out onto the drive at nearly seventy-five. When they passed the cruiser, its lurching form shrieking with the sound of overstressed metal and rubber as it entered the turn's opposite approach. They were doing 110 again. Before she could get the machine flat out, however, the turnoff to the bridge across the river loomed up and they disappeared up the ramp. Clarisse was halfway across the river when she caught sight of the police chasing down the empty drive with flashing lights and wailing siren. She drove them home through the narrow streets at an average of sixty miles an hour, the engine thundering in the dense ghettos surrounding the university as she shifted gears, almost three changes to a block.
Roger didn't say a word until the sleek automobile was parked in front of Clarisse' dorm, its now clean engine rumbling and sputtering uncomfortably at idle speed. "I really don't know what to say," he attempted, "I guess you know what you were doing. But you sure as hell seemed to be pushing your luck, and mine too!"
Clarisse squirmed in the motionless car, its throbbing vibrations emphasizing the post-chase restlessness she felt in every limb of her being. She looked at Roger, who was looking at her. He was terribly handsome, she thought, and he had this car! The nerves in her body seemed to be compelling her to something.
"Roger," she said softly, not wanting to break the spell the fantastic speed had created. "Roger, would you think me awful if I asked you to kiss me?"
"Well, I, no I, no I wouldn't", he faltered, turning more to her and appraising the obstacle of the drivetrain hump between them. But the large padded seats curved up on a level with the tunnel behind the shift lever, and Clarisse was already edging from her seat. "Kiss me, please," she hissed, leaning toward him.
Roger reached out and drew her body against his own contorted torso. Her eyes were closed, the long lashes quivering. The light from the dorm glinted on her perfect complexion and emphasized the relief of her figure under the tailored dress. Slowly he brought his face to her upturned mouth whose delectable lips were parted in anticipation. With his own lips pressed lightly together, he pressed against the soft outline of her hot, dry mouth. For a brief minute he moved his head ever so slightly, kissing her lightly with gentlemanly tact.
Clarisse made a vague noise, as if urging him on, and pressed herself against the angled side. But at the pressure of her taut breasts he retreated a little, allowing his gently draped arm to remain on her shoulders. "Roger!" she breathed, opening her mouth more and covering his pursed lips. He kissed her a bit harder, his dry mouth pressing into her warm wet embrace. Restraining her with the hand that curled around her shoulder, he unwittingly kept her leaning in a straining position, her muscles knotting with the effort to seek more contact.
Suddenly she withdrew and straightened herself, glaring ahead into the darkness where the headlights cut channels for night insects to bathe in. "Thank you," she said, in a hollow voice, fastening her coat around her as she opened her door. Roger leapt to climb out of the car and scurried around to her side. But Clarisse was already out and was walking toward the dorm. He accompanied her to her door, and stood silently as she fumbled with her key. When she turned before going in, he made the standard gesture of embrace, hoping for a goodnight kiss that usually followed a date.
But Clarisse stepped back from his restrained posture of affection. Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, "And thank you for the dinner. It was delightful. And I love your car. Goodnight!" Roger caught the door before it could shut too violently and walked in bafflement to the coughing automobile.
* * *
Clarisse went swiftly to the elevator after signing in. Once in the groaning box as it slowly ascended, she kicked its ancient cage-like sides viciously. Frigging boy, she thought, what in hell does he have between his legs? The words had no sooner formed in her mind than she was amazed such a thought would ever express itself to her. What is happening to me? she wondered, equally puzzled by her cursing.
Not nearly enough, she concluded to herself as she tiptoed into the darkened room and stood for a minute, swaying to her roommate's heavy breathing. Her body still itched from the elation of the wild ride. And from the frustration of her first attempt at offering to meet men halfway. But as she flung her expensive clothes into a corner of the room and dove into bed, she reminded herself that Roger was not really a man. Just a sweet boy, she thought, the last thing on earth I wanted! Curling her delicate nakedness against the sheets, she reveled in the new sensation of sleeping in the raw. One arm was folded across her perfect diminutive breasts and her other hand was resting hesitantly between her legs. It occurred to Clarisse that she could wake Tamar up. No, she told herself, I will not. Now that she had experienced the kind of excitement again that she had always lived for, her body seemed to demand something other than another girl or a considerate Roger. Something else, she thought hazily, as she finally floated to sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
On Friday afternoon Clarisse was standing at the same spot where she had first seen the motorcyclist a few days before. Once again the machine was illegally parked at the corner in front of the cafeteria. She had intended to go back to her dorm and do some studying so that she could have the weekend free. Early that morning Roger had phoned and asked her if she would be free on Saturday to go the football game. But Clarisse had said she wasn't sure, still smarting from her disappointment of the previous night. Anyway, she wanted to keep the weekend open, at least until the last minute. Every day at the caller's desk in the dorm there had been several phone messages for her from boys who had undoubtedly seen her picture in the freshman register and wanted to ask her out. This bombardment was a typical hazard of being a beautiful freshman, some older girls had assured her, but Clarisse had ignored the messages.
Now she hesitated before crossing the street. Something in her was bubbling with a bizarre curiosity, telling her to go into the cafeteria, even though she knew it was the meeting place for all the beatniks, townies, and rabble. But she sensed that the leader of the motorcycle pack was in there, too, and she felt herself driven to enter his territory. She knew she'd be out of place in her typically expensive dress and camel's hair coat, not to mention the delicate high heels. Yet she felt an insane desire to show off her striking looks and superior air to the arrogant hoodlum who had so impressed her by leading his mob through her campus the other night.
Clarisse crossed the street and striding resolutely across the sidewalk, pushed open the cafeteria's swinging door. Once inside its flecked and murky windows, she was nearly overcome by the stench of greasy food, unbathed bodies, and cigarette smoke. But with her usual determination she threaded her way through the tables to the counter at the rear of the establishment. Almost before she knew it, she had passed within inches of a table at which sat several boys in leather riding outfits and one girl in sirniliar attire. One of them whistled as Clarisse swiveled gracefully to avoid an old, uniformed wretch who was collecting dirty dishes from vacant places.
"La dee da da!" she heard a deep, snickering voice say as she avoided the group and, holding her head high, reached the counter. With her back to the restaurant as she ordered some tea and a muffin from the surly attendant, Clarisse heard some further snickers and then an outright laugh reached her ears. But she steeled herself, promising herself to hold her own in this foreign territory. By the time she had finally gotten served, almost ten minutes had passed, and the cafeteria was filling with a late afternoon crowd. When she turned around with her tray and surveyed the floor, there didn't seem to be any empty tables, except for one near the corner window at the far end of the room. Looking haughtily in front of her, she headed through the dense and sticky atmosphere for it.
Moving slowly among the new customers who were headed for the counter, Clarisse felt every eye in the group of toughs follow her movements as she neared their table. Involuntarily she smiled faintly at the whole masquerade. But as if this had been a signal, the boy who owned the bike outside rose from his chair and planted his body directly before her path.
"Howdja like to join me and my friends," he said, looking fully into her eyes with his own black glittering orbs. His voice was hard, but not rude, and Clarisse paused. "Thank you," she said demurely, as he grabbed a chair from another table and with mock courtesy seated her. There was a long silence. As the five faces watched her intently, Clarisse stirred her tea and sipped it with complete composure. Her host re-seated himself, next to the other girl, and across the table from her. She could smell traces of body odor and what seemed to be motor oil lingering about the table.
"My name's Lance," he offered, "this here's Charlene, and that's Bucky, Paid, and Hound." As he went around the table, each boy and the girl nodded curtly.
"I'm Clarisse," she said, stopping before her last name. She turned to the boy at her right. "Did he say Hound?" she asked amusedly.
"That's right," Hound answered, stretching lazily and scratching his stomach, "it's a nickname, see cuz a my tail."
"He means because his tail is always getting kicked," Lance followed up, to the group's amusement. "Aw, stick it," muttered Hound, yawning grotesquely.
Lance leaned forward across the table, disengaging his arm from the long-haired, suede-jacketed girl at his side. "I hate to pry," he said, with a slight edge of sarcasm, "but what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
Clarisse looked into his rugged face and searched for an answer to fit the tone of the question. At the same time, however, she was distracted by a sickening laugh from the sultry girl whose waist-length hair was carelessly draping on the dirty table. She felt every person in the group stare at her intently, and as she looked into their faces one by one, she seemed to detect a common animal sneer in their expressions.
"Actually, since you should ask," Clarisse began, daintily putting down her muffin, "I'm new at the university and I'm exploring the surroundings."
"Oh," said Lance, nodding solemnly, "you are, are you?"
Clarisse felt herself caught off guard by his assured and ironic manner. "Yes," she said pointlessly, "I am."
"You are," Lance repeated, as the rest of the group stirred and smiled broadly. She felt as if she were in a cage, the cafeteria and crowded tables fading away in a blur. At the same time she felt attracted to the authoritative youth who was mocking her; and she was further surprised to find herself yielding to jealousy at the presence of the sultry girl who had again cuddled next to Lance. The sweetness of the tea emphasized the warm, stuffy atmosphere of the room. More than anything, Clarisse thought as she tried to continue meeting Lance's dark gaze, she wanted to be outside, out of her clothes free to move and express the growing tension in her body.
"Do you own that motorcycle outside?" she asked, to break the heaviness in the air.
"Yeh, that's my bike," Lance said, speaking as though it were a great strain. He cocked his large head, his uncut greasy hair falling to one side of his face. "You wouldn't like to go for a ride, now would you?" he asked laconically.
"I'd love to," Clarisse answered, hearing the sudden and needless volume of her voice carry beyond their table. Lance's face flickered in surprise, but with his former snake-like grace, he pulled himself up out of his chair.
"Let's go, baby," he said, and without any further gestures, rocked on his heels by her side. Clarisse saw the bulge of his thighs under the filth-stained jeans from the corner of her eye. She looked around the table but her eyes met only impassive and faintly amused faces. "Go on," said Hound, "ain't nothing too bad can happen to ya."
"Isn't" rapped Lance in a professorial tone. "How many times do I have to correct you," he mimicked, in a schoolmaster's voice as he took Clarisse by the arm. Leaving her books behind on the table, she followed the path he cut through the noisy crowd of customers.
As Lance swung onto the motorcycle, reaching down with one hand to prime it, she wondered if she should reconsider. But almost immediately the handsome machine roared to life as Lance reared up and kicked down lightly. With the engine idling, he adjusted the snaps and zippers of his leather jacket, and turned around to her. "Come on," he said curtly, motioning to the length of leopard-skin seat behind him. Clarisse approached the trembling bike and started to maneuver onto the seat in side-saddle style.
"Not that way," he said harshly, grabbing the arm she was trying to prop herself with. "Like I am," he motioned. Clarisse cautiously tested the support of the rear foot peg and started to straddle the seat. "But my dress?" she said, realizing that her split legs were forcing the material halfway up her thighs.
"Who cares about your dress? Get the hell on," Lance demanded. Clarisse obeyed and reluctantly hiking her dress up further, settled down behind him. "What do I hold on to?" she asked, looking for some kind of handle.
"Me," Lance confirmed, as he revved the engine and rocked the huge machine off its kickstand. Clarisse put her arms around him, her hands locking together on the smooth leather stomach of the jacket as she sensed anticipation in the throbbing power. She looked into the window of the cafeteria only to see her legs reflected in almost complete nudity. People were admiring the long tan stems which crooked from her high heels to the seat line of the motorcycle where her dress was bunched across her lap. "Looks good," Lance laughed, looking over his shoulder at her exposure. But before the impulse to provide herself with more modesty could stir her, the machine shot forward.
"Good Christ!" Clarisse thought, as she hugged the hard body ahead of her in an effort to stay on the veering, rampaging cycle. With great snorts of power, Lance was brilliantly weaving through the city traffic, heading for the river. Clarisse's heart pounded as they swooped from one angle to another, cutting through gaps between cars that left only inches for her bare legs to clear She gripped his lean rump with her knees in excitement and partial fear, feeling the vibrating power transmitted through her feet and the fuzzy seat to the base of her body.
It seemed like only seconds before they had reached the river and Lance was shooting onto the expressway. As Clarisse had done last night on the opposite side of the river, Lance let his machine flat out, the stubby exhaust pipes thundering as he went through the gear changes. The cold wind whipped her hair around her face until she had to flatten her head against his broad back. Clarisse estimated they were going about ninety-five as her tear-filled eyes caught sight of the cars they were hurtling past, but it seemed like twice as fast. Her exposed legs were already numb with the brutal rush of icy air that found its way into every crease of her body.
When they entered a curve, she could feel every muscle in his back and chest flex as his weight shifted and intuitively guided the brutal machine. At the end of the drive, she thought they were going to spill or go out of control. But Lance bombed into the tight circle, locking the front wheel and rigidly extending a heavy riding boot as a fulcrum. The exhaust cracked as he speed-shifted into a lower gear. With a squeal of rubber and the clamor of fifty horsepower, they slid broadside through half the turn. Clarisse molded herself to his body feeling the force and thrill of reckless speed. She gasped to herself at the bike's tremendous torque carried them like a giant hand, foot pegs brushing the oil-slicked roadway.
In one brief eternity they were through the circle and screamed back down the drive. Clarisse was frozen with cold, her stiff body pulsating in sympathy to the cycle's 100 mile an hour rhythm. But she wanted the ride to go on for ever. When she dared to raise her head to the wind stream, Lance's tears pinged against her face. The scenery and pavement melted in a split-level blur of blue and vague gray. A hot acrid smell rose from the whining bowels of the bike, increasing her headiness. Unconsciously, she arched her feet up and down on the pegs, her knees surging against the blue jeaned flanks with excitement. Although she was too cold to feel anything but their flying motion, Clarisse was aware of a heated turbulence in her groin. She hugged the boy more tightly, pressing her yawning body to his wall of warm protection from the wind, and knotting her fists around the low lean line of his hips.
It only seemed like minutes, but dusk had nearly surrendered to darkness when Lance turned off the drive and headed for a part of the city Clarisse didn't recognize. The machine swerved and jolted as he steered them around invisible hazards, the blinding headlamp stabbing out at warehouses and shipping sheds. Before Clarisse had had a chance to wonder where he was taking her, they had bounced over an infinity of railroad tracks and, engine killed, had coasted to a small briglidy lit diner.
"Like it?" he asked, propping the machine up and swinging gracefully off it. Clarisse suddenly realized how cold she really was when she tried to get off. She could hardly move or speak, and around the vicinity of the diner, her eyes found only blackness. "C'mon, I'll buy you some dinner," Lance said, "if you think you can hold it down."
Clarisse was insulted out of her daze. He thought she had been scared, did he? She wished she could get him in the Maserati. Still astride the cycle, her legs shining in the faint light from the diner, she inspected Lance. He was certainly impressive, she thought, with his massive yet lightly carried bulk. Her eyes traced the power in his dark figure, from his wind-whipped hair and rugged face, down the tightly creased leather and jean facade, to the heavy black boots. At least, for all his grubbiness, he had something in common with her, namely guts, when it came to speed and kicks. She wondered idly if she could ever have anything in common with him.
"Something wrong? You want to sit out here all night," Lance said, lighting a cigarette in the shelter of his body. His face in the flickering match light looked like a satyr's.
"Nothing is wrong," Clarisse answered, wishing he'd take his eyes off her legs but at the same time deriving great satisfaction from his appraisal. She knew he didn't often see a body such as hers.
Lance moved forward as if he'd read her thoughts. "Yeh," he drawled, "those sure are nice." He placed a calloused hand on one thigh and squeezed the honey flesh. Clarisse recoiled, but not with any real conviction. Exhaling a cloud of frosted vapor and smoke, Lance brought his rough mouth to hers before she could move off the cycle. His hand cupped the back of her head firmly, easily controlling the tilt of her startled mouth. As his lips closed hungrily over hers, she yielded to his pushing, searching tongue. To her amazement she found herself gripping his shaggy head, thrusting her seated body against his leaning form.
Clarisse melted as she was being devoured by the twisting, voracious mouth. At last someone was kissing her like a man, she mentally telegraphed to herself. The combination of the exciting ride and the advances of the forceful rider overpowered her. Eagerly she worked her tongue against his as her fingers curled in the thick hair. When Lance kneaded the firm flesh of her upper thigh with his warm hand, she instinctively spread her legs a little wider. His fiery touch seemed to be coming from another world as he rubbed her icy thigh. In seconds desire had welled up through her entire numbed body.
Lance grunted with satisfaction as he moved his hand under the few inches of shelter her dress and coat still provided. Clarisse felt herself on the brink of abandon in the shadowy parking lot, as the few noises from the diner faded beyond her closed eyes and ears. Desperately she returned his animal kiss, sliding her hands down the unfamiliar texture of the leather jacket. With only one arm he seemed to be gloriously crushing the breath from her body as he pulled her up until she was standing on the foot pegs, awkwardly straddling the motorcycle.
With her face grinding down onto his now, she embraced him fully, half twisting to meet his body with hers. When his hand relentlessly foraged between both of her sensitive thighs, she turned fully, kneeling with one knee on the seat and precariously maintaining a foothold on the other peg. In a sudden brutal gesture, Lance forced his arm up her dress beyond her waist, the zippers and tabs of his sleeve scraping her body as he sought her breasts. Unable to control herself as his arm went further and pushed the dress and slip up past her waist, she tried to pull his body to hers.
Lance, however, was casually checking her out first. Using both hands he worked her clothes up until they were practically at her armpits. Only her coat shielded her from complete exposure to whoever might be watching them, and only her panties broke the naked expanse of her figure. He easily undid her bra and bunched that up with the rest of her clothes. When his large hands found her small model's breasts in their shivering nakedness, he snorted and Clarisse felt an irrational pang of disappointment. If he were to stop now, she thought, because she was inadequate, it would kill her.
But Lance had no intention of stopping. Completely covering the firm swells, he squeezed them with painful strength, wrapping his fingertips at the same time around her upper rib cage. Clarisse gasped with pleasure at the novelty of a male's hands on her body, reveling in the touch of the severe fingers on her small nipples which were already stiff with the cold and pleasure. Her pelvis needed no further inspiration as it reached to meet the hard bumps and buckles of his. Desire radiated from her manipulated breasts like moonbeams, flushing every inch of her being with want. Clarisse imagined him raping her right there in the parking lot, envisioning her nude body sprawled beneath his partially undressed weight. As Lance moved his hands fiercely on her tender mounds, her coat fell to either side of her over the seat.
Wrenching loose from her kiss, he stared at her almost bare form as she kneeled on the leopard-skin, willingly subjecting herself to his caresses. His eyes devoured her stained sensual peaks, the slimness of her waist, and the bronze legs tapering down from the broad curve of her femininity. Clarisse knew she was being humiliated but she clearly couldn't summon the will to remove his hands and protect herself from his eyes. As he stood there, almost impassively, his hands feeling her breasts as if they were public merchandise, she yearned to be taken by his grimy, strong body.
Only when he seemed to have made a new decision and reached for her pants, did her natural defenses assert themselves. Even as his hands swiftly raked the filmy triangle from her hips, her hands flew to his wrists. Her efforts to restrain him were in vain, though, and with the panties hanging at her knees, his hands wedged in defiantly between her legs. A thunder bolt shot through her as he indelicately defiled her with one hand, the other sliding over the pert muscled roundness of her bare behind.
"Please, Lance," she pleaded, the arrogant fingers driving her simultaneously to ecstasy and despair. "Please, no," she said, "not here." He stopped for a minute and withdrew his hand when he realized she was too uncontrolled and undecided to be had in full view of the diner. Reluctantly, he shifted his weight and grimaced as he forsook the secret apex. When he clenched a hand around each one of her thighs as if they were pillars, Clarisse wondered what he might do in his reaction. But he was only steadying her as he bent forward for a closer inspection of her inviting torso. The glazed glint of his eyes were almost as arousing as his hands, and Clarisse fought to gain control of her disordered senses. Finally he licked his lips lewdly and straightened up, giving her breasts one last pinch each before allowing her to adjust her clothes.
"Lance! wait a minute," she exclaimed as he swung her off the bike once her clothes had fallen down to their proper length. Blushing with embarrassment as he grinned at her, she shook free from his striding embrace and struggled to pull her panties back up. There was obviously nothing she could about her bra, which hung under the dress unclasped, the loose material rumpling against her still inflamed peaks. When she had adjusted her clothes again, this time with the panties in their place, she allowed him to steer her into the diner.
Clarisse had never been in such an establishment. But in the afterglow of her lurid excitement, she was enchanted by the whole place. The sleepy alcoholics, the railroad men, the clamoring juke-box, the smelly but solid food, all contributed to an atmosphere so novel for her that she felt like a tourist, something she hadn't experienced since she was pre-school age. And Lance, she found, was entertaining. Without the usual gestures and formalities she had learnt to expect from her escorts, he was still thoroughly polite to her where it mattered. Except in his language and jokes. But even in his un-emphasized and matter-of-fact coarseness, he had a sense of humor. Clarisse felt like a princess who had met her first acquaintance from the working class.
But she was hardly bored as they talked racing and he explained about motorcycles to her. Clarisse found it almost easier to talk and laugh with Lance than she did to keep a conversation going with someone like Roger, who shared her cultivation. She was fascinated by his every motion besides. He did nothing that wasn't completely straightforward, and said nothing that didn't have a specific point or element of humor. Clarisse wanted to get him talking about his motorcycle gang after she had told him about her background, but they had finished the meal and he wanted to go. One thing was certain, she thought, as they walked into the chill night, and it was something that confused her. From their brief conversation Clarisse had the impression that Lance knew a great deal about the university, much more than she did, in spite of his completely different life.
All thought was eradicated, however, when the powerful machine jumped to life again, its clattering exhaust shattering the silent darkness of the surrounding wasteland. When Clarisse once again fitted herself to Lance's position as they roared off, she felt as though she had been born on a motorcycle. Much too soon they were back at the university area after speeding through a labyrinth of slum streets. Clarisse claimed her books from the surly attendant at the cafeteria and volunteered to walk home, feeling a little awkward about being seen by a friend in Lance's company, much less on his bike.
But he had ordered her back on the machine and she had obeyed. There was something so different and dynamic about him that it would have been impossible for her to argue. No man had ever made her do something she didn't want to do, but Lance was not the sort of male she had known. His magnetism and constant air of independence set him apart from all the international elite she had consorted with-even from the young cavalier nobility she knew on the Riviera, and the sportmen she had always been around.
Clarisse winced as Lance raced up to her dorm, coming to a stop with guttural crescendoes from the engine and a squeal of rubber as he skidded the bike to a perfect stop in front of the door. She could see blinds being raised and heads looking out of lighted windows as they said goodnight while the exhaust produced ear-splitting echoes from the surrounding dorms. Actually, Clarisse was the only one to say goodnight, because Lance had announced that he would meet her in the cafeteria on Saturday afternoon, the next day. Then he had roared off, leaving her as much a captive in his absence as she had been with him.
* * *
Tamar had raced over to Corey's that afternoon when she had finished her errands and checked some books out of the library for the weekend. She wanted desperately to see him even as she counseled herself about the mistake she might be making. Making a habit of sex might be all right as a high school kid, she had told herself. But she really didn't consider herself an easy make, and it wouldn't do to get a reputation for promiscuity. She had four years ahead of her, she thought, four years in which to get a degree, plan a career, and possibly find a husband. It had always been a major conflict in her, her periods of wantonness straggling against her innate good sense. So far she had kept her nose clean, normally clean, she guessed. She thought of her roommate and envied Clarisse her naivety and fear, qualities which made life much simpler.
Corey was delighted to see when he opened the door. In no time at all he had her settled on the couch with a stiff drink and had introduced her to his friend. Tamar was impressed by this third person, a foreigner whose name was Arthur Panovsky. He was dressed like the pictures of continental film directors in open shirt and an oddly cut suit. His striking face framed by a satanic and rakish black beard. Tamar didn't know which of the two young men were more impressive, but she was flattered that Corey had invited her to meet Arthur.
"I'm glad you came over," he said. "You remember my telling you that Arthur is a photographer of considerable repute? He's too modest to tell you about the three film shorts he's made, which I think are outstanding. But apart from all this, Arthur has been looking for a beautiful young girl to use as a model, and you were the obvious choice."
"What kind of films do you make?" Tamar asked, accepting a second drink from Corey.
"One of them was a documentary which the local art theater shows every once in a while," Arthur answered, in strange, clipped accent. "The other two are what I'd guess you call impressionistic studies. At least that's what I call them."
"Rather forceful impressions at that," Corey interrupted.
"But I've wanted to do some more still work for some time now," Arthur continued. "Naturally if you wanted to work with me, I'd pay you."
"You mean you want me to pose for you?" Tamar said a little thickly, feeling the liquor wash through her system.
"Yes, in the nude," replied Arthur, "I want to refine some new techniques I've been working with."
"Well," said Tamar, "for art's sake, O.K. Where and when?"
"Since I'm from out of town I'd thought I'd work right here in Corey's apartment, which he has so generously offered."
"Corey! Are you going to pose too?" Tamar giggled.
"I haven't been asked," Corey said, "but I'd consider it." He winked at Arthur, who continued.
"As a matter-of-fact my equipment's all set up in Corey's back room. Is it convenient for you to work this afternoon?"
"I guess," hesitated Tamar, considering what she was getting into. "I've never posed nude before, so I don't know if I'll be much help. And what about these techniques?"
"Ah, don't worry, there is no problem," Arthur assured her. "Corey! Mine host! Another drink to prepare us for our work," he said, holding out his empty glass.
When they had finished the third round, Tamar had accompanied Arthur to "the studio". She was a little unsteady with the unaccustomed quantity of liquor, but she was intent on doing her best for Arthur. After all, she thought, if his work's really good, she might end up in an exhibition at some gallery. That would shake the kids up back home.
"Step number one, to take off your clothes," Arthur said, fiddling with a tripod which was practically the only thing in the stark white room except for a large box and two portable photographers' lamps.
Tamar hadn't had her picture taken since her high school yearbook session. But she quickly stripped out of her skirt and blouse.
"All of them, all of them," waved Arthur, unpacking the box.
Hesitatingly, Tamar removed her bra, feeling a little self-conscious as her gigantic breasts hovered nakedly in the air. Trying to keep some composure, she stepped out of the nylon briefs she had worn in the hope that she and Corey would have some time together, lingers curling uneasily at her sides, she waited for further instructions, completely nude. Arthur was sorting out a collection of weird objects on the floor.
Then, with all the care used in mug shots, he arranged Tamar between the powerful lights and took several quick shots of her standing body. He had her turn around by degrees until he had recorded her lush form from every angle. Explaining that this process was necessary for a "profile record" he raced through two rolls of film as Tamar turned mechanically in a circle at his bidding. When she had completed the task, she found that Arthur and the camera had moved up, and that the wide-angle lens which had been covering her movements, was only a few feet away.
Then he had her sit on a chair and repeat the process, inching around in a circle again. Then standing up, this time with her hands over her head, her breasts jutting up and out as they hung from her stretching muscles. In the course of an hour and a half, Arthur had her stand in every conceivable variation of normal human movement as the camera clicked away. Tamar's legs were beginning to ache and she was sweating freely under the lights as she went through the dull routines. Never did Arthur's voice change as he drilled her in the hundreds of laborious postures from everyday life-standing, walking, sitting, even kneeling. She found it hard put to explain herself how all this could possibly be used as art. Not even once had she even been in anything resembling a cheesecake pose, much less a stance of any grace of interest. But Arthur just kept clicking away.
When nearly two hours had passed, the door opened and Corey walked in with drinks for them both. Tamar had been nude for so long now that she didn't even feel exposed in front of Corey, although any modesty in his direction would have been absurd, she realized.
"How's it coming?" he asked Arthur, winking at Tamar as he made a face of hunger at her glistening breasts.
"We are just getting down to the essentials," Arthur said abruptly, to Tamar's surprise. "You are used to the camera by now?" he asked her.
"I feel like I've known it all my life," Tamar replied, sitting down and crossing her legs. The two men laughed.
"Corey, I an going to use your kitchen for a few minutes," Arthur said. "I want to see a few contact prints before I go any further."
"It's all set up for you," Corey answered as Arthur, juggling the rolls of film, went out the door, closing it behind him.
"How does it feel to be a model?" Corey asked her, playing with the adjustments on one of the lights.
"Dull as hell," she answered, "what've you been doing?" Corey looked like a romantic young god in shirtsleeves, his long poet's hair falling across his forehead.
"Me? I've been thinking about you. In here, all alone, under my friend's inscrutable stare."
"Yeh. what about him," Tamar said, "does he go for women? I couldn't look at me as long as he has without some sign of recognition."
"Neither could I." Corey held his glass at arm's length and brushed its cold dewy surface lightly across her mountainous breasts. "But I'm afraid Arthur has no interests in girls, except as art."
"Well thank God you do," Tamar replied, tilting her face in a provocative mouth-open pose on the chair."
"I abide in it," Corey smiled, leaning down. Without another word their mouths met in a long and passionate kiss. As their tongues probed and flickered between their alcohol moistened lips, Tamar put her drink on the floor and took Corey's from him to do the same. Hands now free, she rose from the chair, embracing his wonderful body with her sweaty figure.
As she strained against him on her tiptoes, his hands caressed her indented back, coming to rest on the firm sensual globes of her taut behind. She gave a little cry as he pinched and squeezed them, clutching her to the hard plane of his groin. Tamar broke the kiss and pulled at his head in order to bring his expert mouth to her breasts. He complied by bending his knees, lowering his head to the level she commanded. At the same time that his lips closed over one of the warm pudgy nipples, his hands slid down her buttocks to the fleshy intimacy at the back of her thighs. Tamar breathed heavily, placing her legs apart in order to let his fingers approach her critical junction from the rear.
Taking his head in her hands as she felt desire uncoil within her, she directed him from breast to breast, wishing that there were two wet mouths to worship the large dark berries. Under Corey's skillful manipulation, she felt them stiffen and throb as they engorged themselves with her electrified blood pressure. Looking down, she saw with satisfaction how each tip sprang out from the great creamy contours that Corey's head swam between. Her nostril flared with arousal and heavier breathing as his fingers undermined her stability, making the crucial nerve areas between her silken thighs jump like spastic puppets.
"Oh, Corey," she whispered hoarsely, as the floor of the old house creaked with her shifting weight, "oh darling, I need you so much. I've been going crazy these last two days, really I have. Please darling, you're driving me wild. Please! Before he comes back." Corey responded by wordlessly taking her by the hips and seating her in the chair. Tamar writhed on the hard lip of the wooden seat, her eyes passionately imploring him to relieve her. But before she could even rise from the chair Corey had kneeled between her legs.
"Oh, my darling, oh you're so good to me," she whispered in fierce gratitude as he started intently kissing her thighs above the knees. Hands sliding along the fuzzy tops of her legs, his head traced an inevitable course of commitment as his lips crawled up the velvet surfaces of her widespread limbs. "Oh, oh yes, yes my darling," Tamar croaked as the wet kisses left fiery blotches of passion in their wake. Her hands sprang to his hair as she realized his ultimate purpose and urged him on. Perched on the very edge of the chair, she strained her knees as wide apart as they would go to give him more complete access.
As if pulled by a magnet, his searching mouth with its roiling tongue plunged. Tamar's feet swung off the floor as her thighs clapped together, holding Corey's head where it had made the final, crucial contact. "Yes, yes, oh it's marvelous, don't stop baby, please don't stop." She swayed on the chair, legs thrown over his shoulders and feet drumming with excitement on his back. As if a red-hot brand were being applied to her, she uttered choking sounds of protest mixed with the lowing moans of her delight.
"Yes! yes! Oh, uh, uh," flowed her stifled cries of abandon as Corey penetrated the scarlet flower of her need. She bit a forefinger to suppress her bird-like squeaks of delight as his hands groped for, and found, the puckering weight of her breasts. Tamar's body ballooned with erotic urgency as the lascivious kisses leaped to the molten trigger of her need. Corey's tongue danced against the cloven ripeness of her being. His fingers bobbled and tortured the hard jutting tips of her aching breasts. With her heels digging like spurs into his back. Tamar arched back in the chair as the seething kiss began to set off the unbearable explosions of bliss. He pressed home as she toppled back, keeping her on a floating cloud of sensual devastation, her hands gripping the rungs of the chair as if they were primitive anesthetics. Closing her eyes and yielding to the heavenly intensity of his homage, Tamar soared lazily through a universe of bursting, flaming sensation before finally coming back to earth.
Tamar finally returned to life, her vise-like hold on Corey's head relaxing, and her eyes slowly opening. Corey got to his feet and stood to one side of her. Only when she had fully recovered did Tamar become aware of a faint buzzing, like the distant noise of an electric timer. Uncomprehendingly she traced the hum to the camera equipment staring at her from a distance of about five feet. Her astonishment increased when she heard the hard double-click of a shutter interrupt the buzzing. Instinctively closing her bared thighs and placing a hand across her breasts, which still rose and fell with the aftermath of her frenzy, Tamar turned to Corey.
"Is that thing taking pictures, has it been, doing that?" she asked in stunned bewilderment, suddenly remembering how Corey had kept his back to it from the beginning. He said nothing, casually wiping his mouth and lighting a cigarette as she looked at the camera again and heard the muffled click sound once more.
"Corey! Did Arthur rig that to take pictures of me!" she demanded, easing out of the chair and getting out of range of the wide, impersonal lens. 'Tell me, damn you, is it taking pictures? I'll smash it if you don't say something," she said, moving around the tripod and clutching at his shirt.
"You'll do nothing of the kind!" he answered softly, grabbing her gesturing wrist in a painful squeeze. "Yes, Tamar, there's now a timed sequence of your pleasure on film. Arthur!" he called loudly, "she's ready."
Tamar sank to her knees, breaking into a sob. "Oh no," she whispered softly to herself. It was too degrading, too humiliating. How could Corey have used her like this? When she pictured herself as the camera must have seen her, fully exposed in clutching satisfaction, she sobbed more freely.
The door opened and Arthur strode into the room, whistling gaily. "So," he said, rubbing his hands together, "our model is ready to perform."
"What are you going to do to me?" Tamar asked blankly, "and what about those pictures."
"You do not have to worry," Arthur said, shutting off the timing device, and rolling the film to its end. He took the cartridge out of the shining black encasement and pocketed it. "These will stay as they are, as long as you cooperate with us," he smiled.
"I won't, I can't do it," she wept, knowing that she had been betrayed in the worst possible way.
"Oh, I think you will manage," Arthur said blithely, loading a fresh roll of film into the camera. Corey leaned indifferently against the wall, pulling at his cigarette. "You'd better do as he says," he instructed her matter-of-factly. "Arthur is the most unprincipled friend I have. And I know from experience."
"That is true," Arthur responded, addressing the weeping girl. "Mr. Young has for a long time now been generous enough to subsidize my expenses, ever since I met him, in fact," he said wickedly. "Now then, young lady, up on the chair, up, up!" he commanded, prodding her soft waist with his pointed shoe. Tamar heaved herself into the chair, hunching over to protect her nakedness as she continued crying. "I won't do it, you can't force me," she murmured softly.
Arthur stepped forward and jerked her head with one hand. "You will kindly compose yourself and follow instructions," he said, "or by tonight every official in the university will have copies of my pictures in his mailbox. Now pull yourself together, miss, it is not all so bad." Tamar unwillingly straightened up, rubbing the tears from her swollen eyes and darting a last pleading look at Corey, who stood impassively watching her.
"Now then, fold your hands in back of your head, like so," Arthur instructed, positioning her wooden body. With her elbows pointing out in a calendar-girl pose, he tilted her head to a saucy angle, and prodded her back to make her thrust her breasts even farther out. "Good," he said, stepping back to admire the pose, as Tamar shut her eyes to hold back further tears.
Arthur moved the camera a little closer and adjusting the gaping lens to take in all of her body, stood to one side holding the shutter cord. "Now smile. Smile, Miss, before I lose my patience," he said, as if he were taking a passport photo. Tamar forced her face into a hideous smile, her lips quivering with uneasiness and shame as the whirling click of the shutters announced her further enslavement.
During the next hour Arthur posed her in every conceivable provocative posture on the chair, placing her hands on her knees, between her legs, on her breasts, and at her sides. He arranged her head in innumerable angles, making her form lewd syllables with her ripe mouth, and occasionally asking her to stick her tongue out wantonly. Corey disappeared after a while and came back with another round of highballs, as if the whole process were quite natural. Tamar began to move mechanically to Arthur's instructions, her mind far away and focused on other events to keep the thought of her degradation at bay.
With liquor flowing into her again, numbing her acute sense of shame, she loosened up a little. Arthur saw this and manipulated her to better effect. At one point he stopped and made her pinch her own nipples until they were stiff again. "Ah, much better," he called as Tamar reluctantly prodded the rose centers back to jutting hardness. With all self-control she denied any recognition of pleasure to herself as her fingers quickly coaxed the tips to their maximum size and length.
When she once again demonstrated evidence of arousal, Arthur had her kneel on the chair and hold one hand to a breast while she took a sip from the glass. "Move your knees farther apart," he barked as Tamar complied with each new position on her unsteady knees. The camera whirred and clicked remorselessly, recording every new variation of her debasement. As he gave her instructions in the same flat voice, she complied with her hands, squeezing her breasts, pulling at the stiff nipples with her fingers. Strangely enough, the thought that Corey was being excited in the background made her work less painful. At least some one else was suffering, she said vindictively to herself.
"I won't, no," she faltered when her ears heard the new commandment. Arthur had told her to take one of her billowing breasts in her mouth, the very idea of which had jolted her back to reality. But she knew it was useless to refuse. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment as Arthur moved the camera up, she hoisted one of the stained mounds to her unwilling mouth. With the lens now only a couple of feet from her face, taking in every detail of the unnatural feat, Tamar adjusted her movements to her master's orders. He ordered her to look directly at the glassy witness as she flattened and puffed her cheeks for assorted shots. Despite the corruption she was being ordered to mime in every minute stage, she felt her body flush with excitement as her tongue betrayed her and played with the provocative bud.
Arthur switched to color film and adjusted the lights for more intimate and revealing portraits. Taking a small kit from the box on the floor he handed her several kinds of theatrical make-up. As she sat dumbly in the chair, trying not to let herself be aroused by the shameful spectacle, he applied rouge and lipstick to the large pulsing tips of her heavy globes. Then he made up her face until she resembled a painted whore in the small mirror he had handed her. Again they went through an endless series of shots, recording in color the same, autoerotic poses.
Digging in the box again, he came up with some cheap lingerie, which he instructed Tamar to drape over her breasts and pelvis in seductive poses. He had dispensed with the chair now and had lowered the tripod, shooting up at her as she awkwardly simulated various stages of coy undress. With the lacey half cups hanging loosely under her aroused breasts, Arthur made her lift one leg to the chair, her hands mimicking sliding motions on her thighs. As another hour passed, it became easier to smile, her aching body relaxing under the hot lights.
She balked again when he ordered her to place one hand in an extreme gesture of self-love. But he had cursed and threatened her, for the first time raising his voice and clenching his fist at the same time. If only Corey weren't in the room, she thought, it wouldn't be so bad. But she could sense him in the dusk beyond the harsh glare of the lights, and she heard his heavy breathing over Arthur's demands as her hand moved slowly to the perverted posture. She tried to fake it, but Arthur only got angrier, and finally she had to demonstrate her self-exploration in vivid detail for the camera's glazed eye.
As the expensive apparatus clicked repeatedly, she maneuvered her hand in tense submission to his instructions. Despite herself, she found pleasure in the blatant act of satisfaction and in between shots, she could keep her fingers still only with great difficulty. After ten minutes of this torture, her nerves were screaming and she longed to accommodate herself with the friction her body so desperately wanted. She began to understand how girls such as herself got trapped into vice as her trembling hand steeled itself to the overpowering temptation.
When Arthur made her he on the floor under the lights and aimed down along her body, she thought she would lose all her control. Corey's breathing got louder and he moved closer, the glow from the lights revealing his bulging pants to Tamar's glazed eyes. Arthur had set up a large metal reflector which unfolded along the length of her body. In a wicked voice he announced this was for her benefit as he positioned the tripod bearing the camera down between her outstretched legs.
Nausea flickered briefly in Tamar's insides when she saw the long curved implement Arthur took next from the box. She had no doubt what abasement she was going to be required to do next. He handed her the smooth wooden banana-shaped object which resembled the real wish of her body's hunger. As a utensil by itself it seemed enormous to Tamar, and she was further confused by the syringe-like rubber ball which formed part of the handle.
With Corey watching greedily, Arthur showed Tamar how to use the symbol of depravement, instructing her not to squeeze the syringe which shook with the weight of a dense liquid. She would have rebelled at this point had her eyes not been trapped by the reflection of her wantonly posed body and Corey's hungering form. Aroused beyond all discretion at the sight of her own prostrate form with the bizarrely made-up breasts, Tamar gratefully applied the wooden substitute. The camera whirred with the sound of panicked pheasants as the spectacle of her own arm applying the bestial object inflamed her with lust. Arthur no longer had to instruct her as the voluptuous body tossed with abandon under its jerking arms. He only rolled her back to a prone position with his foot when she curled toward the reflector to witness the spectacle of her increasing pleasure. Under the triple stares of the two men and the grinding camera, her body lolled in mounting want as she plumbed herself with the weird fixture. Her last defenses collapsed as she flung her knees back and forth, writhing in self-satisfaction. When at last she was tossing too furiously for the camera to follow coherently, Arthur moved the delicate equipment out of range.
Tamar thrashed and squealed on the floor, oblivious to the males as she approximated the sensations of a male's fulfilling bulk. Arthur took the last volatile roll of film from the camera and, picking up his glass, left the room. No sooner had the door shut than Corey flung himself on the helpless, squirming girl. With one hand he extricated the gleaming, burnished object from her fixated grip. Using his other hand he exposed the welcome reality to Tamar's babbling need. She grabbed for him, surging upward with her body to replace the unbearable vacancy of her desire with his imposing flesh. At the first contact she cried out and immediately wrapped herself around his clothed body, forcing him down into a glorious impalement. Animal sounds checked from both of them as they merged in frantic fulfillment, battering one another in selfish lunges. As the crescendo of their lust strained to its topmost notes, they watched their mutual embrace in the reflector until their mouths poured together in affirmation of their simultaneous pleasure.
The whole room seemed to shake as their final explosions burst together, Tamar's flanks slapping on the bare wood planks in a resounding rhythm of their release. When Corey finally staggered above her on his elbows, his manhood fading away in her still passionate hold, she laughed drunkenly, pointing at his shirt. Where his chest had ground against hers there were two sweaty blotches of smeared color from her elaborately made-up breasts. He joined in her laughter, the tension and revulsion of the afternoon shaking them both with throaty hysteria. But when Corey mistakenly held the polished instrument up as a joke, Tamar went into the convulsion of another reaction. As he scrambled off her abused body, she rolled over, retching out her shame on the floor. When Arthur re-appeared to pack up his equipment, she was still kneeling like a dog, her hands in the center of the pool of vomit. "It's to be expected the first time," he said nonchalandy to the concerned Corey. "Remember how disgusted you were with yourself after our first session." His wicked laugh rose in a shrill arpeggio as Corey clenched his fists at his sides in anger and frustration.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was nearly two o'clock when Tamar had finally gotten home, after Corey had cleaned her up and let her nap in his bedroom. She knew she would get in trouble for being out past the freshman curfew, but Corey didn't seem worried. In fact, when she had told him who her senior resident in the dorm was, he had laughed out loud, and re-assured her even more. The woman who was in charge of the welfare of Tamar's dorm, he explained, had once made a violent pass at him at an English department cocktail party. And he still had enough influence over her to get Tamar off the hook. All the same, she had slunk into the dorm and into bed, noticing with curiosity the smiling expression on her roommate's dreaming face.
The bell for lunch woke them both up. Clarisse was so excited at the thought of seeing Lance that afternoon and Tamar was still so exhausted by her debasement of the previous evening that neither girl had much to say to the other. They dodged each other in the frantic rush to sort out clothes and underwear, shower and get to Saturday lunch.
Four hours later Clarisse was heading for the square and the cafeteria where Lance would be waiting. She had had no idea where they might go for the evening, but she had dressed as usual, in a stunning white cocktail dress and a striking scarlet cape which had been specially made for her in Paris. After all, she thought, he certainly wasn't going to go out of his way to look like her friends, and it made it more fun to identify herself with her own privileged class as he did with his.
She was pleased at the smile of satisfaction on his face when she glided into the cafeteria, her aquiline face drawing stares from the other customers as it flashed a return smile above her smart clothes. Once again she felt like a princess in a low place, and she was even more pleased when Lance actually stood up for her and graciously seated her.
"Listen, baby," he started, after he had returned to the table with a light snack for them both, "I got a meeting to go to tonight. The pack's riding into town to the combat zone."
"What on earth is the combat zone?" Clarisse asked.
"Aw, it's where all the nightclubs and juke joints are at," he said. "The bikies have our own bar, sort of, down there. It's a nice place. They got real good music to dance to, and they're a lot of regular guys around. The college faggots stay clear of the place," he laughed. "Anyway, I want you to come down and dig our meeting. Meet the gang, you know?"
"The friends you ride with?" said Clarisse, "I'd love that."
'Teh, I think you're going to. See, I can't really go around with you until you get to know the other guys. When an outsider meets one of us, he or she's got to meet all of us, if she wants into the group."
"How do you know I want to be in your group?" Clarisse laughed at him, tossing her shining dark hair back. "I'm not used to fraternizing with your type of friends."
"Listen, baby," Lance replied evenly, reaching across the table and gripping her shoulder. "You want it like you want me. It's spelled out all over you." He pulled her to him and in full view of the entire cafeteria, kissed her roughly on the mouth.
When he released her, Clarisse' ears were tingling with embarrassment but the brief contact with his virile mouth had started sparks through her body. She felt completely in his power as he led her out of the place, leather-jacketed arm wrapped around her beautifully attired waist. She automatically hitched up her clothes as she swung onto the bike behind him, flaunting her naked tapering legs to whoever might be looking. His body rose and fell in front of her as he kicked the powerful engine to life, and once again she wrapped around him with arms and knees as they shot off down the street accompanied by the thunder of the tuned exhaust.
Some ten minutes later they were rumbling through the warehouse area they had passed last night. When they came to an old brick building in the middle of a nearly deserted block, Lance stopped and revved his engine in a split burst of noise. Below a large dirty banner advertising a manufacturer of motorcycles, a large flexible door clattered up. When it was about two-thirds of the way open, they rolled forward into an enormous garage-like shed. Although there was only one dim light hanging from a steel truss, the room was alive with glittering color. Everywhere there seemed to be motorcycles of all shapes and sizes, their brilliant chrome and exotic colors glowing and flashing in Lance's headlight as they came to a stop. With a roar of exhaust Lance shut down the machine, as the metal door clanged shut in its tracks.
The boy who had operated the chain-hoist for the door scuffed off through a normal white door in one of the walls, leaving Lance and Clarisse alone. "They're so beautiful," she exclaimed slowly, as he lifted her off the bike. He let her wander over to a large purple machine as big as his own, watching her as she touched the fox-tailed handlebars, the rail around the enormous saddle-type seat, and the myriad cluster of tail-lights. "It's magnificent," Clarisse said, admiring the chrome and aluminum of the big V-type power plant as one would admire a stallion at rest.
"It's a junker," Lance snorted contemptuously. "Look, come here," he said, and walked her around the shed, explaining each model and its qualities as they came to it. In a matter of minutes Clarisse, who had been raised with fine machinery, learned the difference between performance bikes and the big, cumbersome but impressive American machines. She was embarrassed that she had been so impressed by the flashy bulk of the thick-tired bike she had first seen. Clearly there was something finer about the sleek lines of the big British machines which were free of ornamentation for the most part.
"This here's my life," said Lance, leading her through the clusters of parked bikes to the rear of the enormous room. Clarisse felt the soles of her high heels stick slightly to the grease-soaked floor, but she watched with interest as Lance removed the tarpaulin from a large object in the corner. "How do you like it," he asked, turning on a work light to give her a better view of the fantastic machine in front of her.
Clarisse studied the massive strength of the dark green frame, and the peculiar geometry of the suspension. Most of all she was impressed by the huge finned V of the engine, its potent profile nearly obscured by a maze of shining oil lines and polished, complex subsidiary parts. The entire bike was absolutely immaculate, like the cutaway of a watch in a jeweler's window. Its handsome structure seemed to have been added in each direction to the shining potency of the finned cylinders.
"It's a Vincent," Lance said quietly, "Black Shadow." The name meant nothing to Clarisse but her eye recognized the superior signs of breeding and craftsmanship.
"Fastest motorcycle in the world," she heard him say with pride. "I'm designing a supercharger for it with another guy, and we're going out to the Salt Flats in Utah next summer. The record or bust!" He covered the brutally good-looking bike with the tarpaulin which had an old blanket as an inner liner. "If you think my Bonneville's something you should try this-it's like the difference between a 'Vette and a Berlinetta." Clarisse appreciated the comparison and felt strangely honored by her introduction to the rare machine. In fact, part of the whole mystique about Lance was the way in which his body and hands moved in complement to precise mechanisms.
"Well, do ya like my world?" he asked cryptically. Clarisse shook her head. The darkness of the garage made her feel as though she were in a stable of race cars or race-horses, for that matter. The whole atmosphere of the shed seemed charged with waiting, expectant dynamism in the silent splendor of the various cycles and their equipment.
"I like it," she answered him directly, wrinkling her nose at the pungent traces of racing oils and metallic dirt. "I grew up around racing cars. This is just another aspect of it. Except for you. You're another aspect altogether," she said daringly, as he moved towards her.
"You better know it," came his hard voice as he swept her into a quick, masculine kiss. "As of tonight I'm putting my brand on you, baby." He released her, stepping back to admire her lovely figure, whose grace and color rivaled the shining compositions in metal and chrome around her. Clarisse swallowed hard, feeling his possessive eyes over the delicate presence of her poised body.
"Lance?" she said softly, trying to reach through his gruff and virile exterior, "I need you, I really do."
"You're telling me," he said, as if he sensed the reason behind her quietly desperate appeal. "By the time tonight's over, you're going to belong to me." Clarisse floundered in her attempt to speak, unsure whether he appreciated her life and the obligations it held. But he beat her quickly to the punch. "You can do anything you want with those fairies up at school," he said, grinning faintly, "and you can read all the books you feel like. But I'm gonna own part of you, the part I see staked out for me," he finished, catching her head in his rough hands and kissing her again, hard on her soft and yielding mouth. Clarisse felt her body jangle with the spell of his control over her.
"Make yourself at home," he said, "I got to go in and arrange the details."
"Details of what?" Clarisse asked, reluctantly letting him break free from her embrace.
"The details of making you one of us," he said, his dark eyes glittering at her with an ominous inner light. "I'm gonna turn you from a princess into a chick-my chick," he laughed, as he headed for the white door. Flicking his cigarette to the filthy floor in a small explosion of sparks, he opened the portal and disappeared.
As soon as he had gone, Clarisse, as if possessed by some devil, momentarily clutched at her breasts through the cape. Her head spun as she considered what might be in store for her. Whatever it was, she knew she wanted it. The events of the last few days had brought the tension in her to an unbearable pitch and Lance, the coarse, authoritative and commanding Lance, was what she needed.
Her nerves palpitating with uncertainty in the gloomy shed, Clarisse walked around hesitatingly and finally climbed on a big crimson motorcycle that resembled Lance's. Her feet found the rider's pegs and she leaned forward to grip the curving handlebars. Only with great difficulty could her fingers draw in the clutch handle, or turn the steering fork. To her surprise she found she could rock the big machine back and forth on its stand and, like a small boy, in a toy store, she pretended she was gunning the scarlet-trimmed bike down the riverside drive. She closed her eyes and imagined the wind ripping through her hair and tearing her clothes open, while with her knees she hugged the small racing tank between her legs.
The small door opened with a bang, light flooding out rectangularly into the shed as Lance's voice called to her. "Hey, baby, bring yourself inside here." She clambered off the sleek cycle, hoping its owner hadn't noticed her, and walked toward die tight. Lance's hand reached out and taking hers, pulled her into the other room, the door banging shut behind her.
Clarisse found herself in a room about half the size of the shed. There was a low ceiling here, with shelves reaching up to it on all the walls. Everything was equally grimy, the boxes used for furniture, the cases full of bike parts and oil, the workbenches littered with tools and blackened rags. Standing and sitting in a periphery around the grubby room were the three boys and the girl she had met in the cafeteria yesterday, as well as two more boys and three other girls.
The girls all seemed to have long dirty hair and everybody in the room wore a costume consisting of leather, blackened jeans, and boots of one form or another-some with broad toes and glistening buckles, others with the narrow vicious lines of Western riding apparel. As Clarisse stood blinking under the floures-cent lights of the large workshop, there were some whistles and a few snickers from various members of the gang.
"Well, here she is," Lance announced, "My new princess. Anybody have any objections." A loud joking chorus of "hell no's" and "Do it, man" ran around the room. Clarisse noticed that the only person not joining in was the girl who had been with Lance the other day. She leaned against a rack of bike tires, scowling at
Clarisse and toying with her long hair. In one hand she held a half-empty bottle of beer, and Clarisse suddenly noticed that the same bottles were in practically every hand. In one comer of the shop she saw a mountain of discarded liquor and beer bottles, mixed with old oil containers.
"You met Bucky and Paul already, and Hound over there," he motioned. "This is Bill, Grunch, Mary, Chita, and Angela," he gestured to different youths, all of whom nodded, the boy named Hound and the other named Grunch touching the visors of their motorcycle caps. "And, of course, you remember Charlene," the mock formality of the introductions inspired in Clarisse a crazy impulse to curtsy to the delinquent group. 'This isn't all the gang," Lance said, "just some of the steadies, and their chicks."
"C'mon," said a surly youth identified as Grunch, "we're wasting time."
"Take it easy, baby," Lance replied coolly, turning to Clarisse and drawing her to him. "They want to see what you're made of, princess," he said, enfolding her slim body and starting to kiss her. She tried to protest, but his hungry mouth had covered hers, his tongue forcing her lips apart. Clarisse's startled eyes caught the expressions of amusement on the surrounding faces until they closed in submission to the fiery touch. There was silence for a minute as his powerful arms held her locked to him in the public display of desire. She felt him remove the cape from her shoulders and hand it to the girl named Charlene, who carelessly threw the expensive garment on a dirty shelf.
Clarisse thought she would soon become oblivious to the others in the shop as her body kindled with heat from his voracious kiss. But she was jerked back into reality when one of Lance's hands ripped open the back of her dress. Tearing free of his mouth only to have the strapless sheath pulled down to her waist, exposing the delicate lace cups of her bra, she tasted a slight sensation of fear. "Lance," she said, "for God's sakes, stop it." She tried to tear herself away, but her movement ended in a tearing of the material bunched in Lance's hand.
"Don't fight it, baby," he said in a thickening voice, "everybody's waiting." He pulled her to him again, reaching around in back of her to undo the low, strapless bra. Clarisse tried to hit him with a small, dainty fist. "What on earth do you want from me," she yelled angrily, her temper revealing itself as she looked around at the grinning gang members.
"You know damn well what I want," he snapped, "the same thing you want, and you're going to get it!"
It suddenly dawned on Clarisse how mistaken he was in his intentions. "That's not what I want, you beast," she hissed, trying to keep her fear under control.
"Well Princess, that's just too bad, 'cause that's what you're here for," Lance responded, smiling lecherously and attempting to kiss her twisting head, its dark hair flashing in the motions of resistance.
"Listen," she pleaded directly at him, ignoring the other people in the room. "Even if I wanted to, I can't. You can't do this to me, don't you understand," she said forcefully, tightening every muscle to the slow duel they were fighting. But he only laughed and freeing one hand, savagely ripped the bra from her tapering torso, exposing the creamy cups of flesh. Clarisse was taken with terror. "I can't," she begged in a rising voice as his hands wrested with her clothing. As he tugged at the dress she realized what desperate straits she was in. But Lance ignored her, tearing the expensive gown until finally she wailed in terror, "Please, no, don't you understand, I'm a virgin!"
"Hey!" cheered a couple of the boys, looking on with fresh interest at the captive girl. But Lance had instantly flung her from him.
"You are, huh?" he panted, his eyes shining, "you mean you were, Princess!" He turned to the girls among the group and barked at them, "Get her ready, this one's going to be good!"
Clarisse backed toward a wall, trying to cover her exposed flesh with the torn and hanging dress. Her eyes went wide with terror as the girls named Angela and Chita started toward her like panthers. Almost immediately, however, she had backed into Charlene's waiting arms and found herself in a vicious full nelson, the long-haired girl forcing her frantic arms up over her head.
She tried to kick out at her assailants, but Angela in a flash was on her knees, pinning the narrow, kicking legs. Unable to move in the two strong holds, Clarisse shook her fear-crazed head, and started to scream. "Go ahead, bitch," said a grating voice in her ear, "no one's going to hear you." The owner of the voice bit Clarisse ferociously on the neck to prove her point as the victimized socialite shrieked with pain.
Even though she squirmed with all her strength, it was to no avail. Chita was methodically stripping the clothes from her. First came the dress, ripped in two halves and flung away. Then the strong girl tore the half-slip in the same manner, leaving Clarisse only the meager protection of her silk briefs. The youths, who hadn't moved but were greedily drinking in the sight of the writhing body, cheered again when the panties came away, making her fully naked except for the symbolic triangle of dark hair. She saw Lance lick his lips at the sight and take a long pull at a beer bottle, spitting some of it on the soiled floor.
Chita had dragged some wretched kind of seat cushion from the garbage heap and placing it in the center of the workshop, threw the beautiful cape over it. "No, no, please, please don't," Clarisse implored as the three girls buckled her figure and spread-eagled her on her back, sitting on her arms and legs. Only when they had her completely captive did the girl named Mary, a heavy blonde with close-cropped hair, move forward.
Clarisse was already feeling slightly nauseous at the feel of the slimy, grease-stained concrete-cold and rough under her bare legs. She thought she would get sick, though when the large mannish blonde knelt down next to her. She had no idea what they were going to do to her. But Mary made no sudden moves to increase her paralyzed terror. Slowly and deliberately she started massaging the modest little breasts with smooth hands as the boys joked coarsely about their small size.
This was the last thing Clarisse had expected and she struggled to shake off the offending hands. But Mary had her at her mercy and, taking her time, was expertly arousing the girl's animal sensations, knowing they were a separate thing from her young victim's shocked sensibility. Her expert fingertips worked with a woman's knowledge at the small rose centers which barely protruded from the curving swells. Yet under the nimble and inspired coaxing, they were aroused from their slumber and started to enlarge in involuntary response. As Clarisse whimpered helplessly, the nipples filled and rose, at last standing out in stiff, bold relief from the gentle background.
While Mary was stimulating her to full ripening, Chita and Angela began to stroke the limber legs they held pinned to the filthy floor. Drawing the athletic limbs apart, they worked as one, slaking their hands up and down the tight tender skin. Clarisse rolled her head in an agony of shame at the reactions her inflamed body was starting to manifest. But this movement only made her feel the presence of the jacketed contours against which she was held. Soon the caresses were quickening over her entire figure, the three pairs of hands moving like sliding shields on her splendid nudity.
She began to labor for air as her muscles tightened under the pleasure-giving strokes. Her boyish body arched like a dying fish, the skin of her back chafing on the torn upholstery of the cushion which half supported her. Lightning sensations were kindling everywhere on her exposed, lithe form, sending the eternal messages to her anguished brain. Deep down inside her, a dull aching need begin to assert itself as the three hefty girls held her taut against the sullied floor and cushion.
Clarisse held out for as long as she could, but the mounting pleasure of the caresses and pinches finally broke her resistance. With a great sob, she tucked her naked belly with its tufted hair off the ground in a violent primal gesture. The searching hands moved closer to the hollow wildfire of her excitement, teasing the silken expanse of groin and inner thigh.
"Go! go," came the delighted shouts when her narrow waist convulsed again, and her hips lurched upward. When the final animal rhythm generated itself in the swiveling bowl of her alluring midriff, her captors eased off the pressure on her legs, keeping a grip only on her ankles. As Clarisse grunted and whipped her hips in the air under the relentless goading of the feminine hands, Lance finally stepped forward again.
Only when he stood between her jerking legs did she see him, staring wide-eyed as he undid the massive buckle of his belt. Despite herself, she could not stop her grunting, the convulsing, the unalienable hunger her body was asserting. Wanting to avert her eyes, but fixated by her captivity to lust, she sought what was soon revealed. The sight of the dynamic Lance brought a moan to Clarisse's lips. Shutting her eyes in lust and terror, she felt her legs being stretched farther apart to make room for the kneeling form. With his jacket still on and his pants down to his knees, Lance centered himself. Then, gripping her quickly by the hips, he stabbed forward, lunging with all his brutal weight.
Clarisse screamed out as she felt herself tearing open like a sail in the wind, the scream drawing thinly out as her forceful attacker pressed home. When he moved she screamed again with pain but at the same time felt a fantastic feeling flood up her loins. Each vicious thrust brought the same mixture of pain and unidentifiable richness as he knelt over, grunting harshly. Then the richness started to bloom, opening her like a flower above the fading edge of her agony. It sparked an instinctive response in her naked, sweating hips, and Clarisse knew the moment of truth had finally come upon her.
Unmindful of the degrading coupling she had been forced to, her feet braced themselves on the slushy, gritty floor, giving her abandoned hips the leverage they sought. Again she dimly heard the chorus of surrounding youths urging her on as she pumped furiously to increase the fantastic pleasure that doubled with each cycle. Soon her limbs were freed by her captors and she flung them to the body that bestially bestrode her. She cared for nothing now except the indescribable ecstasy which cleaved her young fierce figure.
As her hips nipped and tucked in emancipated wantonness, Clarisse saw, as if a dream, other figures crowding around to witness the act. "Attababy, ride her!" shrieked Hound as Lance quickened his passionate movement, causing the girl to swivel faster in a frenzied match of endurance and consummation. "Damn," Lance grunted, in between laboring pants. Clarisse looked up wildly at the faces which stared down at her. As she entered the throes of her final transport, her radiantly beautiful face stretched in a hideous grin. For all around her were bunched the witnesses of her gratification.
She could see the bulge in every tight pair of jeans and knew it was the sight of her depraved union that was stimulating the youths. The spectacle of one of the boys kissing Angela, his hands burrowing into her sweater and down into her jeans, increased her own ardor. Pride mingled with the pulsating roar of her gluttonous surrender because she knew it was her quavering loveliness that had magnetized and aroused the group. Uninhibitedly she moaned as the first waves of fulfillment rolled up her body. Then she cried aloud as she felt Lance coil and explode within her. She cried even louder as he left her, staggering away on his knees and leaving her to hungrily clutch at the empty air.
But no sooner had he abandoned the voluptuous place of command than the youth named Grunch threw himself down on Clarisse's boiling body. "Hurry, hurry, oh please, take me, take all of me," she babbled, pulling the second figure to her heaving chest. The pain flared briefly again before she could synchronize herself to the new rhythm. But hardly had they conjoined when the surf that had lapped at her nerve fibers before now truly engulfed her. Riding the sustained tempest to its very end, Clarisse felt herself crushed by the towering waves of the glorious pounding. For nearly a full minute she was borne along on the tidal current and then finally cast upon a warm wet beach.
Melting in the glow of the ineffable experience, she felt Grunch jerk violently and collapse on top of her as his spent strength flowed into her and started her rocking out to sea again. Willingly she accepted Bucky in her feral embrace as the sea of passion aroused her tired body again. Her head lolling luxuriously back under the force of the third attack, Clarisse drank in the sight of the waiting and expectant males. In spite of the fact that she was being fully sated, entering a second and greater turbulence, she could hardly wait for the short stocky boy to finish in her. He soon did, gripping her breasts painfully as his body drunkenly erupted and added a new lash of stinging heat to her throbbing inner warmth.
He was almost bodily yanked off her by Paul, who smirked as he lowered his pegged pants to his ankles and pushed his jacket and t-shirt up, giving Clarisse a full view. Eagerly she stretched her arms up to pull him down, wanting to own him, to force him to the worship her body still craved. Years of waiting frustration dissolved around the bulk of the fourth violation. So exhausted that she could only make a semblance of response, Clarisse floated on a fresh surge of masculine potency. Her mouth gaped open to receive his beery kiss, their lips slobbering together in abandon. A great whirlpool started her drifting to another finale as he heaved spasmodically over the elegant body. The circular drowning motion spiraled her farther and farther up, to an accompaniment of star-bursts and the symphony of a thousand sunny waves breaking over her.
Slowly opening her eyes, savoring the unreleased energy that still churned the lovely folds of her long body, she saw Bill kneeling at her side, watching her pleasure with distorted features. Without thinking, she reached out a hand and felt him through his pants. Then, miraculously, his virile bulk was in her grasping hand and she was working furiously on him. She heard distant words and laughing and sensed the presence of another kneeling body. It was Chita, who had pulled down her open jeans, exposing her unprotected vortex of sensuality. Stupefied by the erotic atmosphere Clarisse stretched out her other arm, instinctively finding what her fingers tingled to discover. Her knees swung lazily against the sides of her mount as she experienced the thrill of the three bodies secured to hers.
She hardly knew it when Paul had come to end within her, all sensation seeming to blend into one fantastic ocean of bestial pleasure and pleasure giving. The only thing she felt was weightless as her now mature body overflowed with the result of the mass homage expended on her. An angry sound of voices reached her as she concentrated on keeping her aching arms in their separate slavish motions. Raising her head weakly she saw Lance, his fist knotted in Charlene's hair and his other arm forcing one of her wrists up her back, push the girl's face toward the gaping junction of her twitching legs. Pain and fury were etched into the handsome girl's features as she was driven close.
But when Lance had forced her face to make contact, Charlene suddenly fastened on Clarisse's body in the most intimate manner possible. Spurred by the searching kisses into new life, Clarisse renewed the activity of her hands until they had harvested relief, first from the boy on one side of her and then in the kneeling girl who toppled onto Clarisse's vacant breasts in gratitude. After what seemed like an eternity of jumbled ecstasy under the two female mouths, Clarisse, more exhausted than her dulled senses could realize, swooned away into semi-consciousness, riding a last long wave of unending joy.
* * *
The next thing she felt was a cold splash of beer being flung in her face. Coming groggily to consciousness, she tried to move her heavy limbs and shift herself from the cushion on which her arching back was now throbbing with fatigue. When she shifted her legs, she felt as though she were immersed in warm tar from the waist down, with a faint ember of aching pain pulsating somewhere in the gelatin of her lower body.
"Put these on," Lance commanded, throwing a ball of clothes at her. Clarisse sat up weakly in the quiet room, dimly recalling all she had just been through. She awkwardly separated a soiled t-shirt from the bundle of clothing and then looked about for her bra. There it was, a few feet away, torn and bearing the greasy imprints of trampling feet. She sighed and drew the cotton garment on, pulling its cold texture down over her battered breasts.
"Not bad," Lance said, as they both looked at the pointed thrust of her nipples against the small, tight shirt. Clarisse secretly agreed with him and staggered to her feet, to collapse immediately to her knees.
"Hey, Princess, how do you feel?" Lance laughed, pulling her upright again.
"How would you feel?" she responded wearily, not knowing whether she should take the knife that lay on the cluttered workbench and stab herself or him. Clumsily she pulled herself into the filthy jeans, drawing them over her stained and bruised hips. The canvas fabric hugged her snugly as she wrestled the buttons of the male fly shut.
"Here, we're donating these to you," Lance smiled, handing her a pair of soft leather boots. "They belonged to a chick who split her head last year, riding with some yo-yo."
"Thanks awfully," Clarisse responded, struggling into the high, supple footwear which actually fitted her well. Fully dressed, or costumed, she thought to herself, she hmped over to a case of beer in a corner, wincing as the harsh seam of the jeans chafed against her inflamed body. Determined to impress Lance, she imitated a trick she had seen at a beer festival many years ago in Germany. Taking a bottle of beer by the base, she slammed it against the sharp jaw of an open vise on the bench, shattering the neck. She wiped the jagged edge on her jeans from all sides and as Lance watched with astonishment, carefully inserted the whole neck in her mouth, drawing her tongue back. Then she inverted the bottle and using a trick she had been taught, opened her throat to drink the contents in one chugging gulp.
When she brought the empty bottle away and threw it the garbage heap, Clarisse almost collapsed as an enormous belch split her body. "Hey, Princess, you're really something," Lance said admiringly.
"That's right," Clarisse spat out, "and not something to be used by a bunch of grubby hoodlums. You've had your fun now, so please take me home."
Lance swung off the bench he had been sitting on, springing across the deserted shop. "You got it all wrong," he said intently, taking her soiled face in his hands. "That was just part of the game. Anybody touches you from now on that I don't order especially, he gets it-from me."
"What do you mean: that you don't order!" Clarisse nearly shrieked. "What do you think I am, some slut out of one of your slums."
He ignored the hysterical attack, and still holding her gently but firmly, replied. "I'll tell you what you are, Princess. You're my chick. I'm the leader of this pack and you are my chick only. But if I order you to be nice to someone, you're going to do it. Because you ride with me. Got it?" he demanded, his rugged face staring her down.
Clarisse didn't make any sense of the words. She felt as though she were a thousand miles from anything she could recognize or relate to. All she knew was that the closeness of the powerful youth made her uneasy yet aroused in a way she had never dreamed could be possible. She yielded to his kiss, melting into his strong confident embrace. For several minutes they stood, as hot tears of confusion and remorse rolled down her cheeks. When her quiet post-nightmare weeping had stooped, Lance kissed her again, this time with a gruff, fatherly kindness. "C'mon," he said, handing her a metal-studded leather jacket on the back of which was labeled in bright scarlet letters: "The Avengers". He showed her to work the staggered zipper and the snaps at wrists and neck.
"Where are we going?" Clarisse asked, as Lance hung on the metal door to the shed, once they and the bike were outside. It clanged shut like the sound of doom. Lance kicked the machine to sputtering, roaring life and she climbed on the back of the seat, her hands clutching his side as she painfully settled on behind him. "We're going down to the Silver Angel," he said, "but don't worry, I'm not going to make you dance."
Thank God! thought Clarisse as, to her surprise, they accelerated away very gently and quietly. The vibration of the restrained power relaxed her taut and aching nerves a little and she hugged against him, laying her face along his back and drinking in the clear night air as they glided smoothly and slowly away.
* * *
The next morning lay chillingly heavy with all the silence of a New England Sunday. Late in the afternoon
Clarisse at last rolled over in her warm bed and came gradually to consciousness. As the events of last night returned to her, from the snack at the cafeteria to the noisy din of the motorcyclists' hangout, she felt cautiously between her legs with one hand. The sticky hot glow from her femininity convinced her of the reality of it all.
"Hi, honey," Tamar said, sitting at her desk and watching her roommate stir heavily in the luxury of her bed. "I was wondering when you'd come back to us. Don't suppose there's any sense in asking where all this came from?" she asked, indicating the black grimy clothing and boots spread around the room.
"It's a long story," Clarisse smiled weakly, shutting her eyes as the memory of Lance's virility and power came back to her.
"Well, we have all day," her roommate joked.
"Some other day," Clarisse smiled again, and rolled over to fall into deep sleep once more, ignoring the bewildered blonde.
CHAPTER SIX
For the next two days Clarisse neither saw nor heard from Lance. Everything that had happened to her, changed in her, seemed like a distant dream. Busy with schoolwork and introductory meetings of various university organizations she was interested in, there seemed to be no time to think about her abductor, or to resolve her feelings towards the incident. She moved around the campus like a blithe spirit, cutting a carefree, elegant figure in her loveliness. Only the steady night-and-day glow in her belly remained to remind her of the passion she had felt and vaguely hoped for again. But she was in complete control of herself now. The fantasies and desperate yearning had ceased temporarily, and she walked gracefully, with all the confidence of a young girl who has been transformed into a woman. Even Roger, who in his ultra-polite way had invited her out for a drink each day, remarked that Clarisse looked like someone who had made a killing on the stock market, or accomplished some similar triumph. But she contained herself, smiling with lovely poise, and checking the cafeteria each time she passed it to see if Lance, her commanding lover, had appeared.
Oddly enough, Clarisse didn't see much of her roommate either. After her friendly overture on Sunday had been rebuffed, Tamar had seemed to go into hiding. At least she wasn't around much, coming back to the room late each night after Clarisse had gone to bed, and disappearing every morning with a few perfunctory words.
She couldn't know that the voluptuous blonde was in serious trouble, much less what sort of trouble. The truth was that Tamar had fled school for two days, in desperate loneliness, going to movies, museums, parks--anything to avoid her room and the telephone and the possibility of meeting Corey Young. In two days she had walked miles through the city, chewing her nails and wondering how she could extricate herself from the nightmare she had been betrayed into cooperating in. The fact that Corey was under Panovsky's influence for the same reasons she was, resulting from a mistake he had made a year ago with the corrupt foreigner, didn't lighten her load of fear and shame. There seemed to be no way out. She couldn't go to the police for obvious reasons. Nor did she think she could appeal to officials of the university. In the week and a half she had been here, she had heard how the administration hated scandals, in spite of the almost total lack of regulations governing undergraduate behavior.
With no money to waste at movies, Tamar found herself in the empty room at the dorm on Wednesday. Tired and tense, she had been taking an afternoon nap when the phone rang. Wanting to flee the harsh jangling sound, she eventually picked up the receiver, freezing as she heard Corey's voice.
"Tamar? Hello? This is Corey. How are you?" he said carelessly.
"Not too well," she replied, staring blankly at a modern painting of a pink nude her roommate had hung over the desk.
"Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. Is that why you weren't at my seminar Monday and this afternoon?" he asked.
Tamar didn't answer, her heavy breathing coating the black mouthpiece with a fine mist. Corey continued just as if she had spoken in the affirmative.
"Well, I don't want your grade in the course to suffer. You'll owe me three poems by Friday and I don't want you to think you can dash them off without blotting a line. But that's neither here nor there. There's something else I've been trying to reach you about." Tamar gripped the telephone in her sweating hand, hoping against hone.
"There's a small party at my place tonight and I want you to come. Rather, you're going to have to come. I'd be just as happy to leave you out of it, but Arthur has insisted. He thinks you're delightful, for a female."
"Corey," Tamar faltered, "I can't come, there's something..."
"The action starts at eight," he interrupted, "I'll be expecting you." The phone clicked dead, humming in Tamar's ear. She carefully replaced it on its stand and stood motionless for a minute. Her entire history, starting from the first party at which she'd let some boy feel her budding breasts, swam before her eyes. And then she was sprawled on the bunk, weeping violently into a pillow.
* * *
At five minutes past eight she was knocking on Corey's door. It opened immediately, revealing Corey's handsome figure which smiled at her presence and invited her in. This time there were several people in the luxurious apartment, all well dressed and professional-looking. The atmosphere of the room suggested a cocktail party more than anything else, but Tamar's stomach refused to unknot.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Corey announced, "this is Tamar, an aspiring model from the college. Tamar is the latest addition to our ranks." The men and women in the room nodded and smiled at her as she stood uncertainly in the center of Corey's polar bear rug. He handed her a drink and took her aside as the guests resumed their conversation.
"Tamar," he said confidentially, "when I first invited you here last week, I had no idea it would turn out like this. But as I've already told you there's nothing I can do. Arthur could ruin me if he so chose, and I had to go along with him. Now just to warn you about tonight, it's going to be a tittle different." Tamar stared at him like a friendless dog, barely hearing his explanatory words. "Arthur is going to make a movie here tonight with a select few of my libertine friends here. And he wants you to be in it. If it's any consolation, he says you can wear a mask, as most of the others will be doing."
She reeled before the quiet announcement. "You mean," she said haltingly, "these people are going to debase themselves for that little bastard? What are you running here, a sex club?" her voice rose a little with shock and anger.
"You have just happened to guess the secret," he said. "Only the orgy that's going to take place is a regular event I and my friends share at each other's houses. They're merely doing Arthur a favor by letting him witness it. And as for you and me and that dark girl on the couch over there, we have no choice in the matter."
It all became quite clear to Tamar, as clear as the cold drink in her clenched fingers. She up-ended the glass, hoping its contents and more would fortify her for the evening ahead. As Corey refilled her glass from a small oriental-type bar, she surveyed the room, picking out the dark girl Corey had referred to. She was a stunning brunette about twenty-five years old, dressed in a tight basic black cocktail dress. Tamar saw the bulging evidence of her attraction for the lewd and scheming photographer, and wondered how such an attractive and well-groomed girl had fallen into this vile company.
As she gulped her second drink, the liquor scoring her throat and insides, her question was answered. For the dark girl had suddenly giggled and thrown herself into the arms of the man next to her on the couch. Tamar was amazed that no one else in the room paid any attention to the couple, who were soon embroiled in a passionate embrace on the soft cushions.
But her own attention Was distracted as Arthur, looking dapper and earnest, came through a door with his arms full of metal poles and photographic equipment. He made a second and third trip and then enlisted Corey's help as he set up several floodlight stands in a circle around the couch. In front of the couch, at a distance of about ten feet, he placed a tripod on which a large movie camera was perched like a vulture. Next to the camera he placed a ladder, and after adjusting all the gear, picked up a hand camera and moved around the couch testing the light.
The conversation gradually died as the man and woman on the couch wrestled with each other, the simple black dress peeling from the girl's body, exposing the graceful gully of her back. Arthur tried out different positions to shoot from with the hand-held camera. Then, after considering the situation, he placed pinkish colored gels on two of the floodlights and started the wide-angle camera on the tripod whirring. Clearly his intention was to record the whole scene with the fixed lens while he moved with the hand-camera to catch details that could later be edited in.
Tamar almost felt like laughing at the unreal spectacle. But her laughter died away as the girl on the couch slithered out of her dress, proving to the surrounding assembly that she wore nothing else. Tamar's breasts started to tingle with a life of their own as the man stripped out of his clothes and rolled over on top of the naked girl, clutching the soft symmetry of her breasts. The sensations inspired in her body were creating the same empathy in the vicarious bystanders, who were pairing off with another about the plush room. As the man and woman on the couch shared their passionate foreplay with the wide stationary lens, Arthur circled the couch, capturing bursts of intimate detail with the expensive, multi-lensed camera in his hand.
Corey appeared at Tamar's side like a silent panther as she watched the torrid love-making increase in intensity and exploration. His hand slid around her waist and tunneled up under her sweater to squeeze one of the mammoth breasts through the lace covering of the bra. "You'd better undress now," he whispered in her ear, pouring her another drink straight from the bottle in his hand, "unless you want your clothes ripped off you." Tamar was startled by the suggestion, but her own body demanded that she imitate the others in the room, who were shucking clothes from each other like actors during an intermission.
She took a swig of the nearly straight alcohol and resignedly set her glass down. "That's the girl," Corey said, as she drew her sweater over her head and under tender mounds. Without pausing Tamar unhooked clasped the bra, revealing the heavy circumferences of her skirt and let it drop to the floor. 'Take everything off," said the voice in her ear, and she complied, rolling the panties down her spacious, seductive hips and peeling them off along with her stockings and pumps.
When she was entirely devoid of clothing her attention was riveted to the couch by a cry of pleasure. The naked couple under the soft hue of the floodlights had already joined in the most frequent position of love, and were bouncing on the resilient furniture with unrestrained ardor. Tamar felt her nerves tremble at the sight even as her brain tried to transmit its disgusted reaction. Gratefully she felt Corey's hands again take her breasts, manipulating them and simulating a hint of the lewd satisfaction being enacted in front of them.
As her sensitive mounds shook and surged with pleasure, Tamar stared at the couch with renewed interest. For another naked woman, small and bearing the white marks of a well-tanned body, had stepped into the scene. Her face distorted with the thrill she was obviously getting from the bouncing couple, she faced the camera, at the same time extending a hand behind and between the nude man's lurching form to add to his pleasure. Arthur quickly scampered around to record the details of the fingertips that were helping to coax the male to satisfaction. The woman's alcohohc smile broadened, her face going slack as her fingers found the intimate, charging secrets and she brought her own hand into play on her bare body.
But her period of freedom was short-lived because a tall, hairy masculine form dressed only in an eye-mask stepped into the arena and pushed her down on the floor. On a lower parallel to the couch they started making love without a moment's hesitation. Tamar's own body became inflamed at the double spectacle of lust, and she began wondering how long it would be before she joined the circus of depraved sex.
With loud cries and groans the two lovers on the couch were finishing. No sooner had their activity slowed and ceased, however, than another couple appeared in back of them. A young, slim man pushed a woman of nearly forty over the rim of the couch until she hung crazily upside-down, her legs crooking over the structure's back to keep her from sliding over the spent lovers onto the floor. The slender male clambered over her, sliding down on top of her aging but still lush body into the embrace her gaping legs invitingly revealed.
Tamar hardly watched Corey as he broke down and fairly leaped out of his clothes. She was deliriously watching the six figures whose proximity was urging hands to roam over adjacent breasts and other, anonymous parts of the various anatomies. Eventually the three couples all tumbled to the floor in a writhing orgiastic mass of limbs, skin, and flashing hair. Corey himself sprinted forward and finding an opening in the seething hydra of forms, guided a lovely and anxious mouth to a perverted function as his kneeling body faced the camera. From somewhere he had gotten a mask and the effect of his lone upright figure conjoined to the roiling heap by only a bobbing head made Tamar's knees buckle with desire.
"Put this on," Arthur's voice grated impatiently at her side. She turned and saw him glaring at her, holding a" satin dressing-gown, high boots, and small crescent mask in his free hand. Instantly complying, she donned the exciting garment and pointed boots, and slipped the mask over her head. "Get up on the couch and use these. Hurry it up!" the bearded photographer demanded, as Tamar gasped in surprise at the objects he was now presenting to her. But her frantic need could only be checked momentarily. Seizing the now familiar symbol and the long, plaited whip in her hands, she ran to the couch.
Arthur nodded to her as she arranged herself on the back of the sofa, spreading her legs and letting the robe fall away from her amazingly endowed body. With the seven bodies forming new layers of bizarre erotic compositions at her feet, Tamar's voluptuous figure needed no further instructions to complete the pageant of her proud domination of the dissipation below her. Her eyes flashed through the mask at the demanding camera as she applied the wooden object to herself. With one arm guiding her to self-satisfaction, her inflamed senses lost all control and smiling wickedly down at the lust-crazed captives, she raised the vicious whip high over her head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Clarisse awoke the next morning and bounded out of bed, her gazelle-like body dancing in the bright sunlight, she was surprised to see her roommate's form in the bathroom. But it was only when she said good-morning that the blonde straightened from her position of bending over the sink. Clarisse whirled exuberantly into the bathroom, wondering if this would be the day she would see Lance again, since she was both ready and eager for his passionate company after three days of busy activity around the campus.
"Hey, good morning!" she repeated gaily, wondering that her naked roommate didn't respond to her first greeting. Then Clarisse froze in horror as her eyes traced the line of the girl's arm down to the sink. From Tamar's wrist blood was running freely over her hand, swilling on the white enamel sides of the bowl.
"Tamar what on earth!" she exclaimed, as her eyes next caught sight of the razor blade in the blonde's other hand. But Tamar didn't move, her own exhausted and reddened eyes staring at the bright crimson trickle from her incompletely slashed wrist.
Clarisse didn't care for the sight of blood, nor did she understand what was going on in the depressively fixated girl. She did, however, appreciate the urgency and subtlety the situation demanded. She snatched a nylon from the several pairs hanging on the shower rail and quickly made a tourniquet above Tamar's elbow. Letting the girl maintain her frozen stance, she turned on the cold tap and, raising the wrist from the bloody mess in the bottom of the sink, let the water run over the cut. Wrapping the ends of the nylon several times in a band around the other's upper arm, she raised the wrist until it resembled the gesture of muscle-flexing, trapping the tightly wound tourniquet in the crook of the arm. As the flow of blood slowed and nearly stopped, she dabbed at the wrist with a small towel, exposing the nature of the gash. It wasn't very deep, fortunately, and only the surface veins had been cut into.
"Don't move, now, Tamar," she cautioned, "stay right where you are." Clarisse grabbed her bathrobe and raced down the hall to where a first aid kit hung on the door of the janitor's closet. She dashed back to the room with it, relieved to find that Tamar hadn't mutilated her other wrist or jumped from the window. Talking softly to soothe the girl and bring her back to full consciousness out of her mental shock. Clarisse skillfully applied a large absorbent bandage after treating the wound. She instructed the girl to keep her arm flexed high and sat her down on the bunk.
Again she left the room, taking the elevator downstairs to the dining hall. The other girls in the dorm, all of whom had her figured either for a snob or an eccentric, stared at her garb as she collected the elements of two breakfasts on a tray. "Morning sickness," she smiled at the astonished and angry head resident, sweeping out of the hall.
"Now then," she said, as she arranged the meal in front of her roommate, who still stared blankly into space, her arm held high. "Get some food into your craw and you'll feel much better." She quietly and efficiently helped the girl eat. easing her back on the bed when she was through. Without further interference, Clarisse opened a book and settled in the morning sun to read.
Approximately an hour and a half later, she noticed the propped arm waver in the air and heard the almost inaudible sounds of weeping. Calmly continuing to read, she kept an eye on Tamar who was sobbing herself back into reality. When the rueful sounds had quieted some, Clarisse put down her book and picking up a handkerchief, went to her roommate's side. After soothing the girl further, she changed the bandage to a less conspicuous covering and took off the tourniquet, pleased that her nursing job withstood the returning circulation and the motions of the sleepy hand. Clarisse remained by the distraught blonde as she sobbed out the whole nightmarish story.
When Tamar had finished with every lurid detail, lapsing back into the indulgence which came out as "It was so awful; I couldn't help myself at the time; oh, Clarisse, I want to kill myself," the lithe girl got up from the bed. Drawing deeply on a rare cigarette, Clarisse reflected on her roommate's hapless situation. For a moment it occurred to her ask Lance for help since surely he would know a way to take care of the vile im-poster, Arthur, and his damning photographs. But that might lead to Tamar's getting involved with the gang, she thought, and that would hardly be beneficial for a girl who had two hours before attempted to take her life. The best thing to do, Clarisse considered, much as she hated getting into her roommate's messed-up existence, would be to meet Arthur herself and see where his weakness lay some means she could use of extricating the girl who had gotten in so far over her head. As she was deciding on this course of action, the telephone broke harshly into her thoughts.
"Hello?" said a faintly British male accent, "is Tamar there?"
"Who's this, please?" Clarisse asked coolly, motioning her roommate not to worry.
"This is Mr. Young," the voice replied as Clarisse smiled to herself.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Young," she said, "my roommate isn't in. May I give her a message?"
"If you would, please. Just tell her that her seminar is meeting at my house tonight and that I'll expect her at eight."
"I'll make certain she knows, Mr. Young," she responded, hanging up with a sweet goob-by. "Well, he's still after you," she explained to her roommate. I think the best thing for you to do is stay here and rest. I'll take your place tonight and straighten this whole sordid mess out."
"But, what can you do?" Tamar asked, in a weak, quavering voice.
"Everything," smiled Clarisse, getting dressed and wanting to go out into the sunshine, away from her miserable roommate now that she was in no danger. She put on a fetchingly cut red dress and high heels to match, brushed her hair with the normal two hundred strokes, and before leaving, abandoned her coat for the heavy motorcycle jacket. If only Daddy could see her now, she thought, as she walked out of the dorm, shouldering herself into the hoodlum jacket with its painted emblem, wouldn't he be satisfied and amazed? Or would he?
* * *
"And thus we see that in architecture, as in so many other human endeavors, the principles of a foundation must inevitably be reflected in the success or failure of the completed structure. That's all," the professor concluded, to a half-hearted burst of applause from the crowded lecture hall. The clapping and shuffling snapped Clarisse out of her daydream, and she rose with the other students to file towards the door. She let herself be carried along with the laughing, pushing throng of bodies, until a hand lodged itself between her legs, feeling her through the material of her dress. She looked around with a startled expression to see the boy whom she had sat next to in this same class more than a week ago.
"How are ya, sweetheart," he grinned, withdrawing the offending hand from its crude overture. "Doin' anything tonight?"
Clarisse fought back a blush as she realized the opinion that the boy must have had of her. But she looked him steadily in the eye, more amused than angry as his dull, hungry face. "Actually, I am busy tonight," she said, "and ill be busy every night."
He looked disappointed, then shrugged and ambled away through the crowd. Clarisse smiled to herself and moved arrogantly forward with her head held high, her eyes catching glimpses of her fellow students' surprise at the raunchy leather jacket draped over her expensively attired figure. When she was halfway down the hall, she turned into the ladies' restroom and went into a stall, on which a battered door swung with a broken lock.
When she had finished and was hoisting her panties up, the metal door suddenly swung open and she found herself face to face with the fat, unkempt girl who had sat on the other side of her during the darkened slide-showing of last week. "What do you want?" Clarisse said irritatedly, resentful at the invasion of her privacy. The large girl's clouded eyes shone unhealthily at her.
"It's what you want," she said. "I saw what you did in lecture a few days ago. I also saw you get rid of that jock just now," she continued, crowding her obese form into the narrow stall. Clarisse tried to back up but the backs of her knees bumped against the plumbing fixture. She wasn't sure whether the girl was just vicariously baiting her or was seriously unbalanced. There was something about the hazy eyes which suggested some unnatural, drug-induced trance.
"I know what you want," the fat girl repeated, catching at Clarisse' red dress and snatching it up before she could move. She tried to grab the girl's thick wrists but her strength was outmatched and she felt the hands go for the elastic of her recently replaced panties. "I can give it to you," the unwieldy female said roughly, pushing Clarisse back until she nearly stumbled and was forced to find a new footing by straddling the black plastic seat with her less. Her assailant had her pinned with one hand and in an instant had torn the flimsy panties from her slender body with a hamJike fist. "Let me make it good for you," the elephantine figure pleaded, making Clarisse writhe in silence as the stubby fingers sought her delicate secrets. In spite of her anger and disgust the mere touch of the forceful fingers fired her being with the autonomous sparks of sensation.
Shaking her head to clear her senses, Clarisse hesitated for a minute as the large unattractive head knelt before her open, inviting thighs. When her attacker's knees had been firmly planted on the ground, the upright girl moved like horning. Her slender but strong arm flashed down, catching the seeking head at the base of the neck and crunching the soft blob of a face against the hard porcelain structure she herself was straddling. She heard the impact of bone through flesh and kicking away the hand which groped for her, Clarisse grabbed the metal sides of the stall, swinging herself over the other's stunned bulk. In no more than three seconds she had grabbed her books and shot out of the restroom, slowing to a casual walk in the hall.
Christ! she thought this place was much worse for these kind of people than she'd heard. All the same, though, she felt sorry for the unfortunate and lonely girl, whom she had aroused in the first place with her wanton behavior to a total stranger. Once she was out of the building, she quickly forgot the incident and skipping through the campus happily, smiled and nodded to the few acquaintances and faculty she knew so far, amused at their baffled expressions. Her heart leaped when she came out of the gate onto the avenue and saw the powerful blue motorcycle parked across the street in front of the cafeteria.
Oblivious to the traffic, she raced from the campus boundary and crashed into the restaurant, immediately spying Lance at a small table. It didn't bother her at all that he was with the sultry Charlene and striding up to his table with energetic poise, she sat down next to him.
"Hey, Princess," he said, "I've been trying to get ahold of you, but I didn't know your last name. Look at her, Charlene, in that jacket! I told you she'd make a groovy chick." Clarisse smiled at both of them happily, ignoring Charlene's jealous scowl. "Lance?" she asked, "will you take me for a ride? It feels like the last day of Indian summer out."
He laughed at her with a patronizing gesture, "This kid's too much. Yeh, baby, I'll take you for a ride. Charlene, watch her books, will you?" He uncoiled from the chair, giving the long-haired girl's cheek a playful pinch.
"Lance, I want to talk to you for a few minutes," Clarisse said, as she climbed on the bike behind him and felt the engine thunder to life under her soft, bare body. She knew her dress was practically up around her hips and hugged herself close to the virile form, hoping that no one could see the unshielded cavern between her gripping bronze thighs.
I "Youll have plenty of time to talk," he laughed suggestively, and then they were off, Clarisse' hair flying in the wind and puffing out her jacket as they shot down the avenue. Just before they turned the corner that led to the river, she caught sight of Roger on die sidewalk, his mouth open and staring at the picture of her unashamedly bared legs astride the bike, not to mention the gang jacket displayed on her back.
But all Clarisse was feeling now was excitement as the machine accelerated down the drive, weaving and slanting as Lance shut down all the rest of the traffic. This time she held her head high to the cool blast of fresh air, her face catching the wind-swept tears from Lance's eyes, and her silky hair waving behind them. With her arms clenching his lean waist, she pressed down into his lap with both open hands as the bike transmitted its powerful vibrations through the fuzzy seat to the fur of her unprotected body.
When they reached the rotary at the end of the parkway, she heard another snorting sound and saw another couple on a cycle racing close behind them. Lance was aware of them too and slowed down as he came out of the curve, letting the other machine draw abreast of them. For a split-second the two sleek masses of chrome and flashing spokes cruised level with one another. Then Clarisse felt her body snap as Lance let the potent machine out at the same time as the other rider. For four five seconds the screaming cycles howled forward at the same pace, but as Clarisse felt herself jolt again with the roaring engine's terrific torque, they pulled away from the other machine.
She felt Lance tense and hard as the clang of the transmission announced a shaved second when he speedshifted up with perfect timing, their exhausts now cracking back at the beaten couple. When Clarisse finally relaxed and looked around, the other bike was far behind, its riders crouched in a vain attempt to urge their defeated machine to further acceleration. She tossed her head and tightened her legs against Lance's body, reveling in the thrill and conquest of their speed. This was living, her mind sang, living gloriously, as her body seemed to fuse itself to the already perfect harmony of man and motorcycle.
After about half an hour of racing up and down the river the only open space in the city, Lance jumped the curb and slaked the big bike across the slick grass in perfect power drifts, whooping with elation. They finally skidded to a stop near a small grove of gold and auburn-leaved trees at the river's edge and he reluctantly shut the fiery engine down. Before ten seconds had passed, he and Clarisse were rolling on the grass in a frenzied embrace near the dynamic, glistening profile of their incomparable steed.
"Oh, Lance, oh my darling!" Clarisse crooned as she felt his heavy body on her and returned his probing kiss. She felt absolutely ecstatic, lying with her lover in broad daylight and virtually sheltered from the sight of passing cars. Her eyes drank in the rippling muscles of his shoulders and arms when he had struggled out of the embossed leather jacket. Still kissing her, his powerful form flexing under the tight t-shirt, he made a bed of their two jackets and fell on her with renewed gusto. She closed her eyes under the heavenly pressure of his broad chest, the aggravating texture of his jeans against her soft thighs, and the heavy boots twining among her fawn-like feet. Amazed and pleased by her own response, Clarisse kicked off her heels and daringly slid her hands up under the t-shirt along the knotted terrain of his back.
"Oh, my darling, my darling," she breathed when he propped her up and swiftly unzipped her dress. "Leave me something, darling," she panted as Lance worked the dress and slip off together, smiling when he saw her naked belly and its provocative tufted emblem. But secretly she was glad when he tore away her bra and sat up to pull his own shirt off, leaving her in original and splendid nakedness under the distant warmth of the bright sun. Clarisse sighed and stretched as though she were in the privacy of her own bedroom when Lance's muscular body revealed the rugged strength that tapered out from his narrow blue jeaned hips. A division of cavalry riding by would not have distracted her now as she flung her limbs to the four points of the compass and offered him her challenging athletic beauty.
With a low laugh of proud satisfaction he knelt over her raging, submissive body and with his strong hands started the sap of arousal rising in the youthful symmetry of her perfect breasts. "Mmmmm, it's so good, Lance. More, more my darling," she panted as his hands searched her deliciously soft golden skin. like a young satyr, he dominated her, caressing and kissing her supple curves until her small globes sprouted with the ripening buds of passion, and a dark stream started boiling in the very roots of her being.
Her sighs and exhortations melted into moans amid the soft background of whizzing cars and chortling of the river. The flowering of desire compelled her own hands to adventurously search the geography of his hard and towering build, swimming from his thick unruly hair down to the smooth masculine hips. As his stroking, knowing fingers left the flat arena of her belly for the molten secret that throbbed between her coppery thighs, Clarisse gasped with fervor. Giving vent to the spring of lust that had long been over-wound in her lithe figure, she started tucking and pumping her hips in the air, thrusting to his sure and skilful touch.
A slave to her own desire now, she became a hungry, grasping animal, her hands fumbling eagerly at the metal buttons of his bulging, riveted garment. Excitedly groping and finding what she so frantically sought, Clarisse groaned in pleasure as she freed him from its confinement. "Give it to me, now my darling, take me Lance, oh please hurry, darling," she babbled as he centered himself between her taut thighs, a demanding captive in her guiding hands.
"Oh Lance! Oooooh, my darling!" she nearly shrieked. "Oooh! ooooh! aaaaah! oooh. don't ever stop, oh it's so marvelous!" she gurgled in delirious abandon as her strong slender legs clenched around his exposed driving buttocks. And then speech left her as she became a thrashing, rapacious animal, crying out inarticulately as her fantastically agile body devoured Lance's steady, impaling strokes. Faster and faster they circled and plunged until Clarisse shut her eyes at the tremors of her transport and heard the earth hammer hollowly with the thousand hoofbeats of their howling apocalypse.
"Oh, darling," she moaned, when Lance at last disentangled himself from her shining arms and legs and rolled off her. "More, please, I need more." For when he had left her, Clarisse felt suddenly hollow, far from satisfied by her single tumultuous climax as her clouded mind recalled the endless series of lovers who had inculcated the doctrine of lust in her demanding body.
She lay arching alone on the beaten grassy area, opening and closing her hot wet legs to the far-off sun. Then she rolled over, trying to crawl onto Lance, who had lit a cigarette and was lying on his back in his jeans, ignoring her.
Her glossy hair swung down as she timorously kissed one of his dark, male nipples with her parted mouth, still pleading with him to make love to her again. "What the hell, Princess," he said, eyeing her amusedly but not without suspicion, "I aint Superman you want more, then do it yourself."
"What do you mean?" Clarisse croaked, feeling the vestiges of lust pounding in her stomach as she forced herself to kiss her way down to his hard stomach, hoping to arouse him.
"I mean," Lance said, pushing her head away as one would an over-affectionate puppy, "exactly what I told you do it yourself!"
Clarisse understood him now and flushed both with excitement and confusion at the weird idea. "Lance? If I do, will it arouse you enough to, to do it some more?"
"It's a definite possibility," he replied dryly, blowing a smoke ring into the cool placid air. "Yeh, go on," he continued, mildly interested at the ambivalent torment in the lovely naked girl at his side whose dark silent eyes spoke so eloquently to his masculine pride. "Matter of fact, it's a trick Charlene uses a lot."
Clarisse winced, but the craving in her loins made her persevere. "I can be better to you than Charlene. I know I can," she said intensely. "Look at me, Lance, look at my body, darling." She straightened up in a kneeling position, drawing the elastic band of hunger deep within her even tauter than it had been bending over. Fully aware of the debasement she was performing, she slid her hands up to her breasts, cupping them as much as she could. "Look here, darling," she made herself croon wantonly as she tugged with encircling hands around the base of the twin swells. When he did look, she squeezed herself tighter, pulling the gentle mounds out in an extruded position from her body. She tried to keep her disappointment from her face when she noticed his bored expression.
She jiggled her hands under the ivory shells, hoping to produce the seductive shimmying and bouncing employed by more fully endowed females. When her firm flesh failed to respond satisfactorily, she leaned over a little, letting him see the spectacle of her own fingers pinch and worry the small cherry lips. With both forefingers she flicked at the rubbery tips, goading them to a delightful new rigidity. Leaving one hand to pull and abuse her breasts, Clarisse started long sensual motions up and down her young goddess' body. Now Lance was licking his lips, his bottomless eyes following every detail of her energetic self-humiliation.
"Here, darling, look. Don't you want me here, look at me here," she rhapsodized, forcing her fingertips to tickle coyly at her curly raven mat. "Here I am, Lance, here my darling." As she became more inflamed by her own hands, her fingers knotted in the thick carpet of Venus, uncurling momentarily to wave in the air between her legs. "Go on, do it," Lance growled, starting to unbutton his jeans again with one hand. Clarisse was elated at the prospect of her triumph. This vanity and the enlarging ripples of passion gave her the confidence to suddenly seize her crotch with both hands, lowing gutturally at him as she did so.
But her exploring fingers soon forced her to bring her body erect again with the reflex from the fiery consequences. When she saw him lying completely naked below her, she moaned with gratitude and instinctively grabbed at his growing need with one hand.
After mere seconds of this profound attention, Lance flicked his cigarette away and grabbed Clarisse by the hips. Lifting her in the air with his powerful arms, he swung her into a straddling position. "Oh my darling, thank you, thank you so much," she babbled as her hands felt his compelling bulk directly beneath her gaping want. "Oh! oh yes! oooooh Lance!" she cried as her flailing hips paused long enough to center him and then sank fully down on him. Lance tensed with alarm when he saw the girl's entire body shudder violently at the contact it so desperately needed. But his concern dissolved when he realized that the near-faint was the direct result of the fantastic sensations he had unleashed in her. Her hands flew to her breasts again in selfish abandon as her lower body churned and pumped with startling speed. Her cries became more frequent and she pushed and squashed the scarlet-tipped peaks in her ecstasy. He felt himself involuntarily rise from the ground in her seething bouncing clutch. Swelling and lurching with his own pleasure, Lance reached out his itching hands to claim the added delight of the throbbing nippled fruits. Clarisse immediately surrendered them, pitching forward as her mouth hung open and her hair plastered itself to her sticky cheeks and pulsing temples.
Supporting herself with her hands on the ground to each side of him, she lifted her abdomen in the air, her toes curling into the cold turf. She sobbed with abandon when she looked down between their bodies and with wide eyes confirmed the jutting reality of the physical bond to which she had been so recently freed and enslaved. The vividly dramatic evidence of their union whipped her to a new frenzy. Hips swiveling frantically in the air, she improvised on her new position, driving grunts of pleasure from Lance. Faster and faster she thrashed, saucy buttocks flashing and bobbing high above him, wet thighs and groin smashing and jarring with uncontrolled savagery. Head nodding to the fierce tempo of their breakneck thrusting, she finally felt the sought-for storm gathering within her.
Just as the first thunders of passion shook her glistening body, however, her intemperate greed carried her too high above him. Lance's heels slipped on the grass and for a fearsome second, she lost him. Wailing aloud as he twitched free of her, she lurched for him with a jerking hand, screeching through bared teeth as she tottered on the brink of insanity. It seemed like an eternity for both of them before her flailing fingers found and replaced him. At once the thunder resumed, shaking her body as if it were a kitten's. Lance's bulging figure quaked in harmony with hers and then, as Clarisse shot her tongue out like a rabid animal, the lightning flashed from their fused loins, splitting their beings with insensate bolts of gluttonous hedonism. She toppled forward into Lance's crushing embrace, their mouths roiling together as their intertwined forms spasmed and jounced until at last even Clarisse' relentlessly writhing buttocks shivered to rest.
When they had lain quietly for a few minutes, both relishing the motionless, exhausted entrapment of her slender body on his, she suddenly rolled off him and clutched a jacket to her nakedness. "Lance!" she cried, "Look up there oh, it's too dreadful." Lance sprang to his feet like a young cougar, expecting to confront a gang of hoodlums. Instead, high up on the path at an angle to which they were exposed, stood a middle-aged man staring down at them. His coat was open and his hand was abusing that part of his body which he had shielded from sight of the traffic on the drive. like an ancient gladiator, Lance picked up the nearest baseball-sized rock and with a flashing, rippling motion sent it sailing within inches of the elderly figure who scuttled away.
Clarisse' disgust had already faded when she had watched her powerful lover leap to defend her, his naked frame gleaming with the sweat that streaked its well-muscled symmetry. She drank in the sight of him standing there, like a youthful savage, as he laughed at the fleeing figure. "Hell!" he said, turning around to her and showing his more complex aspects, "that's one of your friggin' professors. He's always getting himself tore up on the night patrol."
"What's that?" she asked, thinking to herself that she could live with that dynamic body and its love-making potential forever.
"You sure don't know much for a university student," he scoffed, climbing gracefully into the tight jeans and facing Clarisse, as he wrestled them over his hips. Her eyes fixed on his sated splendor until the fly had been closed for good. "Every night down here on the river the fags come for a stroll, about midnight. When it's warm you get maybe a hundred students and professors and a few professional queers thrown in. So every once in a while a gang of kids comes down to mug a few of the fairies and that guy seems to get it more than most."
Something occurred to Clarisse. Her roommate, during that long sobbing confession, had mentioned that the photographer was gay, or acted like it. "Lance?" she asked, "do all that type of people come here?"
"Sure, it's famous. Cut the crap now and get your clothes on."
She got dressed, slowly conceiving a plan that would finish the imposter named Arthur for good. As she worked out the details in her mind, the motorcycle cracked the silence wide open, its rumbling power calling her as intently as its rider. Clarisse smiled, hitching up her dress to her waist to give Lance some donation as she clambered onto the bike half naked. He smiled back and shaking his head, gunned the machine over the green sward. This was living, she thought, free as a bird. The air swirled up her legs to her straddling crotch and she leaned forward, worming her hands around Lance's waist and down the tight front of his jeans. He swore violently at her but she found what she wanted and grinning behind his back, cupped her hands over the nestling warmth as the engine roared with a missed shift and they shot erratically forward.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clarisse felt ridiculous in the full dress of a female gang rider as she approached Corey's flat about eight-fifteen that night. But after she had laid the groundwork for her plans to free Tamar from her sinful bondage, she had to join Lance. He had thought her plan was good when she had outlined it, deciding she'd need his help. And he'd agreed to provide the necessary assistance. Tonight, however, he wanted to see her after her errand. Something about the gang going down to the Silver Angel again and something else about a favor she was going to have to do for him. Clarisse had no idea what it was, but she had worn the motorcycle outfit as he had commanded. From now on, he had said, he didn't want to be seen with her when she was dressed up. So she was going to have to play a double role dressing in her usual fashion by day, and changing to the filthy t-shirt, jeans, boots, and jacket by night. It would be a bit complex, she hazarded, but certainly worth it considering the fire she carried around within her, and the nature of her extinguisher. Life had certainly changed in the last few days. Beyond sex and the thrill of speed or doing exciting things in general, there didn't seem to be anything else of importance.
She checked the safety on the .25 calibre Beretta, a present that Count di Chesini had given her from his gun collection when she had outscored him on his own target range in Florence two summers ago. Then, taking a deep breath, she knocked loudly at the apartment door. A few seconds, then it opened about two inches, the slice of light catching one half of a handsome face.
"Are you Mr. Young?" Clarisse asked, in her best continental accent to belie the impression her clothes would undoubtedly give. When the face nodded she explained that she was Tamar's roommate, that the blonde wasn't feeling well, and that she had come in her place. The door opened, Corey drew her into the darkened room, and they took seats at the rear of several makeshift rows of furniture which faced a blank screen.
"Movies?" Clarisse asked, giving her own name as Charlene when he inquired. Corey nodded and she explained that she had heard about them and would pay him if he let her watch them and meet Arthur. "If you try anything with me," she said evenly, seeing his eyes appraise her under the hoodlum outfit, "thereTl be nothing but trouble for you."
"In that case," Corey said, "you should really pay, since this is a fairly select society." He indicated with his hand the ten or twelve well-dressed people who were sitting impatiently on the chairs and couches that had been arranged semi-circularly before the screen. Clarisse coolly peeled off fifty dollars in tens and handed them to Corey. When she was sure no one was looking, she gestured to him to look at her lap. His face froze when he saw the glint of the small pistol in her hand, but as soon as he had seen it, she tucked it into her pocket.
"That should convince you that I'm not here to be used as my roommate was," she explained, relaxing but keeping her hand in her pocket. Corey nodded, licking his lips and swallowing heavily. Obviously, she thought, after all these years of debauching ingenuous freshman college girls, he's forgotten that a woman could have as much capacity for decisiveness as a man. The awe and admiration on his face made her laugh out loud at the thought of all the vegetables like Corey who constituted the university population. She might have just accepted her responsibility as a sexual being a few days ago, Clarisse concluded, but when it came to living life in general she knew few people, her age or older, who had done as much as she had, or were as independent.
Now the man who could only be Arthur had walked into the room and after checking the lock on the door, had set up a slide projector and loaded it. Corey went to an elaborate hi-fi setup and put on a music of Indian sitar music, the heavy choning and metallic arpeggios making the atmosphere seem sweet and duskier than it was. He returned to Clarisse, offering her a drink. She accepted it, but waited until he had gotten up once more to switch her glass with his just in case. Then everybody settled back as the projector flickered on.
Even though she was expecting it, Clarisse was startled when the first slide showed the figure of her roommate sitting naked in a chair in what seemed to be a bare room. She watched with interest as the blonde stood up and, with the man who was sitting next to Clarisse, started to make love. She even blushed with shame as successive slides illustrated the male figure on the screen rolling and kissing the sumptuous breasts which she herself had worshipped in a mistaken moment. But when Tamar's voluptuous body was seated on the chair to receive Corey's strange kisses, Clarisse could hardly believe her eyes. Crossing her legs and edging back and forth on her own chair so that her jeans would rub against her, she watched in disbelief as the man's head sought the apex of the lustrous thighs on the screen.
Clarisse had heard about this way of making love, but she had never seriously considered the gratification it might entail. Now the results of such misplaced kisses were graphically demonstrated by her roommate. As the proiector automatically clicked through the thick file of stills, the seated girl's expressions became more and more distorted. Despite the frozen positions of lust for which the mind had to supply continuity, Clarisse easily imagined the pleasure Tamar was undergoing, as represented by the tilting head, gripping hands, and thrust open legs. When she shot a look at Corey, he seemed only mildly amused, half-ignoring the pageant of his lustful homage. Then, before her feelings had turned from a warm glow to a hot dissatisfaction, the projector shut itself off.
The lights came on for a minute, and Arthur busied himself now with a movie projector. Clarisse walked over to him, noticing that the couples lounging on the furniture were for the most part in various casual embraces, kissing and petting one another. She introduced herself to Arthur as he shot a glance at Corey to determine if her presence at the showing was legitimate. After Corey had given him the OK, she managed to give the runty, bearded pornographer her message. "A friend of mine wants to meet you tomorrow night by the West bridge on the river. He's tired of women and needs money very badly," she said steadily, fabricating the story for Arthur's growing interest. "He'll do anything
no questions asked. Look for him about ten o'clock
he'll be wearing a camel's hair coat."
Before Arthur could respond or ask her about further details, she returned to her seat, and he was forced to start the projector to quiet the complaining of the eager audience. When the lights went out again, Clarisse considered leaving but noticed that she had a little time before she had to meet Lance. But then the screen came to life and she was compelled to stay as her roommate again appeared. This time Tamar had been made up to look like a prostitute and it immediately became clear that the moving picture's first segment was going to concentrate on autoeroticism. Strangely enough, the debasements the blonde was forced to enact on her own glossy body didn't arouse Clarisse. Even after several minutes, when the distraught girl was writhing on the floor, the film showing every lurid detail of her self-gratification with a strange object, she felt nothing but pity for her roommate and easily imagined how she could have been driven to the suicide attempt.
The screen went black for a few seconds and Clarisse noticed the increased motion in the room as the sound of giggling and the rustle of clothes sounded over the hypnotic music. Then a title flashed onto the screen: "A Course in Group Therapy". There were knowing laughs from the assembled couples and she conjectured the next movie had something to do with university people.
She had guessed correctly. A shot of the new psychology building appeared before the film shifted to what looked like a luxurious seminar room, obviously suggested as being in the building. The door to the room opened and a girl no older than Clarisse, who looked like a typical student, entered. Seeing that the room was empty she pointedly looked at the clock which showed a few minutes before the hour, and set down her books on the oval table. Then, facing the camera, she started to remove her clothes, her face soundlessly miming the pangs of acute frustration. When she was down to her bra and panties, she began caressing herself, her pretty face pouting with an expression of need.
Clarisse wondered how Arthur had managed to film this on school property, and came to the conclusion that he must have had a much wider range of blackmailed victims or volunteers in his organization than she had considered possible. The lone girl on the screen had now unhooked her bra and letting it loosely conceal the actual sight of her breasts, was squeezing and tormenting them under the dangling cups. That was a clever trick, Clarisse thought, feeling herself become as anxious to see the obviously provocative globes as the film had intended.
With the bra still drooping shapelessly, the girl kept one hand working at her bosom and made the other do a crawling pantomime down her shapely body. The waving fingers flirted at the elastic waistband and disappeared beneath the shining panties, disfiguring them with their searching quest. Her body started to dance spasmodically on the screen now, her hands alternately tunnelling into the panties thin coverage of her rounded apex and then shooting back underneath the bra. The girl lifted her legs one by one into the air tike a dancer in slow-motion, sliding her fingertips under the twin bands of elastic at the junction of her legs in further teasing. Then with an expression that conveyed acute wantonness, she threw herself on the floor and wrapped her thighs around a table leg while lying on her back.
In this position she thrust her still concealed treasure against the upright prop, her hips squirming as she ground against it. Now she pulled the bra off, disclosing two perfectly shaped creamy mounds, and began harassing her cherry nipples with nimble fingertips. Up to this point the camera hadn't moved, but now it surprised the entire audience, including Clarisse who was struggling with self-discipline, by closing in on the tossing motions of the girl's hips which worked with feverish friction against die table leg.
Then the camera swung up to show the classroom door opening. An older man who looked like an instructor entered, his face doing an alarmed double-take at the spectacle of the girl on the floor. Immediately she had sprung to her feet, the ripe breasts bouncing, and started to chase him around the table. The mock pursuit lasted but a few seconds before she tackled him and they both toppled to the floor. He went through the motions of fighting back, but the girl was sitting on his stomach, still in her panties, and had started tearing at his trousers. The camera panned quickly to her face as it glowed with pleasure when her hands had freed his masculinity. But the film's director was way ahead of the expectations of his audience. Despite the encouraging motions of her desperate fingers, the instructor's body refused to become aroused. Clarisse could scarcely believe that any man could withstand the erotic exhortations the girl was performing as her face clouded in dismay, but somehow or with the aid of something he was doing it.
The audience in Corey's apartment laughed and hissed as the girl redoubled her efforts, all to no avail. Springing from her seated position, she ground her body on the floor and swam to his exposed manhood with a frantically pursed mouth. Clarisse stared in amazement when the girl actually kissed him there, her head bobbing as she sought to instill passion in him. The sight both nauseated and disturbed her, but the disturbance clung to her mind tenaciously as she fought aside the image of herself conceivably doing the same thing.
She was distracted by a further reminder of the female's desperation, however, when the wanton girl onscreen stripped off her panties and proceeded to gratify herself with her hands while her head was still buried in the man's loins. Just then the door opened again and another female student walked in, her head uptilted as she finished off a soft drink. The first girl immediately sprang to her feet again and wrenched the bottle from the other's hand. Jumping on to the edge of the table, she spread her legs for a camera close-up as she thrust with the contoured glass neck. The camera lingered on her bizarre jerking ritual for a moment and then moved back to take in the entire room again, as the second girl proceeded to strip off her clothes. When she was fully naked, the lower tuft of hair confirming the authenticity of her flashing red mane, she attempted the same ministrations on the prone male figure that the now satisfied brunette had applied.
But the door opened a fourth time, introducing a thin, bespectacled student who immediately started to backtrack when he took in the amazing scene. Both girls were on him like animals, though, and dragged him to the table, undressing him despite his protestations. A real surprise was sprung now, as they ripped away his jockey shorts. For despite his seemingly frail physique, he was prodigiously endowed. At once he was stretched backwards on the table, the brunette clambering onto him with a look of complete ecstasy. When she had mounted him, her body raged with its unleashed rhythm. The boy's tremendous size enabled her to rise to almost an upright kneeling position with each of her twisting strokes, her ripe breasts jiggling in the air as she came slamming home on him. Meanwhile the redhead had taken the boy's glasses off and was standing with legs thrust far apart, forcing his upside-down face to her. Half on and half off the table, the slim young male was held captive by the two girls as the door opened once more and a large group of students filed into the room.
Instantly there was bedlam, the camera retreating as clothes filled the air like leaves in a storm, and the screen became a seething mass of bodies, coupled and combined in every conceivable manner. The apartment itself seemed to have been finally given its cue as the people sitting in front of Clarisse groped for one another in the lust-scented haze. She was grateful when Corey left her side to join his embroiled guests, and unable to be confident in her self-control any longer, she edged toward the door. Legs buckling with the rubberiness of a long-distance runner, she reached the door, stopping for a last look at the screen, her gaze constantly interrupted by the half-obscure pageant of abandon going on all over the place. Again she felt a flicker of nausea interfere with the hot craving in her body when she was able to discern the action in the movie. For conspicuously at the front of the tableaux was the instructor, this time aroused, but locked in the most bestial fashion imaginable with the thin boy, his sallow cheeks symbolizing the intensity with which he was making love to the boy, and receiving the same type of pleasure. The brunette was standing to one side, in between two hefty males who were splintering her body from each side as her face contorted with a mixture of delight and agony. The redhead was lying across three different male laps which were seated on the table's edge facing the camera. She was impaled on the first one, buttocks tensing as his pleasure visibly mounted. The middle boy's face sagged like a drunkard's as her head bobbed in his lap, her own face taut and wet with dreamy satisfaction, "her cheeks hollowing and tongue darting over this second man. The third boy was leaning back on his arms as the redhead's hands, stretched ahead of her like a swimmer's, thrashed in his lap, holding him in a double clutch of lust.
There were other absorbing groups in the classroom, particularly one that centered around a long-haired blonde on the floor. Her face was obscured by a pair of feminine thighs that held her seeking mouth locked to its goal. This same kneeling girl's arms were clapped around another female waist which presented a similar target of tremulous pleasure to her churning head. Behind this girl and straddling the blonde's body, a boy was facing in the same direction, his profile bucking as the blonde held him in a unique, exodc mammary embrace, with her own hands keeping him enfolded in her soft, sweating cleavage. Finally the blonde was receiving gratification from another girl's raven-haired head which was fastened, leech-like, to the hips which nipped frenziedly in the air. The raven-haired girl, however, was on her hands and knees, her head straining downward as her body contorted from a perverse attack by a hairy youth who had lodged himself between her buttocks.
Clarisse felt her nausea fade as the inspiring sight ignited new flames in her grubbily-clothed and perspiring body. The fire wasn't lessened by the presence of nearly similar acts taking place in the steamy, music-filled room. Shutting her eyes, knowing that she'd explode if anyone as much as laid a hand on her, she groped for the doorknob and fumbled with the two locks. Ripping the door open, she burst into the quiet, sweet air of the hallway and ran to the street as fast as she could.
At the curb was a large, racing-blue Bonneville and, sure enough, lounging in the shadows was Lance, casually smoking a cigarette. "I was gettin' set to come up after you," he said, "you're kinda late." Clarisse flew to him, mumbling an apology as best she could. With animal fervor, ignoring his surprised exclamations, she dragged his brutally handsome body into a service alley next to Corey's apartment house. "What in hell's got into you!" he demanded, as she threw herself on his, pulling to bring his mouth to hers.
"Oh, Lance, please. Please darling, don't ask questions," she moaned as her body quaked with longing at the contact with his powerful frame, "just take me, oh god. Lance, take me quick."
"What the . .--. ? " he exclaimed, pushing her violently away, "We don't have time for that crap, get in gear will ya?"
"Lance!" Clarisse begged, clawing to get back at him as he involuntarily shivered in reckless anticipation. When he pushed her away a second time and threatened to hit her, she dropped to her knees and getting under his guard, popped open the buttons of his fly. "Listen, Princess," he said, in a hard voice, "you don't cut this out, you're going to get a boot in the stomach. Some other time, all right?"
But Clarisse hadn't heard him. With trembling fingers she had pushed the harsh jeans down and away, worming her body between his legs and pinning him to the brick wall of the alley. Every nerve in her flushed body demanded instant gratification and there was only one way to conquer his anger and make him respond. It's not ugly, she told herself, her senses reeling at the intimate closeness she craved. I can do it, I've got to do it, she chanted feverishly to herself, wrestling her head out of his strong hands and with a sudden lunge, plunging her face to the fleshy reality which had haunted her life in years of nightmares.
For a split-second she recoiled as her cheeks felt the coarse hair of his bulging thighs and her eyes shut against his presence. Lance jerked with a violent reflex at the sensual kiss, his fingers which had started to push her away curling responsively in her glossy hair. He leaned his weight against the wall as Clarisse' grasping mouth kindled the lightning of love in his body. Within seconds he was being transformed by her wet lips and stabbing tongue into a state of virile readiness.
Clarisse crawled closer, leaning slightly as she brought her belly into contact with his high boot and began rubbing herself against him. She moaned and gurgled as she discovered the intensity and swiftness of the impact her slavish attention was begetting. Simultaneously terrified and thrilled at first by the unspeakable degradation her passion had forced her to, she was quick to appreciate how lavishly her young woman's body could employ its energy. When she could do more to stimulate him with her aristocratic mouth, she relinquished the object of her unprecedented caresses, and rose shakily to her feet.
Lance embraced her in a bear-hug as she tore open the front of her own jeans and pushed them down her hips. A passing car's lights refracted off the golden glow of her marvelous legs as the jeans lay bunched around her ankles. Heedless of the semi-public display, she reached for him like a wildcat, spreading her tawny inner thighs to receive his splendor. She groaned uninhibitedly when she had guided him to her.
"You asked for it, Princess," Lance panted, pushing her back until they toppled onto the hard concrete of the alley. Clarisse struggled, until she thought her toes would break, to free herself from the boots as she lay under his heavy impalement. Finally she worked them both off her legs, pushing the bunched jeans after them as she surged against him. At last she was naked from the waist down and giving a cry of exultation as her freedom allowed her to fully receive his violent plunges, she swung her shining legs straight up into the air, kicking wildly as her buttocks gyrated on the smooth, cold cement.
With her heels digging into the back of his jacket, urging him to more powerful blows, she ripped open her jacket and pushed the t-shirt up to expose her cunning throbbing breasts to him. He seized each one in turn viciously, taking them in his teeth and shaking his head as her hands clenched in his hair with delirium.
The force of his stabbing drives propelled them both along the pavement as they thrilled to each other's savagery. Clarisse's naked legs flew to the cement, from where she arched them both off the ground in incredible displays of strength, and back to Lance's hips, around which they twined as if to squeeze every bit of life from his commanding body. Throbbing and burning in the dark alley, their torrid love-making soon approached its summit. Clarisse froze and convulsed as Lance rammed deeper and deeper into her yielding glove-like warmth. From her throat came a prolonged half-growl half-shriek of satisfaction as her riven loins burst under his own dynamic explosion. Arching high in the glorious throes, she sank her bared fangs into his neck as his hands mauled her rubbery buttocks.
When he had hauled himself off her, she lay as if in a trance, the exposed lower half of her body and her bared breasts shimmering in the darkness. "C'mon," Lance scowled, jabbing her with his boot, "we gotta get downtown. Now move your ass!" When she didn't move, he placed the sole of his boot between her legs and pressed down harshly. "You'll get more in a while, Princess," he laughed as she curled in pain, hands pushing against the brutal boot.
Fifteen minutes later they were walking into the Silver Angel. It would have been hard for anybody to tell that the beautiful girl by Lance's side was a jet-set socialite. Her face was soiled, her hair was matted, and she slouched in her filthy clothes like a chick who had been born to make it gang-style. The other members of the gang made room in the large booth for them, the girl named Charlene grudgingly moving for her socialite successor. When Clarisse told him about the plans she had made with Arthur, Lance promised to be on the river at the appointed time with Hound and Bucky.
"We'll take care of him," Lance said, "but tonight you're going to take care of somebody for us."
"How do you mean?" Clarisse asked apprehensively.
"Well, Princess, seeing as how your my chick, there's certain favors you got to do for me-to make me and my buddies' life a little easier," he explained over the din of the rhythm and blues group on the small dancing stage. "Like, for instance, the bartender at this joint's been real good to us, and we try to pay him back every once in a while. Now I've told him about you and he's really set on getting together."
"You wouldn't, you can't," Clarisse said, dismayed by what she considered to be a breach of faith towards her part-time role as a bike angel. After all, she only did it because she liked Lance, or needed him, to be more truthful.
"That's where your wrong, Princess. Now I don't want any crap over it. Just come with me and it'll all be over soon." He took her arm and hoisted her out of the booth. "You know she's just fakin' ", he told the amused group, "the bitch can't get enough. First thing she does when I pick her up tonight, she goes down on me, almost right on the street."
"Lance!" Clarisse protested, shocked and hurt by his cruelty and indifference to her feelings. She began to feel a little trapped, as Lance led her to a door at the back of the band platform, signaling one of the bartenders as he did so.
When they had reached a small office with a clutter of files and a bare mattress-covered cot in the corner, Clarisse spun free from his hold on her arm. "I hate to disillusion you," she said, "but you've got to understand that I have certain principles."
"No sermons, princess, just lay out for the man without any whining-you know you love it."
"Listen!" she announced fiercely, pulling the small Beretta from her jacket pocket with the intention of letting him know how things stood, "I'm not laying out, as you call it, for anybody-not even you, Lance, without some consideration. I didn't expect to be treated like this."
In a flash Lance's boot shot out in a whip-like kick, knocking the gun from her hand and sending it flying across the room without ever touching her skin. The door opened and a large, sweating man with a bad complexion and a bartender's bow tie hanging from his open shirt came in, just as Lance seized Clarisse by her jacket. Holding her with one hand, he backhanded her across the face with a stinging blow that left her cheek white and brought tears of pain to her eyes. The fat man raised his eyebrows in a casual expression of inquiry.
"You listen, Princess, and listen hard!" Lance said, with slow fury. "I've carved people for pulling a piece on me, fun or not fun. When you're with me, you do like I tell you, no questions asked. I'd hate to spoil those pretty looks after the real nice time we've had, but if I get any more gas from you, I'm gonna mark you. Now get with it!" he finished, with a shove that sent her crashing back against a filing cabinet as if she'd been a rag doll.
"Treat her nice, Joe," Lance said, "none of the usual-she's a college kid." He opened the door and strode out of the office.
"College kid, huh?" said the bartender, picking up the gun which lay on the floor. "Yours?" he asked. Clarisse nodded, her body tense as it waited for the obese man to make a move. "You better keep it out of sight," he continued, handing it back to her, "girl your age can get in a lot of trouble trying to play the secret agent bit."
Clarisse took the gun angrily. Never in her life had two separate men treated her like a child as did Lance and his nightclub-owner friend.
"Let's not waste any time. I got a full house to look after. Why don't you get those rags off?" Clarisse didn't move. "Let's go, honey, or Princess, if you like that better. This has to be short and sweet, since your stud boyfriend doesn't want to let me get my usual kicks." Clarisse still didn't move, only vaguely realizing that she was being prostituted in return for some favor this unattractive man had done for Lance. Even as she watched, he unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop to the floor, his sweaty paunch hanging out like a blimp over the floor. It was impossible, thought Clarisse, no girl could stand to make love to something like this. There were certain people, she thought, who should be hid away from good-looking and intelligent persons.
"C'mon, get 'em off," the man said, in a voice that was commanding, but not rude, "or do you want me to call in Lance. You don't know what he can do to a sweet girls like you when they get him irritated." There was no way out, Clarisse thought, even though she'd sooner die than touch this repugnant lower level being. But he was touching her now, his stale breath flooding over her face. She stood paralyzed as he removed her jacket like a kindly porter. She felt his thick fingers brush her body as he drew the t-shirt up her body. "What a nice figure we have," he said, smiling and tenderly raising each of her arms as he worked the shirt completely off. There was a knock at the door and he yelled, "Come in!", as Clarisse crossed her hands in front of her naked breasts. It was Lance peering in to ask if everything was OK. "Just fine, baby," the fat man replied, "Lock the door, will you?" Lance's face disappeared and Clarisse again found herself facing the bartender.
His sausage-like fingers working skillfully, he dropped her jeans and told her to take them off, along with the boots. As if in a dream, convinced this couldn't be happening to her, Clarisse complied. "Since we can't do the usual," he said, shaking a short leather whip at her as she retreated, "we'll have to have a special treat, won't we?" He sat her on the bare mattress, sitting beside her and as she tensed in revulsion, running his pudgy fingers expertly over her delicate desirable breasts. "Mmmmmm, so very pretty," he murmured, as his fingertips played with a feather-touch at her nipples. In spite of herself, she felt the glow of the lust, that was beginning to dominate her life, fan through her body. His fingers unlocked a preliminary door with ease when her small buds rose tautly under his light teasing. They stood out from the puckered flesh around the tips like push-buttons, radiating a pulsing warmth of their own.
His hands swam down her sides, pinching her gently at the areas where her skin was most vulnerable. With one hand he pushed her gently back on the mattress as his other hand rapidly stroked her inner thighs with a vertical motion. She shut her eyes and tried to keep her legs still, but it was no use. With years of experience behind him, he was forcing them to open by themselves, revealing the inviting triangle of her femininity. She bit her hp as she felt her body ache to be touched at its sensitive focus, and then moaned aloud when he actually did brush the jewel enthroned in her. It seemed like no more than seconds before she was raging in the clutches of some demanding demon, but as her hips tucked responsively to his touch, he grabbed her and turned her on her stomach. Before she knew what was happening, he had smeared some sort of cream between the small ripe melons of her buttocks and reared above her. Instinctively she guessed what he was going to do and tried to dodge him, but he was on her, forcing her apart, driving into her until his belly pressed on her behind like a great-stream-roller.
Clarisse screamed into the mattress as the unimaginable pain cleaved her body. With every motion of his above her, like a red-hot whale diving into an unyielding pond, her agony increased. She thought she would black out with the torture behind her, but as she sobbed, she felt his fingers slide under her and proceed to stroke the other fire in her belly. His hand searched her until she arched off the bed from his unbearably pleasurable manipulations, thus adding to his enjoyment and increasing her own discomfort. She heard him grunt like a wild boar as his tearing strokes quickened and he jerked violently with the violent spasm of his release.
Clarisse caught at him as he got off her and the pain faded to a heavy throbbing. The other fire was consuming her body now and she had to be fulfilled. She pulled at his arms, trying to topple him onto her, caring only that she should feel the elation of a male within her. "Sorry, baby, that's it, as you can see for your sweet self," he said, trying to free himself from her hands. Panic raced through her at the thought that he might leave her in her desperate state. In spite of the revulsion that sparked in her brain for a minute, she slithered off the bed as he backed away, seeking the only way out of her dilemma.
"Hey, how about that?" the fat man laughed in wonder as her hands clasped the backs of his pillar-like legs and her head disappeared beneath his paunch. He toppled back onto the mattress, melting in the glorious embrace of her young mouth. In spite of the horrible smells that were suffused through the region of her attentions, Clarisse felt a strange thrill as her lips puckered and rippled on the fat man. The need in her seemed to abate a little as her craven cheeks appeared to draw together over his re-awakened passion, giving her a look of blissful fulfillment. And she actually felt a strange sense of pride as her tongue slithered over him, whipping him to fresh urgency, devoting all her energies to arouse the pleasure that would soon become hers.
When he was ready again, however, he made no move to take her. Whimpering and jerking strangely as if an electric current were being sent through her body, Clarisse detached herself and tried to mount him as he lay on the mattress. With cat-like grace the slovenly figure again chose a wen-timed moment, grabbing the wanton girl and turning around so that she faced away from him. As her elegant body instinctively crooked, trying to guide itself to him, the man sat up and pushed her forward onto the floor, following close on top of her. But this time he plunged between her thighs, impaling her like an animal. Finally she was feeling the welcome and rewarding thrust she had so longed for. On her hands and knees she supported his bull-like mounting, swaying and groaning as his hand reached around her leg and supplemented the delicious contact of their strange union. Almost immediately her overwrought nerves went off like a cacophony of fire-bells, the insensate din rising and fading and then rising once more as the laboring obese figure finished the repartee and fell forward, collapsing her delirious form onto the office floor.
Lance bought her a double scotch when she came back to the booth, her body still drumming to her pounding heart. She drank it neat, coughing and sputtering on the cheap liquor as the gang laughed and congratulated her on her success with the club owner, who beamed at them from behind the bar. She had more to drink, and more, until in a daze from alcohol and dancing, she hugged Lance's waist and actually fell asleep on the ride home. She hardly knew what was happening when Lance propped her in the shadows of her dorm, unbuttoned both their jeans, and holding her upright, took her like a tramp. All she knew was that somewhere in her body that wonderful rhythm seemed to be pounding again, and then strangely, she was inside the dorm, dimly bearing the roar of the bike as it shot down the driveway. She tried to pull her boots off, but got nowhere and finally falling back on her uncovered bed she gloated away into a sleepy fantasy-filled stupor, wrapping the bulky leather jacket around her slim, nebulous body.
CHAPTER NINE
When Tamar woke her the next morning, her face expressing concern at her roommate's untypical dress, Clarisse thought her head would burst. Staggering into the bathroom she stuck her head under a cold shower and then looked at her bleary-eyed stringy-haired face in the mirror. What the hell, she thought, ignoring the blonde's tactful questions, why shouldn't she be a slutshe certainly looked the picture. She reassured Tamar that Arthur would be "taken care of" by friends of hers who would somehow get the threatening films and negatives. The other girl still acted terribly sad and depressed, mooning around the room as Clarisse dried her hair and, incongruously, gave it the usual two hundred strokes with the silver-handled brush. In fact, the mere presence of the blonde, her wrist still bandaged, irritated Clarisse by making her feel as though she should bolster the other's flagging spirits. But she felt like a hellion, in spite of her hangover, and Tamar's wretchedness was only an albatross around her new figure of libertine recklessness.
"Look baby," she heard her own voice say in a steely tone, "I'm getting rid of those pictures for you, so lay off me. Right now I couldn't give a damn about you or any of the other neurotics in this bloody university." She saw Tamar's face become a crestfallen portrait of injury and loneliness before she stomped out of the room. And she continued to stomp right through breakfast, holding herself defiantly as the murmurs and stares followed her outrageously-attired figure around the dining room.
She was just as arrogant in her classes, especially in the writing course where, slouched in a chair, she stared at the ugly, pock-marked instructor who had taken advantage of her recent decorous modesty to stare at her. By the time the hour was over she knew he was scared stiff by her and laughed out as she exited from the room like a girl hoodlum. Her behavior was just the same in her other lectures and for the rest of the day as she strode around, showing off her contempt for the normally dressed and behaved students, and nodding to the few other students whose dress vaguely resembled her own.
In the afternoon she bumped into Theo, who collared her for a short talk. He expressed no surprise at her costume or grubbiness, but merely asked her how her action-packed life was going. When she asked him scornfully what he meant, he said something about there being more to living than fast cars and motorcycles, but she walked off haughtily when he continued in the same vein, starting to say something about young girls and sexual freedom. What did he know about her anyway, she asked herself, smiling when she pictured him seeing any of the events of last night.
At about nine-thirty she walked to die cafeteria to meet Lance. All evening she had been furious with the senior resident of her dorm who had sought her out at dinner. For the most part ignoring Clarisse's defiant clothes and rudeness, she had questioned her closely about her blonde roommate. Evidently she suspected Tamar was in some way disturbed and was wondering if Clarisse could clarify the situation any so that advice and. perhaps, help could be directed to the conspicuously depressed blonde, who for two days had wandered aimlessly around the dorm with swollen eyes and a bandaged wrist. Clarisse had been very unreceptive to the questioning, however, and told the senior resident to go directly to the girl and put her on a couch. She didn't have time to look after her roommate, she had said, and furthermore wasn't interested in Tamar's problems. The senior resident had obviously been disappointed in her and had thanked her coldly when Clarisse left dinner.
All the lithe girl wanted, and had wanted all day, was to be with Lance again. In spite of his treatment of her, she felt drawn to him, as if he alone contained some inner reservoir of fuel which could keep her on the tense and confused plane of existence she was deriving so much pleasure from. If only Daddy or any of her friends could see her in the jacket and boots, she thought, wouldn't they think it was something else!
Lance, however, instructed her tersely to stay at the cafeteria before they left to intercept Arthur by the river. So Clarisse explained exactly what the bearded photographer looked like and where he'd be waiting. "Too bad I don't have a camel's-hair coat," Lance snickered as he and Bucky and Hound left. For about forty-five minutes Clarisse talked with Charlene, whom she found to be surprisingly intelligent, if sullen and withdrawn. And then into the cafeteria walked the three gang members, one to each side and behind the distressed-looking Arthur, whose face showed signs of a beating and in whose hands was a large box.
Clarisse opened the box and checked the canisters which contained the negatives and working prints. "This is all of it?" she inquired, looking closely at Arthur, who was mincing back and forth enraged. Lance prodded him and he nodded, the other customers in the establishment wondering what could possibly be happening. "I'll get even with you some time, you interfering little bitch!" he hissed, lisping slightly with a contained fury. "Still haven't learned, huh?" Lance said, dragging him out of the cafeteria as the four others followed. When Arthur tried to call for help to passing pedestrians as he was being whisked into an alley off the busy avenue, Lance chopped him viciously in the stomach, causing him to gasp for wind as they hustled him out of sight. "Now, pretty man, here's another sample of what you'll get if you even look at the Princess again. After all," he snickered in a voice that made Clarisse's blood run cold, "she was only doing the right thing by a friend, and now we're going to do the right thing by you."
As he spoke, Lance delivered a lightning thrust of his rigidly extended fingers to Arthur's neck, causing the invidious foreigner to clutch at his windpipe in agony. Bucky and Hound moved to each side of him and held his arms while they ripped open his shirt, exposing his white, heaving belly. "This could happen to you, Princess," Lance said, as he flicked open a lightly constructed switchblade. Arthur's eyes widened in horror at the sight of the gleaming blade, but his frantic struggles were efficiently paralyzed by the two motorcyclists' grip on him. Lance extended the knife until the point indented the pale skin, crouching like a fencer before the terror-stricken victim. His hand flashed faster than Clarisse's eyes could follow, tracing a blurred pattern with the stiletto point. Again the blade flickered, and again, and once more, as Bucky thrust his leather sleeve into Arthur's mouth to still the screams of pain. Clarisse stared in fright and amazement as blood weUed from the razor slits in the skin, the separate scarlet outlines of the slashes eventually rising to spell out an obscene word on the imposter's belly. The two boys let him go and he lurched forward, clutching the scarred area. Lance positioned himself as the whimpering figure approached him and then his arm flashed down in a brutal arc, chopping the back of Arthur's neck and knocking him senseless onto the trash heaps outside the cafeteria's door.
"Won't he bleed to death?" Clarisse asked, as the three boys and two girls mounted three shining motorcycles. "Hell no," laughed Lance, "hell just have the scars for as many years as you're around here." The machines spat oily smoke and, in one instance, an after-burst of flame, peeled out from the curb, and settled in grumbling, whining formation as the gang members rode toward the city and the Silver Angel.
This time they didn't enter all at once, however. Instead, at the sound of the bikes being shut down outside the dance-joint, the fat bartender-owner appeared before they had reached the door. "Lance?" he said, "if you want some easy money, there's a couple of salesmen inside at booth number ten. I suggest you send your girlfriends in and get them upstairs."
"Thanks for the tip," Lance said. "Clarisse, give me your jacket". She did so, wondering what this was all about, and shivering in the cold night air as her t-shirt fluttered against her body and the sensitive tips of her small outlined breasts. "I want you to watch Charlene and follow what she does," he instructed. "Get going, both of you."
Clarisse, still bewildered, followed Charlene into the club. The two girls headed for the tenth booth along one wall and Charlene invited themselves into the company of two flashy-looking young men whose table was littered with empty glasses. Only after Charlene had started a coy and leading conversation with her companion did Clarisse realize they were both being employed as hookers. Afraid of what Lance might do, the sight of Arthur's bloody inscription still fresh in her mind, she followed the long-haired girl's example and started teasing her seatmate, thrusting her pointed breasts against the thin fabric of the t-shirt as she saw Charlene doing. Quite soon both men had begun to paw at the two luscious and cheap-looking girls, drunkenly joking as they tried to feel each one through her bulging shirt. When he placed Clarisse's hand on his lap she could feel him stiff and hot with lecherous desire. Before his hands could defile her succulent body any further in the semi-privacy of the booth, Charlene was leading all four of them out another small door and up a flight of creaking, smelly stairs.
She opened a door off the first landing they came to, and they stumbled into a dingy room which contained a couple of beds, an old vaudeville-type wardrobe, and incredibly, a delicate china chamber pot. Clarisse's prospect was clinging to her as she looked around the grubby alcove, into the half shadows cast by the bare light bulb. Charlene and her man had already fallen onto a bed, the luxurious tresses of the other girl flowing back like molasses onto the drab blanket. She had spread her legs and was rubbing herself passionately as the man freed her breasts from her clothes and pounced on them with a slobbering mouth.
Clarisse felt her own t-shirt pushed up to her armpits and felt a pair of alien hands squeeze her delectable tender flesh. She wondered if Lance had meant her to be raped by this drunkard or whether she and Charlene were really serving some purpose. When the hands pinched her small rose nipples, she sighed hopelessly, knowing that in minutes her lust would be unleashed, re-emphasizing its domination of her life. The clumsy fingers wandered over her enticing figure as she was pushed to the second sordid bed. But disgusted as she was by her companion's drunken state, she arched in response and embraced him fiercely when he slid a hand down under her jeans to her furry juncture. The buttons of the garment seemed to pop open by themselves as he ravaged her, his fingers stumbling and sliding against her charged femininity.
The humiliation of her role as a gang tramp soon became dispelled by the clamor of passion which surged through her radiant athletic body. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she worked one of her hands against his pants, confirming the evidence of the potency that her boiling body was crying out for. But when she tried to slide her other hand inside his jacket to get under his shirt, Clarisse's companion backed away. All of a sudden, despite the thrumming of lust which roared in her ears, something about him signalled a warning message to her befuddled brain.
Pausing in her explorations as she tossed uncontrollably under his slow, sure entrapment of her breasts and sensitive lower mound, Clarisse shot a look at the other bed. The situation resembled her own; the second man still fully dressed as he pinned the wanton and moaning Charlene in his circumscribed caresses. Were they both going to attack at once with full fury, Clarisse wondered, in a haze of satisfaction from the way in which her small breasts were being rolled over her shapely chest.
But even as she was trying to determine why both men were deliberately checking themselves, the door opened and Lance, accompanied by Bucky, Hound, and Grunch, sprang into the room. He crouched, snarling at the two men, the naked knife-blade in his hand catching the callow light from the overhead bulb. "Let's go, fellas," he smiled wickedly, the other gang members closing on the two beds, "off the chicks and make with the wallets-this entertainment is going to be more expensive than you figured!"
Clarisse bunched herself into a ball to conceal her semi-nudity from the vicious youths who had once taken advantage of her, as the two salesmen climbed off the beds, straightening their clothing. One of them took out his wallet and handed it to Bucky, who grunted as if disappointed that violence wouldn't be called for. "Christ, this sucker's loaded!" said the hoodlum after he had opened the bill compartment of the wallet. "There's almost two hundred bucks in here."
"Open the rest of it up," Lance commanded, waving the knife slowly back and forth at each of the men, "maybe he's got a credit card we can blow ourselves on before he finds his way to the cops."
Bucky unsnapped the I.D. compartment and instantly froze, holding the open flap out to Lance's questioning eyes. Even as the gang stared uncomprehendingly at the police badge which shone from the dangling flap, the two men whipped guns from shoulder holsters, squaring off against the youths.
"OK punks!" one of the plain-clothes men said, "now your entertainment's over. Drop the knife and line up against the wall. C'mon, hands over your heads," he barked. "Let's go, girls, get your clothes on. We're going to want you down at the station with your boyfriends. We been waiting a long time to bust these guys and their amateur shake-down racket."
Clarisse was astonished. She said nothing as she dressed, trying to shut her ears to the vile torrent of abuse Charlene was leveling at the Vice Squad dicks. It wasn't possible that she, her father's daughter, a freshman at the country's most exclusive college, was here in this room, about to be involved in a mass indictment, actually being arrested! She moved in a daze, fear and uncertainty racing through her mind as she complied with the officer's instructions and filed out of the room with the cursing, handcuffed motorcyclists.
The worst part was going through the bar itself, she thought, lowering her face against the stares of the customers as the apprehenders and apprehended stopped to pick up the fat bartender and proceed outside. But a further jolt awaited her. As they waited on the sidewalk for the wagon, Lance swearing at her and accusing her of being the stupidest bitch he'd ever come across, Roger's Maserati rolled up to the tight at the corner they were standing on. Clarisse quickly hid her face, but not before she knew her eyes had met with his. When the light changed the sleek car didn't move. Her whole body burning and shivering with the added shame of being detected by someone from her own class, she heard the fierce rumbling idle stay right where it was alongside the curb. It moved when the police wagon screeched to a halt, the siren and flashing lights bringing the group even more attention. And when they were locked inside and drew away from the location of her nemesis, Clarisse heard the expensive machine growl and roar as Roger followed them to the station.
As they were brought out of the wagon, Lance attempted a break for freedom, smashing his handcuffed fists into one of the officer's faces and delivering a lightning kick to another's groin. "No, no!" she heard her voice scream as a third policeman drew his service revolver and took careful aim at the fleeing figure. The deafening report shattered her senses and she collapsed to the sidewalk at the same time as Lance's wounded leg sent him sprawling against a lamp-post.
After that all was quiet questioning and calm procedure. Clarisse stood at the night-sergeant's desk with Charlene after the four toughs were led away after being booked, Lance supported by two of the police as his shattered limb trailed behind him. She hardly heard the charges being brought against her, resolving to kill herself at the first opportunity. But then the mottled glass door had opened and Roger had entered, resplendent in a dinner jacket and evening cape. Dimly she followed his voice and the sergeant's as her bail was set. Hypnotized, she watched the sergeant's face register respect when Roger showed him his identification and then proceeded to write a check for her release.
It seemed like only seconds later that she was huddled, weeping, in the soft leather embrace of the Maserati's bucket seat as Roger drove her home. Gradually Clarisse returned to full consciousness, realizing just how incredible the evening's sequence of events had been. She was amazed that Roger had been able to bail her out with a check, but he explained to her that the city police respected the old family names. When he didn't ask her any questions about what had happened, she thought she would break under the strain of her degradation and his unwarranted kindness. But when they had sat for a few minutes in front of her dorm, the powerful automobile shivering with restrained energy, Roger had taken her wordlessly in his arms, soothing her and stroking her hair. With this unexpected comforting, she felt herself regain some of her self-confidence and proceeded to relate the entire story of her other life, starting from the day she had first met Lance up to the lurid events of the evening.
Clarisse was sure that the story would so shock him that he would be sorry he had followed her to the station and brought her home. But Roger had only laughed at her fears and kissed her tenderly on her tear-glazed face. "You know?" he offered, "I've known for days that something or someone had come into your life. Ever since that night you drove us down the river like a maniac, Iknew you were headed for more conspicuous rebellion. And around this place it usually takes the form of some big mistake, such as with sex. But if you're not doing anything tomorrow night, let me take you out to dinner and describe to you the kind of affair you should have to take the place of all this motorcycle and beatnik nonsense. She thought that right then, right there, she was in the arms of the most understanding boy in the world. Floating with the after-effects of Roger's goodnight kisses, during which he assured her that charges against her would probably be suspended-to remain ambiguously on the record, and also suggested that there could be a lot more to tomorrow night than just dinner, Clarisse drifted up the dormitory stairs. She was so lucky, she concluded, considering the unnatural and invidious role she'd adopted these past two weeks. Life was going to be a lot different now-Roger had shown her that what had been missing from all the thrills and excitement of her escapades was simply a matter of emotions. Call it love, she told herself, and start using it on people, such as her deeply disturbed roommate, whose obvious appeals she had ignored so rudely the last few days. Her first act of atonement would be to comfort Tamar with the same generosity and concern Roger had shown her. She bounced down the hall, her steps ringing in the late-hour silence, and thrust open her door.
CHAPTER TEN
Tamar had spent a third day in her room, not getdng dressed or making any moves to join the world outside. She merely sat and smoked and thought; thought about what she had done in the short time she had been at the university. She had two major preoccupations. The first was her depression about what had happened since she met Corey and his friend Arthur. The twinge of the healing wound on her wrist was a constant reminder of how desperate she felt about the trap in which she had been so successfully exploited. She wasn't at all sure that Clarisse, despite the girl's strong character and seeming resourcefulness,, would be able to extricate her from the bizarre blackmailing and threat to her academic career. Then there was Clarisse herself. The behavior and changes she had witnessed in the girl seemed disturbing, particularly the transformation of the beautiful and lovable socialite into a rude and indifferent slob in gang clothing. And Tamar blamed herself for the dissipation she sensed in her strikingly corrupted roommate. After all, she thought remorsefully, she herself had triggered the need for corruption.
She had also been hurt by the fact that her roommate had ignored her after nursing her back to a semblance of sanity. It was true that she really hadn't had time to make friends yet, and thus had no one, male or female, to whom to turn for an unburdening of her grief and shame. But it was Clarisse's irritated reaction every time she had approached the darker girl that ate into Tamar's lonely and morbid state. She so desperately wanted affection from someone, especially her magnetic and brilliant roommate.
That night, the night that Clarisse's plan was going to somehow liberate her, Tamar lay on her bed in an attitude of morbid anxiety. The university seemed such a friendless and cold place that she longed to be home in Southern California among her old friends. Instead she was caged by her own will in this horrible, ugly dorm, where her phone rang only to announce some stupid boy who wanted to take her out, for what purpose she could only too easily imagine.
About ten o'clock her door opened, and two other freshman peeked in. "Hi, Tamar," said one brightly, "would you mind terribly if we used your record-player? We just today bought a terrific album of German lieder and we haven't been able to hear it yet."
"Sure, c'mon in, honey," Tamar smiled, grateful for the companionship. The girl who had spoken and her roommate entered. They were both dressed in nightgowns and bathrobes, but Tamar recognized them from the dining hall. One of them, Sally, was short and pixy-ish, with long, reddish hair. The other was quite tall and graceful, a black-haired beauty named Liza, with the most photogenic face Tamar had ever seen.
Liza put the record on Clarisse's expensive portable stereo, and all three girls settled back to listen to the rich, hard male voice caress the heavy romantic melodies. The two roommates seemed so fresh and naive, Tamar thought, as she watched their dreamy faces. She wished she could seem as free as they looked in their youthful reverie.
When the music had been going for several minutes, Liza stood up and started to dance expressionistically in the small room as Tamar and Sally looked on admiringly. The taU girl's raven hair and flowing bathrobe swirled in complementary patterns as she spun gracefully around the room. Through the clothing Tamar could detect the perfect proportions of her ripening female body when Liza stopped to arch back or weave her arms. She danced more and more intensely with every moment, her face locked in a magnificent portrait of determination. Sweat glistened on her forehead as she took off her bathrobe and continued her ballet-like trance in a pink flannel nightgown. Tamar admired the leanness and sinewy grace of the tall gifted girl as she worked herself farther into her reverie.
"Tamar, you don't mind if I take off my nightgown, do you? It's so hot in here," Liza said, looking at her hostess with gazing, doe-like eyes. Tamar was a bit surprised but answered that she didn't mind at all. The slender girl drew the pink garment over her head, unsheathing a deliciously sculptured body which was coated with a slight sheen of sweat from her exertions. Then she continued her dancing as the lyrical voice flowed into every corner of the room like syrup.
Although it was the farthest thing from her mind in her present condition, Tamar could not help admiring the statuesque figure and watching the girl closely as she bent herself into unashamed postures in fulfillment of the impulse that had moved her. "Oooo, look!" Sally squealed, sitting at the edge of the bunk on which Tamar had reclined, "your boobies are getting hot." It was true, the supine blonde noticed. Liza's large brown nipples had grown erect and stood out like nut-like delicacies from her snowy, untilted breasts. As if to acknowledge' Sally's observation, the black-haired girl cupped the lovely mounds in her hands as she kept pirouetting and kicking high to the stupor-inducing music. She was a veritable Venus, Tamar thought, gazing wistfully at the small, dimpled buttocks which tightened perceptibly with every new maneuver. Her own abundantly endowed body seemed to flex in imitation of the nymph-like symphonic variations of the dancing girl.
"Gee, you know something, Tamar," Sally said in a high-pitched girlish voice. "I can almost never bring myself to get that stiff. I think my breasts are very insensitive." Tamar tried to ignore the nonsensical comments from the girl at her side, but Sally continued, in the tone of a real country-cousin. "I'll bet you don't have any trouble, do you?" she asked the blonde, who averted her perceptive gaze. "You have such marvelously big ones, it probably doesn't take much at all to get them stimulated." The redhead sounded like a child to Tamar, but she knew that her prodigiously provocative bosom was the subject of much envy among the freshman girls-girls who should have had their minds on school work instead of their bodies.
"Could I see your boobies, Tamar?" Sally questioned in a timid tone, "I've never seen a girl my age as stacked as firmly as you." Tamar hardly felt like complying with the foolish request but before she knew what was happening, Sally had boldly spread the folds of her dressing-gown apart, revealing her deep, mountainous cleavage. "Oh, Tamar, they are so big and beautiful," the redhead said admiringly, drawing more of the garment aside until the blonde's dollar-sized tips were exposed. Liza also looked from her dancing at the bounteous, thrusting globes.
Tamar knew she should have stopped things then and there, but her loneliness seemed to evaporate when Sally almost respectfully touched one of her breasts with a small finger. The impish girl seemed to be working some strange magic on her with her awe-inspired caresses. The delicate fingers were exploring the twin expanses of creamy, curving skin now, setting up an unbearable tickling sensation in the sensitive melons. Tamar sighed heavily, glowing with gratitude as the smaller girl affectionately caressed all of her pulsing flesh.
"Come and feel," Sally said to her roommate, as if she had discovered an eighth natural wonder. The tall nude girl stopped dancing and came over to sit on the bed as the engrossed redhead shifted to make room for her. Tamar shut her eyes when she felt the second pair of fingers tentatively stroke her burning mounds and then continue to stroke more purposefully. She let Sally ease the dressing-gown off her tan shoulders and lay back as if in a dream under the unexpected delight of the four exploring hands.
She heard the two girls murmuring as they manipulated her nipples. Not wanting to think about the actual venality of the seduction she was undergoing, Tamar abandoned herself to the sensation of feeling her large tips swell and harden under the teasing touch of the many fingers. Sally's oooing continued to merge with the stupefying richness of the music as the scarlet buds jutted erect to a puckering wooden consistency. The pleasure became more and more intense as the hands knowingly tweaked and twisted the large nipple ends. And then Tamar felt a wet warmth close over first one, then both of the throbbing peaks. She gasped as she experienced the strange delight of two tongues roiling against her puffy, ballooning flesh, and two sets of lips caressing and kissing her sensitive skin.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Sally was naked and felt the smaller breasts of the two girls press against her heaving sides as the two heads pulled and harassed her brimming summits. Instinctively her own hands reached out to caress the red and black manes of her two lovers, and slide over their shoulders and backs, pressing them urgently to the bursting globes. Never had she felt such pleasure before and she gasped sharply with anticipation as the two mouths by some invisible signal both abandoned her glutted knolls and started slaking down her body, leaving a trail of liquid fire as their tongues worked sensuously on her soft pliant contours. Tamar moaned through her teeth and parted her legs in expectation of the approaching pairs of lips that sluiced wildly over her lower belly and the curving planes of her hips.
Never in her wildest dreams had she foreseen the enjoyment and desire that bloated her senses when two pleasure-giving mouths started kissing and nipping at her inner thighs. She strained to thrust her legs farther apart, hoping that the sight of her succulent feminine core would arouse the two worshipers of Lesbos to more arousing adventures. Her request was soon gratified as the red-haired head brushed its cheeks against the buttery skin of Tamar's upper legs before planting the kiss that would begin the end. "Oh, oh, darlings, oh, you're so good to me," she groaned when she felt the seeking wet lips close over hers in a gaping kiss. She clutched handfuls of flesh from each girl as the energetic tongue darted inside her receptive portals, mimicking a man's attention.
But now Liza had straddled her and was presenting her sinister apex to the writhing blonde. Eagerly Tamar grabbed the slender girl's buttocks and pulled her to her straining lips. The sounds of her own ecstasy ceased as she welded herself to the sweating dancer's body where contact was most desired by both. Intent on giving as much as she was getting, Tamar thrust her tongue to the brunette, driving gasps of pleasure from her lovely mouth. She reached up with her hands to add to Liza's rapturous feelings, but the jet-tressed form had toppled and turned around. With Tamar's mouth laboring at that most exquisite of goals deep in her axis, Liza sought her roommate's wafting purse of passion. In what seemed seconds, the three girls were locked together in a weird triangle, hands roaming wildly to separate parts of their blissful union, heads worming lustfully to release a triple climax of female love.
After the two young wantons had left her room, however, Tamar felt as though her heart would crack open. She had just shaded a fantastic consummation, but with bitterness she realized she had been used by the pair of roommates in much the same manner she had been used all her life. It was the same story, only worse. Her body had given her away, betraying her into the hands of those to whom she should have had the strength to say no when the whole business started. And the searing finish had left nothing but a vaster and colder emptiness. No one really cared about her, Tamar thought broodingly. She was being cheated of all the affection she deserved. And what was even more awful, she projected, was the thought of four years of being used by men and women alike, attracting people only because of her voluptuous body.
Tamar swung herself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. Life seemed to weigh down on her like hot tar. She felt weak and received a bigger shock when she saw her haggard face in the vanity mirror. Taking a lipstick she wrote on the glass, "One cannot both be sincere and seem so." She staggered, gazing around at the white, sterile tile, feeling utterly misplaced and devastated. Her last reservoir of strength and resihence had been destroyed by this evening's cunning attack and victory over her will. She been lifted in a few brief moments of elation only to be further cast down by her sense of inadequacy and shallowness. Feeling as if there would never be anything lucky in her life, as in her lovely and confident roommate, Tamar reached into the medicine cabinet for a very special utensil.
* * *
Clarisse stood transfixed when she entered the room. Her brain reeled in a black void as her eyes bulged insanely at the sight of the crimson pool oozing out from underneath the bathroom door. She knew she shouldn't try to see any more but she stumbled forward and with every ounce of strength in her faint body, pushed the door open.
Her screams woke all four floors of the dorm, bringing frightened sleepy figures from every room. Only a few other girls could stand getting close enough to her hysteric presence to get a glimpse of the prostrate body lying in a lake of blood in the bathroom. The sight of the upturned face grimacing from above the deep, running gash, and the hand curled around the handle of the straight razor was enough to send them into a state of shock as well. The university ambulance service had to gag Clarisse and put her in a strait-jacket before they could get her out of the dorm.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She had screamed during many of the nights of the next two weeks in her private room at the college infirmary. The nights were the worst, bringing back visions of the blonde's body with its second bloody mouth gaping open, the humiliation she had somehow volunteered for Lance at the Silver Angel, and the horrible primal scene at the gang's headquarters.
Roger visited her every day of the two weeks, bringing her flowers and books, and staying for long conversations which she later considered to be the most important factor in bringing her back to reality and placing everything, including sex, in its proper perspective. The day before she was discharged from the university's medical supervision, Clarisse received an odd visitor. But she welcomed Charlene and appreciated the girl's pilgrimage. It was with great relief that she heard Lance would get a stiff jail sentence, knowing that as long as he was out of circulation, she had some chance of maintaining her stability. But, she thought, after Charlene had left, what if he were to appear some day while she was still in school? In spite of the nightmares that revolved around him, Clarisse knew that the sight of the rugged body on that sleek, booming motorcycle might be something she couldn't handle-the one thing in her life she hadn't been able to handle, and in men such as Lance, would never be able to.
* * *
Roger picked her up in his Maserad when she was ready to return to her dorm. But instead of driving her back directly, he took her on a picturesque tour of the rugged seacoast. For several hours they drove and talked, Clarisse appreciating him more with every moment. When the afternoon was over they headed into the city and went to Roger's house to have a drink before going out on the town. She realized now that what she had mistaken for shyness or sissiness was only part of Roger's real courtesy and gentleness. The way he held her around the waist, for instance, and the look in his eyes was unmistakable as they entered the deserted house.
When he brought her the cocktail, he leaned over her and kissed her very lightly on the lips. "You're very beautiful. Princess," he said softly. Clarisse gave an inner start at hearing the familiar term from Roger, but settled back with a smile as she realized its true significance. Roger sat down beside her on the couch and, taking her lovely form in his arms, kissed her again, long and firmly. "I'm very fond of you, Clarisse," he whispered, nuzzling one of her perfectly shaped ears.
"Does that make what we're doing all right, then?" she asked, turning to him, her rounded profile confronting him seductively.
"As right as it can be, with a little respect and sentiment." he replied, pushing her gently back on the luxuriously soft divan.
That was it in a nutshell, Clarisse thought, as she took his head in her aristocratic hands and held him in another searching kiss, their tongues gliding in and out like dragonflies on the first warm day of spring. She let Roger draw her upright long enough to remove her suit jacket, shivering as he went on to unbutton the almost sheer blouse. "Skin fit for a pea, Princess," he whispered, unhooking her bra and stroking the long smooth furrow of her tapering bare back.
Clarisse let herself recline, bringing her legs up on the divan. Somehow it seemed so right that she couldn't possibly have denied either of them, she concluded, as
Roger carefully took her high heels off and, pushing her skirt up, unpeeled her stockings. As he bent over to unclasp her skirt, her fingers undid his shirt and slid inside to feel the hard planes of his warm skin. That glow which hadn't existed for two weeks flared up again as she stroked his bare skin, peeling his shirt back from his body and letting herself gaze at his athletic physique.
She swung her hips in the air as the skirt and panties together were slid from her long, luscious legs. As he stood up to take off his pants, Clarisse felt a natural abandon come over her and she writhed playfully on the tufted opulence of the divan. "Oh, darling, so big, so magnificent," she hissed as he knelt completely naked beside her. When his hands caressed her breasts with an agonizing mixture of feathery lightness and demanding pressure, she reached down to return the fore-play. With a touch like the soft bristles of a brush, her fingers trailed over his urgency. The knowledge of the pleasure he would bring her sent sparks of excitement racing through her body in clusters that showered from her jutting cherry-tipped female swells and the pulsing apex of her body.
Clarisse wriggled on the cushions, maneuvering Roger between her inviting thighs. As his hands slaked up and down her sumptuously sculptured body, she felt the peculiar thrill of blooming under him in all the glory of her female sensuality. She coaxed and teased him to worship all of her with his hungry mouth while at the same time her hands unrestrainedly flew over his potent figure, pausing to pay a woman's tribute to his dynamic splendor. Her head rolled back and forth, blue-black hair whipping and snaking across the white cushions as she rolled her body to expose all of her burning skin to his rapid hands and seeking mouth. When he took her nipples between his teeth and rolled his tongue in a liquid spiral around their erect nubs, Clarisse thought she would faint with delight.
Her heavy breaths turned to protracted sighs and the sighs to the guttural moans of satisfied approval as his mouth moved down her body, his fingers remaining to pull and shape her craving breasts. She drew her honeyed thighs up and apart as he descended lower, with every kiss accelerating the whirlwind of desire in her tense body. "Oh Roger, oh baby, oh yes," she cried when his tongue encircled her voluptuous femininity. Frantically her lower body pitched and tucked in the air as he brought her over the threshold from reality to delirious fantasy with his intimate kisses.
"Now, Roger, oh please now, I can't stand it any longer," she wailed, seizing him fiercely in her long fingers and pulling him to her. Roger shoved a small pillow under the dimpled cheeks of her taut buttocks when she arched hungrily for him. "Oh, my darling, ooooooh, yes Roger, ah, ah, oooooh," Clarisse shrieked with ecstasy.
Gradually they unfolded as her movements became more athletic, until her heels ground at the small of his muscled back and she nipped and circled in a frenzy of abandon below him. Never had she felt such varied gratification, raking her nails along his back, which he hardly noticed in his rhythmically bucking reverie. From deep within them both came a separate and fused churning of wild elation, sapping their strength as the ocean recedes before a tidal wave. And then the mighty thundering wall of their perfectly timed finish engulfed them, sending them pitching and tossing in a seething frothy void before the ageless force of their mutual tempestuous furies.
As Roger lay half-straddling her, blowing cool air on the rivulets of sweat which streamed down from her limp and lily-like form, Clarisse knew she had finally arrived. Holding him in a relaxed and deeply grateful embrace, she at last felt like a woman. She knew that men such as Lance would always be a temptation and she also knew that she didn't regret Lance for himself. But Roger had shown her the way to something infinitely richer and more rewarding than anything she could have anticipated from the frightful weeks of her introduction to the true role of womanhood.
