The processes by which man learns to discover his true nature are tortuous and complex. For every moment of glittering insight into his own workings, a man will live through hundreds of dark nights of the soul. There are no easy passageways from ignorance to discovery; the wise man will wander through them, realizing their devious turns, fighting their cul-de-sacs, breaking through where the dividing walls are paper-thin, with a sense of irony, of curiosity blended with flamboyance. To do otherwise would concede to absurdity the daily battles with the many trivial roadblocks which stand in his way. And absurdity is too easy a label, too facile an opponent; it must not be allowed to block the ongoing search for one's self.
Cavan Kirk, hero of Gary Bastion's Spanish Fly, is such a man. He is handsome, rich, flamboyant, clever, and on a search. This last, his quest for a clear concept of his own nature, he is unaware of, at least at the beginning of the novel; yet it provides the impetus for the book's structure. The most immediate detail, overpowering in its presence, which one comes to associate with Kirk, is his money, and what his money has bought for him. Kirk lives alone in his mountaintop estate, a palatial home built as a retreat from the busy world of philanthropy, which marks his public image. From time to time he withdraws to his retreat, his castle which he has named Zenana, and there lives hidden from the world. Or so he has asked, implicitly, that the world believe. In reality, or at least in partial reality, Kirk is a total lecher. The castle provides also a concealed hideaway for Kirk to practice his sexual exploits-which is to say, Zenana is not the only place in the world where, at the present or in the past, Kirk has sought out the world of sensuality. He has followed his lusts, as well as his philanthropy, throughout the globe. Unbeknownst to himself, these pilgrimages have been part of his search for some vision of his real nature.
But Cavan Kirk is a man of many pleasures. He discovers not only by participating in action, but also by providing environments in which action may take place. Certainly this is the proper task of the philanthropist: create environments, and achieve great satisfaction from the result of the work. Public plaudits as well as private commemoration, the good will of all society, here surely lies the pleasure of philanthropy.
Cavan Kirk has many definitions of philanthropy, however. He accepts the applause of society, but he enjoys as much the appreciation of his friend Oran Teague, an accomplice in the variety of sexual exploitation Kirk has tested around the world. But Teague is a passive accomplice; he does not partake, he watches, he waits, he listens. Teague is impotent, and accepts his fate. He vicariously enjoys Kirk's experiments, watching usually and especially at Zenana from behind a two-way mirror which looks in on Kirk's bedroom. He does not achieve sexual satisfaction from the escapades of his friend, rather he takes notes and plans a major biography of Cavan Kirk, philanthropist, which will explain to the world in graphic detail the nature of Kirk's daily life. The vicarious pleasure which falls to Teague's lot is insufficient to move him to orgasm.
Yet in his own way, in a life filled with many a direct experience, Kirk himself is interested in vicarious sexuality. Perhaps out of jealousy for his friend Teague, perhaps out of a whimsical masochism, Kirk decides to play the role of observer. In this apparently arbitrary action, he invites to his home six people, each chosen with no forethought, on the principle that any group of people, if stimulated by proper environments, will give themselves over to the sexual sides of their fives. In this respect, of course, Kirk is playing his role of philanthropist, providing the circumstances for people to prove themselves. But then there comes the twist: there are many philanthropic acts, and there are many ways one can enjoy the fruits of his charity.
To suggest the rich, baroque decadence of the plot's evolution would only make explicit the already present possibility of discovery. If indeed sexuality is the most basic urge, prominent in the least of men-under the proper circumstances, then by providing music, literature and stimulants of a sexual nature, each person will give himself over to physical enjoyment of sorts he would otherwise merely fantasize, and Cavan Kirk will be on the other side of the mirrors, watching closely, in this aspect of his self-discovering search.
Decadence is everywhere to be found, not least in Bastion's creation of Zenana, surely an attempt to bring to mind the pleasures of Xanadu as created by Coleridge,
In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn
A stately pleasure-dome decree;
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdles round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But Oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
The details of Zenana correspond to those of Xanadu, and for those who remember Orson Welles in Citizen Kane, the slightly fictionalized story of the rise of William Randolph Hearst, the pictorial images of Kane's stately pleasure dome, also called Xanadu, correspond to both Bastion's and Coleridge's. One has the sense, in working his way through Bastion's depiction of the decadence, that here is the answer to the unasked question always at the back of the mind in seeing Welles or reading Coleridge: What really went on in that place?
Kirk makes it quite clear what went on, what is going on: three men and three woman, chosen at random, come for a visit by special invitation from the philanthropist himself, for a long weekend. It is to be, for them, a holiday. The women especially, and the men to a lesser degree, support the sense of role-playing. While Kirk never drops his mask as the generous philanthropist, never interferes in the activity of the moment to expose himself as the lecher he is (although he is often sorely tempted), so the six characters appear wearing masks, playing parts which one would not attribute to them from their appearance. One is an ex-Navy man, happily married, or so it appears. Although a respectable citizen on the surface, his fantasies ply out in many directions, the most notable of which is fellation with his mother. Further, as an outdoorsman and hunter, he achieves great satisfaction not from the hunt or the pleasure of being in nature, but in the actual kill. Another of the men is an attorney, a respectable citizen whose world is not far-removed from Kirk's. He achieves his greatest satisfaction from rape. Yet on the surface he is sensible, intellectual, careful. He wears glasses and has a crew-cut. He in no way fits the image of a rapist. But things are not what they may appear on the surface. The last of the three men, a medical student, is also quiet-deep, serious, intelligent, and a satyr. None of this is recognizable in the slightest way merely by looking at the men; the roles they play they carry off well. They are trained to do so by the worlds they live in. But the lush baroque background into which they have been brought loosens the masks, and a touch of Spanish Fly loosens their consciences, to the expectation if not the delight of Kirk.
They react with the three woman. Again, from their-appearances, the women's true nature is un certain. Perhaps the most obvious is the youngest girl, Florence, nineteen and apparently innocent. She is not simply beautiful but lovely, blonde and happy. She is a secretary for a respectable organization, dresses well-not at all gaudy or loud; in short, the girl next door, pleasantly improved upon. She wanders through the rooms of Zenana, impressed, full of delight by the splendor she observes. She gives no notion of her real nature, which is nymphomania. The second woman, on the other hand, gives a surface impression quite to the contrary. Bold, big-busted and brassy, she admits with pride that she has a profession, that she is a stripper at an establishment in the city which lies at the foot of the mountain on which Zenana is built. She is sophisticated in a crude way, she is aware of the impression she is making in this hideaway, and appears in no way disturbed by it. She appears every inch a hussy, is in fact twenty-five and a virgin. The third woman is fortyish, a frump and a school teacher in a local high school. She appears tough, very uninterested in things sexual, and in things male. Yet she too has accepted the invitation, and is victimized by a serious sexual repression which she exorcises by a veritable cornucopia of methods of masturbation.
The groups into which these six pair off is of less interest than the combined consternation and satisfaction which Kirk feels as the result of his experiment. Naturally he watches, naturally he enjoys; but the whimsy which suggested to him that vicarious pleasure would be a further pathway toward self-discovery proves to be no more than another dead-end road. Naturally, too, he carries off his mistaken gesture with a savoir-faire which impresses his friend Teague. But Teague knows something is wrong, knows that the conclusion to this episode lies elsewhere. For the acting out of this voyeurism is itself a mask; Kirk is changing in his self-awareness as the six guests carry out the activity of their repressions, but not in the manner which the dispassion of watching would imply. The book's conclusion brings to the fore what Bastion had been suggesting throughout with imagery and indirect reference: but this should be left to the reader to discover for and by himself.
Where then does the book leave the reader, leave Kirk and his friend Teague? In Zenana, with its lavish halls and mirrored bedrooms, with its lush gardens and tropic landscaping. In Zenana, which is both more and less than it appears. But more, and less, are the inherent nature of decadence; a decadent thing or person is one who is surfeited with the goods of the world, and with the pleasures of man, and, on the other hand, is void of the goodness of man. Zenana and Cavan Kirk both are products of a society of surfeit, of a society of everything. He who had everything must begin to give away his possessions, and yet the giving away sounds the knell which summons his demise. Kirk gives away his money in order to justify his wealth. He gives away his privacy and his participation in sexuality in order to understand his sexual nature. The role he has played, the role which has been the face he presented to both his public and his private world, destroys him.
Spanish Fly is a study of a search. Searches imply changes in the conditions of those who partake of them. Brave men carry out searches. But when the search is within the man himself, no matter how he tries to disguise it-with experiments in the world about him, with attempt to juggle the lives of those he brings near him-he will be a great man only if he can cope with the results of his discoveries. Of this last, Cavan Kirk was incapable.
-Timothy Jones, Ph.D.
---------------
One
Cavan Kirk walked naked across the marble floor toward the cluster of cut glass decanters. His body-thick and hard and muscled, yet flexible as a panther's-was reflected on every inch of the mirrored walls and ceiling.
It was a special room.
A room designed for sensuality, lust, sex.
When he reached the decanters, he glanced at the mirrors, and smiled. The reflection he saw was of the room behind him, including the large bed in the shape of a conch shell. He could also see the occupant of the unique bed.
The black girl was about sixteen, a virgin from the ghetto of the nearby city. She was a well-built little bitch, and worth every cent he'd paid for her. Very fuckable, too. He had just proved that to his satisfaction, and after a good drink of Scotch, he intended to prove it again. With variations, of course.
He allowed his glance to linger on the pointing thickness of her two ebony tits rounded out into long blue-black nipples, and on the sleek dark velvet of thighs that dimpled between her legs into a soft muffin of her chocolate-colored cunt.
He smiled curtly, lifted the decanter, and poured himself another drink. Whiskey helped him. He always liked to fire his blood with alcohol before having sex. There was something about the way such depressants blocked off those still faint but pestering doubts that had been instilled in him as a boy. Puritanical doubts about the wisdom and fitness of fucking out of wedlock. Particularly when the female was inordinately young-and helplessly virginal.
He supposed he would never be totally purged of those feelings, but he'd given it a good goddamn try. And he intended to keep trying as long as he could get a hard-on, which, from the way he felt now, would be forever.
He walked back to the bed, carrying his drink with him.
The girl sat up attentively amid the pillows, her eyes large and expressionless in her face. One of her hands fell gingerly between her legs, as if to hide from his gaze the bruised and sperm-moistened lips of her recently screwed young pussy-a slit that was no longer virginal, but had known the thick hardness of. a burrowing prick.
He stood at the side of the bed, only inches from her, and grinned. Then he drank the Scotch and put the glass on the little table by the bed. As the last of the alcohol began to stream into his veins, he felt the vessels in his cock start to fill with blood, and the strong erectile tissue running from root to tip begin to make the long large column of flesh rise.
The girl watched, too, like a little bird being fascinated and frightened by a giant snake about to strike.
In a moment, the cock was in full erection. It stuck out from between his legs like a club, veins bulging in bas-relief, its head as large as a small cooking apple.
"Suck on it," he said huskily.
The young girl's eyes wavered upward to his face. But he was no longer smiling. His mouth was spread out in a flat line of sullen contempt. Only his eyes reflected the stubborn fire of his debauchery.
"Suck it, you black bitch!"
The girl hesitated only a split-second longer, then moved her open moon-shaped mouth awkwardly up to the blunt head of the stiff penis.
Her kittenish little tongue ran out and licked lightly along the underside of the cockhead. The prick throbbed boldly. She drew back for an instant, then grinned and began to lick it thoroughly, vigorously.
"That's nice," Cavan Kirk whispered, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a savage little smile. "Lick it all over, sweetheart. Learn how a big piece of white meat like that tastes. You'll be eating me regular as clockwork from now on."
The young girl's tongue seemed longer now, wetter. She lapped at the proudly thrusting prick, moving her head in a slow circle as she serviced his venereal lust.
When the head of his dick was glistening with her saliva, she moved down the column toward his balls, missing nothing, stroking every hard inch with the flat of her mischievous tongue.
She had to cock her head sideways to get at his nuts, but she reached them, caressing each, one at a time, with just the warm point of her tongue.
"Okay, baby," he grinned. "You've tasted it-now eat it!"
She knew what he wanted, what was being demanded of her. Like an animal that's tasted blood for the first time, her instincts now rose, horned and hooved. Making a yawning oval of her mouth, she took half his large cock into her throat and began to suck hotly. As she moved her head up and down, he imitated the motion with his hips, loving the sheer wickedness of mouth-fucking what had, only an hour before, been a pair of lips innocent as a baby's.
He glanced over at the mirrored wall and felt a swirl of excitement surge through him. He could see both of them, their naked bodies reflected perfectly in the good light, the clear glass. The lascivious tableau they made in the mirror was pornography at its best.
He was a large tall man-a white man-with a body that would have been no leaner, no more toned and muscled, if he had been twenty instead of forty. The black girl was small, with thin arms and legs. The sight of her sucking on the oversized, violently pulsing white cock almost made him climax.
He looked away from the mirror, and brought both hands up to the back of her neck. He began to fuck her throat with long, brutal thrusts of his hips. The more she gagged and choked, the harder he pumped and the tighter he held her head in place.
He felt his sperm begin to boil from his testicles, so he increased the force of his thrusts until the head of his cock was halfway down her windpipe. Then he spasmed.
He clenched his teeth and threw back his head in the grinding rapture of getting his rocks off. His hot seed spurted thickly and endlessly down the poor girl's throat, almost drowning her with the white flood.
Only when the last needling ripple of pleasure was gone did he release the young girl's head, and pull his bloated cock from her mouth.
She immediately collapsed on the bed, her shoulders and head hanging limply over the side.
She vomited convulsively, sobbing over and over with the agony of trying to regain her breath.
Cavan Kirk picked up the gold-velvet dressing robe from the foot of the bed, put his arms and broad shoulders casually into it, then sauntered to the door without looking back.
He walked a few feet down the hallway to another door. He opened it and glanced in at his friend, Oran Teague.
Oran was seated in a chair before a wall which was really a huge two-way mirror giving a view of the room Cavan had just vacated.
Cavan glanced casually past his friend to see if Oran had been positioned exactly right to get the full effect of the expert blow job the black girl had just given him.
He was happy to see that Oran had doubtlessly occupied a grandstand seat for the whole performance.
"Did you enjoy it?" Cavan asked, smiling broadly.
"Very impressive, yes," his friend answered. "I see you haven't lost any of your vigor these past few years."
"I'm glad to say I haven't."
"I think the girl liked it, too. Either that, or she's marvelously over-sexed. Look what she's doing now...."
Cavan strolled to the side of his friend, and looked once again through the wall of trick mirrors. What he saw made his grin come back, this time with a ruttish curl of his lips.
"The little minx," Cavan whispered, approvingly. "She's masturbating."
They both watched as the girl sat in the middle of the large bed, moving two fingers in and out of the soft, pinkish slit at the center of her dusky loins. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy, her mouth prettily parted, her eyes closed in pleasure.
"You should have satisfied her again, Cavan," Oran said. "She obviously needed more of it."
"But you saw me fuck her."
"Yes. And again I must say, you were very impressive. My Lord, Cavan, I'd forgotten how well-endowed you are as a male. I thought you were going to split her thighs wide open when you-"
"She liked it, as you said. She could have taken one twice my size. She could have accommodated a stallion."
Oran smiled vaguely. "I think she's wishing for a stud horse right now. See her?" Cavan saw.
The Negro girl was already bringing herself to another wild climax. Her fingers moved more swiftly in the matrix of her cunt, stirring the fantasies which were dancing now in her brain, raiding her nerves, drumming toward a delicious orgasm.
"She's coming," Oran breathed.
"Yes, the horny little bitch."
They continued to watch as the spasms of rapture vibrated through the girl's body. The lips of her young pussy seemed to suck at her moving ringers, then grow pliant and moist as the love-juice poured forth.
The girl milked the last eddy of joy from the act, then fell back to pillows. Her legs were thrown open by the movement, voluptuously exposing the wet, pulsing triangle of her freshly satisfied cunt.
"Would you like a little of that, Oran? The state she is in, I'm sure she'd be more than delighted to be screwed one more...."
Cavan Kirk paused, his flushing darkly.
"I'm sorry, Oran," he shrugged. "I forgot that."
"I'm impotent? Don't apologize, my friend. I've long since ceased to be embarrassed by my condition. But even my impotency doesn't preclude my being delighted by the sexual charms of a young wanton like your darky friend."
"You could use your mouth on her, if you like."
Oran Teague laughed softly. "No, thank you, Cavan. I can manage quite well by just watching such prurient displays of abandonment."
"As you please, of course."
Cavan watched the girl for a moment longer, then turned to his companion again. "Would you like to be entertained a bit more by her?"
"What did you have in mind."
Cavan smiled. "I've hired her two brothers as well. They are waiting downstairs."
Oran looked amused and very interested. "Her brothers? Have they ever-"
"Fucked their own sister? I've been led to understand that they haven't. She was a virgin before this afternoon. I made sure of that. In fact, I felt her hymen break."
"Incest," Oran breathed. "Now there is a thought."
"Shall I?"
"Of course."
Cavan turned and picked up a phone on the table behind him. He pressed one of the numerous buttons.
"Dexter? Bring those two black boys up to the Game Room, please. They know what I want them to do."
Cavan replaced the phone and joined his friend in front of the mirrored wall.
"Well, Oran, this event should satisfy even the most jaded of your passions."
"That would call for a great deal of satisfaction."
"These boys have a great deal to offer. Perhaps not much moral fiber, but they make up for it with their enormous cocks. Both are incredibly well-hung young heathens."
"And they aren't at all ashamed of being asked to violate their own sister?"
Cavan smiled. "Money can erase anything, Oran. Even shame. I learned that delightfully useful fact a very long time ago."
"Perhaps you're right."
"Believe me, I'm seldom wrong in these matters."
Two
One of the black boys was about nineteen years old, and the other was perhaps a year or so younger.
Cavan's swarthy young servant, Dexter, ushered them into the room of mirrors, then closed and locked the door.
From Cavan and Oran's viewpoint, one that was safe and secure behind the two-way wall of mirrors, the psychology of the whole thing was particularly exciting. Here were two brothers, both in the hire of Cavan, and their job was to fuck their sister as thoroughly and imaginatively as possible. They knew they were being observed, although they had no idea just how.
When they entered, the girl immediately sat up in the conch-shaped bed, her full swollen young tits swinging forward, the thickened nipples pointing like black thumbs in opposite directions.
She said nothing to her brothers, but merely stared at them in shocked surprise.
The older of the two boys began to unbutton his shirt, and the younger one followed his lead.
Both of the young men had magnificent bodies, black as obsidian, with muscles packed into their shoulders and arms and legs. They were hairless, except for a little puff of thick black fuzz around the roots of their dangling cocks.
"You see what I mean, Oran," Cavan whispered, "about the size of the lads."
"Unbelievable. How long would you say the oldens is?"
"His penis? About twelve inches, I should imagine. It couldn't be less. And the younger one isn't far behind him."
"Godless young devils! They ought to be able to comfort any whore in the world with those black tools."
"I'll settle for watching them bring happiness and joy to their sixteen-year-old sister."
They watched as the two naked young beasts began to circle the bed where their sister lay like a rabbit in a snare. As they circled, their black pricks began to thicken and rise. It was the most delightfully salacious sight Cavan had witnessed in weeks, and his own stubborn cock began to harden into stone under his dressing gown.
The girl was unable to move, either from surprise or fear. Or perhaps she was instinctively fascinated with the bizarre idea of being fucked by her two brothers, whose fully erected cocks she was no doubt seeing for the first time in her life.
The brothers closed in on her from opposite sides of the bed. The younger one grabbed hold of her ankles while the older one secured her hands. She fought, but only a bit. And when the older brother put his large hand between her legs, cupping the pouting trench of her sex, she ceased to struggle.
He rubbed her cunt, pushing the palm of his big black hand a little harder over her pubis each time.
The girl stared at the enormous truncheon of her older brother's meaty cock, then touched it with the tips of her ringers.
The older brother grinned and winked at the younger male.
This was going to be the easiest-and possibly the hottest-fuck of their lives!
Apparently the brothers had decided in advance just what positions they would take in screwing the girl. The older one lay down on the bed beside her. His giant prick stood up between his legs and pointed straight at the mirrored ceiling. In this position, he continued to play with the girl's cunt, spreading the lips of her vulva apart with his fingers until the interior showed like a juicy slice of pink watermelon. He stroked the swollen peaks of her tits and tweaked the aroused, elongated nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
The girl was already in rutting madness.
She wanted to fuck at any cost!
Cavan prided himself on the thought that it was he who had awakened this obvious lust in the young girl's body. It had been his thrusting prick which, less than an hour before, had invaded the tightness of her virginal pussy and fucked her into multiple spasms of bliss.
And now she wanted more of it!
The older brother pulled her up with his strong arms and forced her to slide one leg over his chest so she was straddling him. The force was hardly necessary. The girl moved eagerly, and when she was sitting astride his chest, she put both hands behind her and found his stiff black cock. She began to play with it, squeezing it, fondling it, getting it even stiffer.
The older brother grinned, and brought his hands up once more to her tits. He roiled them in his hands until the nipples were standing out a full inch from the puffed rosettes.
In the meantime, the younger brother had come around the bed. His prick was fully hard now, curving upward in a blunt snout of uncircumcised strength.
He placed his hands on the girl's hips and urged her to lift herself on her knees. She did so, spraddling her cunt open as wide as she could.
Then the younger buck grasped his brother's cock and guided the head of it up between the tender lips of his sister's slit.
The head nosed into the meaty crevice and lodged there.
The girl hesitated only a moment, then began to let her body sink, slowly driving the monster of a cock up into her cunt.
It was obvious that the experience was painful to her. Her face contorted, and once she even tried to rise to escape the fate of having the oversized penis crammed up her hole. But the older brother would have no backing out. He put both his large hands on her shoulders and forced her to settle down again.
Cavan and Oran had a perfect seat for the lewd spectacle. They could see the thick, shiny column of the older brother's cock as it stretched the meager lips of' the girl's cunt wider and wider-like some silent, screaming mouth being filled with a giant black turd. "My God," Oran wheezed. "I believe that damnable buck intends to put it all into her."
"He'd better. That's what I'm paying him for."
The girl's whole body was shaking at the halfway mark. She paused again, hesitated, her eyes rolling upward in their sockets like some martyred saint.
With a savage grin, the younger brother joined his hands with his brother's, and together they shoved her downward.
The great black prick buried itself in her hapless pussy right to the hairless, dark balls.
The girl screamed.
She fell forward and was caught by the older brother. She panted for breath, for release, as he held her. Then, slowly, surprisingly, the pain on her face changed to a naming blush. A grin pulled at the corners of her mouth.
She had him in her-all the way.
It was now the younger brother's turn.
He agilely climbed up on the bed behind her. He parted the cheeks of her lean young buttocks by putting his fingertips together inside the crack of her ass and pulling outward.
Before the girl could protest, he thrusted the end of his stiff cock squarely into that virginal crack.
"Dog position," Cavan breathed, grinning. "I should have thought of that myself. Imagine getting your dick into that tight hole."
"Only he won't dare put all of it into her," Oran rasped. "He'd kill her with it."
"Kill her with pleasure, maybe. Watch him."
They stared in fascination as the younger brother went through a series of humping motions with his hips while in a squatting position at the girl's rear.
He finally lodged a little more than half of his hard penis into her ass.
They held that tableau for a few seconds, until the girl was adjusted to the lusty position. Then the younger brother began to fuck her. He moved slowly at first, driving his prick a little deeper each time through the sphincter of her ass.
The pleasure he was giving her became obvious by the changing variety of expressions on her face. In a few moments she was moving in time with him, only in a contrapuntal rhythm. The effect was that she was getting fucked in the ass and cunt at the same time.
Cavan and Oran watched the bestial triangle in silence.
As the young girl grew more excited, she began to use her body like a machine, thrusting her pelvis quicker and deeper. Her younger brother did the same as her anus relaxed to receive him. He plowed every inch of his cock up her asshole, giving her the most exquisite pleasures imaginable.
The girl's tits bobbled as she screwed, and the older brother began to suck them, tasting one nipple after the other with a thick, grinning pink tongue.
The girl started the long ethereal climb toward an orgasm. Her cunt looked almost sloppy now as it ground rawly up and down on the erected shaft of black meat. As she began to come, she threw back her head, opened her mouth, and stuck her tongue straight out like some hot jungle cat.
She spasmed, rotating her hips to grind every ounce of pleasure from the full stiffness of the big pricks pleasing her.
Her cunt juice streamed over the cock rammed into her pussy, and trickled wetly down the insides of her legs.
The older brother had come, too. Thick globs of his sperm oozed out between the stuffed lips of her cunt.
The younger brother worked a few more seconds, then he came with a violent ejaculation. He continued to pump his stubbornly hard cock in and out of her throbbing ass until he was thoroughly satisfied, then he pulled the bloated, wet meat from its perverted nest.
Cavan turned to his friend and winked. "And there you have it, Oran-the nicest little scene of domestic tranquility you could ever hope to see."
Oran nodded, and smiled. "One thing for sure, Cavan. Today you have created a new monster. That poor girl will never be satisfied with a penis of ordinary size. Not after you."
"Why should she? She'll have her brothers around to cool her itch."
"Isn't that just a tiny bit cynical?"
Cavan laughed. "Have you ever known me to be anything else, my friend? Come on, let's have a cool dip in the pool. I have a hard-on that won't go away."
Three
Oran Teague had never seen a home quite as splendid as Zenana.
At first he had even been puzzled over the name Cavan had given the place. But when he learned it was the Persian word for harem, he smiled in understanding and appreciation.
It was the right name for any place Cavan Kirk called home.
Writer though he was, Oran couldn't have come up with a better label for the lair of such a lecher as Cavan.
Oran had often tried to formalize in his own mind just what his relationship was to one of the wealthiest men in America. Certainly, he qualified as a friend, but then, thousands of others did, too. Oran had always liked to think of himself as possessing some special qualities that set him apart from Cavan's other acquaintances.
It certainly was not his inner sensuality which made Cavan like him, although he did enjoy the pursuit of the erotic as much as the next man-despite his impotency. But he was not in Cavan's league, even in his imagination. One would be hard put to find a male who was. In fact, one would have to go back to the days of powerful, medieval lords and barons to find anybody whose wealth matched his appetite for the constant pursuit of pleasure through sex.
In a sense, then, Cavan Kirk was an anachronism, Oran thought. Born several centuries too late. He would have been much more at home on a white horse with a falcon sitting on his shoulder and a feudal manor from which to draw the innocent and helpless subjects of his orgies.
Still, Cavan had been very successful at accomplishing the same things with his modern money. But the odds of endlessly continuing to do so were tricky. One never knew when the dark hand of the blackmailer might arise. Or the dirk of some avenger. Consider, for example, the scene that they had enjoyed voyeuristically moments before. Who could have known that the black girl would be such a willing partner to the abrasive, raw lust of her two brothers? Just thinking again of the size of the two negro male's genitalia made Oran wince with uncomfortable awe.
God, imagine what her pain must have been! What flames she had gone through to reach her bliss!
The truth was, he had been much less enthusiastic than Cavan about watching such a debauchery, much less interested in the profligate performance than his host. But he had learned a long time ago not to cross Cavan in his little diversions.
After all, it was Cavan's money, his home, and his whims which provided these little month-long vacations that a tired writer needed. And Oran felt himself supremely lucky to be able to bask in the obvious warmth and consideration of a friend like Cavan-and to make notes for the biography he was secretly planning to write about him!
As for the sexual side of Cavan's life, Oran thought that there was nothing that could shock him.
He had seen the gamut of Cavan's reckless depravity from London to the jungles of Malaya. Not only had he seen it, he had recorded it very carefully, secretly, in his notebooks. The biography would come off the presses like some sizzling tablet from hell! It would also, by all rights, be the one important book of Oran's life. The only problem-not very pressing, but still substantial-was that he would have to wait until Cavan was dead to actually bring the book out.
The world would probably never believe a line of such a biography, but he was sure they would buy up the copies as if they were diamonds selling for pennies. The public, as usual, would lust after every scrap of detail and gossamer thread of gossip about the private life of the great industrialist and philanthropist, Cavan Kirk, around whose name there had never been so much as a breath of scandal.
If the public only knew!
Sitting now by the edge of the great octogon-shaped swimming pool, watching the youthful-appearing body of his host as it cut the water repeatedly from one end of the pool to the other, Oran could not help but recall the first time he had ever met Cavan.
It seemed a world away, and indeed it was. And almost that far away in time, judging by the way the world moves today. But it was actually only six years ago, in Hong Kong.
Oran had been there on a special assignment for a magazine (one has to eat between unsuccessful novels) and after a hard day's work chasing elusive facts, he had dropped into one of the so-called Turkish baths in the Central District directly opposite the Kowloon Peninsula. It wasn't an expensive bath, certainly not one a tourist would find listed in a guidebook, but it looked small and uncrowded and he had felt the need for a good steaming, followed by a massage.
He paid the fee at the door and was immediately taken in hand by a young Chinese girl clad in scanty shorts and a brief bra. She unlaced his shoes and helped him into the traditional slippers. Then she proceeded to take his clothes off for him, being very careful to place the coat, pants, and shirt on hangers, and to deposit his underwear in a little wicker basket.
He was no longer shy about being naked in the presence of such female attendants.
There was really no hint of the sensual in such situations. The girls took no more notice of the male body than they would have the trunk of a tree in a forest. They were trained not to.
Still, in the back of Oran's mind, as the girl knelt in front of his nude impotent penis and began to wash his feet and legs, there was a little shameful nagging at his sense of decorum. It was really fortunate that he couldn't get an erection at such times, he always knew. But he had seen it happen. Once he had been in such a bath when a young Marine, on leave from Okinawa, had given way to the artful touches of the female masseuse. The poor young man's cock had stood up like the arm of the Statue of Liberty. The Chinese girl had giggled as she washed it, touched it, and Oran was sure the Marine had gone straight from the bath to the nearest whorehouse and screwed his lungs out.
At any rate, it was in such a place that Oran had first met the legendary Cavan Kirk.
While the girl was still washing his body, he heard a commotion coming from one of the adjoining stalls. First there was the high, piercing scream of a girl, followed by a string of foul curses in English.
The girl servicing Oran had glanced up with frightened eyes and sputtered something in Chinese. Oran caught only a few of the phrases. His Chinese was neither fluent nor flexible, but he did understand that the man in the adjoining stall was an American, like him.
Suddenly, the stall seemed to collapse as the screaming girl came tearing past them.
Oran had time only to see that her bra was partially off, and one of her firm, orange-sized breasts was bouncing helplessly as she ran.
Then the American appeared.
Cavan Kirk had never looked angrier. He was buck-naked, and his cock-a very large and very long piece of male equipment-was rock hard. Both Oran and the girl who was attending him could only stare at the imposing form of the tall, broad-shouldered, distinguished looking gentleman so potently aroused.
Oran realized later that, under other circumstances, he might have actually recognized Cavan Kirk (having seen his pictures dozens of times in magazines), but it was impossible to make such quick distinctions in a Turkish Bath. Somehow, nude male bodies all look the same, and so do the faces.
"Come back here, you goddamned little Chink prick-teaser!" Cavan Kirk had shouted after the fleeing girl.
And it was then that Oran realized the American was not just drunk; he was desperately drunk. Predictably enough, Oran's first thought was about the stereotyped crude American Yankee who goes blundering around the world with his cameras, loud ties, and fistfuls of money, doing untold harm to the image of his own country.
Then, just as predictably, he found himself in the position of having to help such an American.
The harried girl had returned with the police-two very determined looking Chinese in uniforms and carrying heavy clubs.
Cavan didn't blanch. Instead, he began to bombard the policemen with every oath in the lexicon of cussing.
Fortunately, the police didn't know a word of English, but the tone of Cavan's voice raised their hackles anyway. It was only the calmer voice of Oran-plus halting but sufficient knowledge of Chinese and his showing of papers which proved he was a member of the press-that saved Cavan Kirk from being dragged to the nearest rat-infested jail like some common street brawler.
When the police had gone, Oran discovered that not only had he rescued a stranger, he had made himself a rather persistent friend.
Without even the formality of an introduction, Cavan Kirk invited Oran to a bar for a "drink to celebrate."
It was over those drinks that Cavan had first practiced his charm on Oran. Instead of being his usual quiet and introspective self, Oran found him self talking like a parrot about his own life, aspirations, failures-and most particularly about his frustrating day of trying to gather the proper facts from uncooperative officials at the British Embassy in order that he might get his article written by the stateside deadline. He needed the money.
Looking back on it, as Oran had at least a thousand times since the event, he realized that Cavan had the remarkable ability to sober his mind as if by magic. They were both drinking, of course, but the liquor loosened Oran's tongue while it seemed to make Cavan's more circumspect.
When the bar closed, Oran discovered that he was just drunk enough to respond to any wild suggestion his new friend might make.
"Do you know a good whorehouse?" Cavan had asked. "I mean a place where these yellow pig-women really know how to fuck."
"Certainly," Oran heard himself giggle.
They commandeered a taxi and traveled a reckless, confused route to one of the cheaper bordellos ranged along the harbor of Kowloon. With his smattering of Chinese, Oran got them inside the place, the price for the whores being settled even before they were given the customary green tea and fingerbowls.
The girls and women were paraded before them in the faint, deceptive light of fluttering Chinese lanterns.
They made their selections and were taken to separate rooms.
Oran could subsequently remember his own sexual inadequacy that evening only with embarrassment. But at the time, he had been far too drunk to care. And he had ended his part of the sex frolic by giving in to the eager-to-please Oriental whore's nagging suggestion to blow him. He let her try.
Under the warm ministering of her mouth-she was damned good-he had achieved a faint, vague pleasure which nevertheless never even began to manifest itself in either an erection or an orgasm. The finest fellatrix in Kowloon finally simply gave up on him.
He then wandered back into the reception room, expecting to find his new friend finished and waiting.
He was neither.
An hour later, Oran was still waiting.
To his constant entreaties at the old Chinese pimp who kept shuffling back and forth, he got only the merry answer that the big American had asked to sample still another ware.
At last Cavan appeared,' a small grin of approval on his lips.
In the taxi again, Oran had glanced at the strong profile of his new friend. Taking a ragged breath, he asked the inevitable question: "How many women did you have back there?"
Cavan had glanced at him with that still faintly arrogant smile on his lips. "Six, I think. Give or take one."
They parted that night after scribbling names and telephone numbers in the dim light of the taxi. Oran stuffed his piece of paper in his coat pocket and promptly forgot all about it. He slept out his drunken stupor and was awakened early the next morning by the jangling telephone beside his hotel bed.
It turned out to be the secretary to the British Ambassador-would it be convenient for Mr. Teague to drop around for tea at four?
It was only when he finally remembered to look at the scrap of paper that Oran realized who had opened the doors for him-and who, indeed, had been his drinking and whoring companion of the night before.
None other than Cavan Kirk himself.
And now, watching that same, strong, indestructible body as it sliced through the cool greenish water of the swimming pool, Oran wondered vaguely where he might be at this minute if it had not been for that simple impulse of his to take a steam bath six years ago in Hong Kong.
Such is Kismet.
Such is the luck of the Irish.
Four
"You know, of course," Cavan said, munching a bit of pike and leaning slightly across the china and gold table setting, "that there are some three-hundred-fifty edible fishes in the world."
Oran smiled. "Then why did you choose pike-or did your chef do it for you?"
"No, it was my idea. To serve it Brocket a la Hongroise was the chef's decision. I assume by the nature of your question, however, that you aren't familiar with the noble pike."
"Should I be?"
"I think that you, as a writer, might find the symbolic parallel between pike and man very interesting."
Oran took a sip of wine, and patted his mouth with his napkin.
"All right, Cavan. What is the pike's fish nature?"
Cavan smiled. "The pike is also known as jack or luce. It's the tyrant of other fishes because it not only eats them, but it also eats its own kind. "
"A queer kind of fish, eh?"
Cavan threw back his head and laughed. Then he drank down his wine and snapped his fingers. Immediately, Dexter came from across the room with the bottle of sauvignon. He filled Cavan's glass carefully, turning the bottle in a slow arc, then wiping the glass lip with the edge of his arm napkin.
He repeated the process for Oran.
The room in which they were dining was as large as an auditorium, it seemed to Oran. But then, the entire house was on a completely exaggerated scale-an odd, rather exciting mixture of the old and the new. For example, Cavan had seen to it that gothic effects, carved ceilings, corbels, stained glass doors, tapestries were mixed in with the much more modern effects of cantilevered terraces, floor to ceiling walls of glass, brick courses and natural rock columns.
The house itself was a reflection of the complex personality of Cavan Kirk. That much had to be said for it.
"Oran, do you remember the little place I had at Cap D'Antibes?"
Oran gestured broadly. "You mean that villa? Some little place! I think it must have been the biggest one on the entire Riviera."
"Possibly, I never measured it. But it was a grand old house. Full of sunlight that seemed to bounce off the Mediterranean. And I loved the town. Pre-Roman, you know. Charming."
Oran waited. He knew that Cavan had brought up the subject of Cap D'Antibes for a reason, but he didn't want to hazard a guess at why.
At last, Cavan glanced from Oran's eyes down to the wine glass he was holding between strong fingers. Then he spoke.
"I don't suppose I introduced you to Monsieur Bouray."
"No, I don't recall-"
"A fascinating old gentleman-a direct descendant of a cousin of Napoleon III, he said. I always thought the rascal was more likely descended right from the Marquis de Sade's balls."
"He sounds interesting. I wish I'd met him."
"Yes, I don't think the word interesting is at all too encompassing for Monsieur Bouray. He was certainly that, and much more. Even at the advanced age of seventy, he had a practiced eye for female flesh. That was one of my reasons for hiring him."
"Hiring him? For what?"
"Parties."
Oran smiled. "Did he do a song and dance act?"
"I daresay he could have, if the price had been right. No, he was a procurer. In his heyday he was among the best in Paris. Practically legendary for his ability to sift through places like Montmartre and come up with hosts of willing virgins."
"And who were his clients?"
"Anybody. Everybody. He specialized, however, in arranging gala parties-"
"I presume you mean orgies."
"That word would have offended Monsieur Bouray to the soul. No, I mean parties in the subtlest, most artistic sense. Except the object of the party was always sexual pleasure."
"And he arranged some parties for you?"
"Many. We became quite close. I even managed to provide him with some ideas of my own. Crude ideas, of course, which he reshaped and stylized. Would you like to see one of his-parties?"
Oran stared at his host. "See?"
"Yes. I have several on film-in color. Wild little Bacchanals, I'm afraid, despite Monsieur Bouray's artistry. Let's see, the ones which come to mind are almost endless, but I think Bouray's most aesthetically successful venture was The Golden Lotus. A real Oriental romp. Want to see it?"
"With that kind of introduction, I can't resist."
"Let's go into the library. Dexter will show it for us."
They walked from the spacious dining room down to the large library that seemed to house acres of books. They settled into two large leather chairs, and Dexter brought them brandy and cigars.
Oran noticed, as he had several times already, the almost shocking good looks of the young, swarthy servant. When Dexter was out of earshot, Oran turned to Cavan with a lowered voice.-"Isn't that servant boy of yours a Turk?"
"Dexter? No, he's pure Moroccan. I bought him in a slave market in Marrakesh, of all places. I paid seventy-five good American dollars for him."
"How on earth did you explain him along with your baggage at customs?"
"I didn't. I had him flown to South America, then inched over the Mexican border by helicopter. He's happy as a lark. A good brain, too. You saw him pour the wine."
"He understands English very well."
"And doesn't speak a word of it. He doesn't speak much of anything, as a matter-of-fact. Not since his sister died."
"You ... bought his sister as well?"
"Yes, didn't I say that?"
At that moment the lights dimmed in the library and one large section of the book-filled wall in front of them turned noiselessly around, revealing a screen on the opposite side. A projector came up from behind them and shot out a patch of white light.
"Watch this closely," Cavan said, softly. "If you want any of the parts repeated, the projector can do that. It's the best one I could buy."
Oran settled into his chair and his brandy, and kept his eyes glued to the screen before them.
No picture at all emerged at first. Just muted, fuzzy swirls of color and geometric shapes-very beautifully combined and interesting from a compositional viewpoint. The colors faded into a montage of an Oriental painting depicting nude figures, artfully drawn, in all manner of erotic poses.
Then the camera panned down to a wide-lipped brass bowl filled with scented water. On top of the water floated a golden lotus bloom.
A hand reached into the bowl and took out the flower. It was a male hand-strong knuckles and wrist, hair growing on the fingers. As the hand left the frame, the camera pulled back to reveal a lovely room decorated with giant urns, lacquer furniture piled with brightly colored pillows. Lying in the middle of one of the vast divans was the most flawlessly beautiful woman Oran had ever seen. She was naked. As the camera moved in on her, she smiled and drew her legs apart to reveal the puff of dark fur covering her Venus mound.
The camera moved shamelessly closer until the individual hairs were in sharp focus. Then a clever surprise followed when the same male hand touched the pubic hair, spreading its soft ringlets back to uncover the hidden lips of the cunt itself. The edges of the beautiful woman's pussy were pink and moist, turning to a deeper scarlet at the center of the long narrow slit.
Still in tight close-up, the male hand inserted its middle finger well into the meaty center of that cunt and moved it in a slow, lustful circle. The camera panned back to the woman's face. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth was drawn up in a pleasurable grin.
Then the camera pulled back even farther, right to the edge of the room, so that nothing was denied the viewer. And there it remained for the next fifteen or twenty minutes, or long enough for one of the most lubricous sex acts any movie-goer could ever hope to see.
The man who was fingering the naked woman's cunt still had his back to the camera. He was dressed in a gold and silver kimono, and the only part of his body which seemed to move was his hand, coming out of the long, full sleeve of the garment.
The woman's face was clearly visible, and the sluttish fingering of her pussy was obviously giving her fits of real pleasure. Her eyes rolled in her head, and her grin widened. She brought both her hands up to her full tits and cupped them, then stroked the peaks out to the bloating nipples to increase the titillating. When she was almost on the point of fainting with bliss, the hand withdrew from the mouth of her slit, and the man turned around.
"You!" Oran breathed.
Cavan chuckled in the half-darkness of the big library. "Of course-my debut in front of a camera. It's a good angle, isn't it? Like a Barrymore."
Oran saw what he meant. The kimono Cavan had worn for his role in the movie was not exactly of the traditional variety. It was open in front, revealing his naked chest, abdomen, thighs and legs. And, of course, that club-sized cock of his.
Cavan's penis was in full erection on the screen, hard as a large bar of iron.
Cavan's figure walked across the movie screen to a small table with a Chinese gong resting on it. He struck the gong with a metal hammer and the camera panned to show two muscular servants coming into the room. They were both dressed in black loincloths. A servant got on either side of the women and lifted her. They carried her in a sitting position across the room to where Cavan waited, his prick still pointing out in readiness.
The servants pulled the willing female's legs apart until her cunt was gaping like the mouth of some toothless fish. Then they edged her slowly up to the blunt head of Cavan's cock.
A zoom lens on the camera provided another pleasant surprise. It brought the head of Cavan's prick into such close range that it almost filled the screen, then moved back just enough to show that monstrous cockhead begin to wedge blindly into the soft, yielding hole being offered it.
Oran watched with heating blood as the great column of the prick inserted itself inch by inch into the pouting oval of the cunt. The cock stretched the lips wider and wider until it was moving very slowly, straining to get the full length inside.
Another long shot of the room, with the servants still holding the female above the floor, her legs sprawled open and Cavan's huge dick solidly rammed up between her thighs.
Then the two strong servants began to move the woman back and forth, in a kind of bizarre fucking motion.
"Untouched by human hands," Cavan joked to his friend beside him. "A very unique experience for both of us."
Oran could see that the only thing touching between Cavan and the woman-the only contact of their bodies-was his prick lodged deep into her gaping pussy.
A few minutes of this madness and the woman was having a unique and violently delicious orgasm.
She squirmed and spun in the arms of the two servants, who paid no attention at all to her rapture. They merely kept up the motions of moving her hips back and forth as she spasmed uncontrollably.
Finally, the sated female was pulled away, and Cavan's engorged cock slipped out of the weary envelope of her dripping cunt with a proud throb.
The female was carried back to the sofa and placed so that her heated quim was still in full view of the camera's eye. One of the servants disappeared for a moment, then came back leading a giant wolfhound.
The dog had been expertly trained to sniff out freshly fucked pussy. He found the female's trench with unerring speed and immediately began to lap away at it with a long, slathering tongue.
In the meantime, Cavan's role in the movie was taking on a new dimension. One of the servants helped him off with his robe, and the other servant placed a padded stool in the middle of the floor. It was a very low stool, with inclining sides. Cavan sat down on the stool first, then leaned backward so that his head and shoulders were resting on the floor. Then he stretched his legs in front of him.
The effect set the stage for the most obscene kind of phallic worship.
With his hips thus higher than any other part of his body, his fully erected cock was like some erotic monument to lust. It stood up between his legs, pointing stiffly into the air.
The camera then panned past the cunt-lapping wolfhound to show three very young girls-none of them a day over fifteen and all quite nude-coming into the room.
"My God, no!" Oran wheezed, shifting uncomfortably in the prison of his chair.
Cavan laughed softly. "You wouldn't deny three hungry little nymphs a chance to satisfy their deepest cravings, would you?"
Oran continued to stare at the screen. The girls surrounded Cavan and dropped to their knees-vestal virgins about to worship a rustic prick-god. The camera nosed like some lewd shark around the contours of the girls' bodies, seeking out the fuzzed slits between their legs, lingering on the small, budded nipples of their barely puffed tits.
One by one each of the girls closed a hand around Cavan's stiffly swollen cock. They squeezed and stroked and teased the already rigid flesh until the veins were standing out like thick cords and the cap was bloated into a throbbing pink mushroom. Then the girls began to lick. From three different angles-caught in clever, triangular shots by the camera-the viewer was provided the dubious thrill of watching a trio of lovely, innocent young girls avidly using their tongues on one of the largest, stiffest pricks imaginable.
They seemed to like their work. Their soft, pinkish tongues lapped up and down the cock until it was glistening with their saliva. Then the camera pulled back to show how the girls had shifted their positions so that they were now on their hands and knees, their buttocks raised, their legs spread, their fresh young cunts openly exposed.
At that point the muscular young servants seen earlier, plus a third one, came back into the room. Off-camera they had divested themselves of the black loin clothes. They were now very naked, very aroused.
Oran had never seen stiffer cocks; they almost matched Cavan's monster in size.
Each servant made one of the girls his target for lust. Coupling with them from behind, the males drove their rigid pricks deep into the tight cunts and proceeded to fuck their balls off, so it seemed. The camera peered under and around the action, to show, in each instance, how the heavy nuts of the young servants were slapping hard against the inner legs of the defenseless females.
While the girls were being ruthlessly fucked, they were taking greater liberties with Cavan's steadily heating cock. The excitement, the pleasure of being screwed, translated itself into the way they used their mouths. They took turns sucking the big prick, going down on it until their cheeks were puffed like adders and their throats stuffed with the head of it.
The entire scene must have lasted fifteen minutes before Cavan had an orgasm. No mouth happened to be on his cock at that precise moment, and the camera happily caught the eruption of his passion. Gluts of hot sperm shot up several inches from the eyelet of his prick and fell back down to run creamily over the meatus and down the sides where it was hungrily licked up by the girls who were, themselves, reaching multiple orgasms under the thrusting force of their fuckers.
The camera moved slowly now back to the sofa for the final, climactic shot.
The beautiful female was still having her cunt explored by the large dog, and her legs were spread in the widest possible arc so that the hound could get his tongue into her slit as deeply as possible. Between her teeth, the woman held the lotus flower seen at the beginning of the film. She was smiling as the dog licked her into one last climax.
When the film went dead on the screen, neither Oran nor his host said anything for a few seconds. Then Cavan turned to his friend, and smiled.
"Do you think you can do better than that?"
"Than what?"
"Than Monsieur Bouray. I'm looking for a fresh idea, Oran. Something really stimulating. But nothing as banal as a stag film. I want real flesh-andblood people. That's why I invited you here. I thought perhaps that you, as a man with a creative mind, might be able to help."
Five
Oran turned and tossed in his bed that night.
He had no ideas. How on earth did Cavan expect him to innovate in an area where he was, to say the least, only vaguely experienced? He was no Monsieur Bouray with an oiled mustache and a mind jumping with prurient images. He was merely a writer of rather urbane novels, and a journalist without name and sexually impotent, as well!
It was ridiculous, he decided, for Cavan to suddenly look upon him as a combination of Rabelais, Henry Miller and the infamous Marguis.
Still ... there ought to be something in his mind somewhere. Some small kernel of an erotic idea which could bloom if he gave enough attention to it.
He racked his brain until perspiration soaked his body. Then he fell into a fitful sleep. It was sometime during that long night that the creative chemistry of his mind produced the idea he had been seeking. When he woke it was dancing at the tip of his consciousness. He went down to breakfast with a small grin of victory on his lips.
"Well," Cavan said, when Oran appeared on the sunlit terrace, "have you thought of something to please your host?"
Oran shrugged. "I think I have."
He sat down across from Cavan and put a fork into the wedge of grapefruit. Cavan watched him, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, a cigarette burning quietly between his strong fingers.
"Tell me," Cavan said, impatiently. "Tell me the idea you have."
Oran took a bite, put down the fork, and smiled remotely. "It's really very simple. My idea is based on the concept of a Game Preserve."
Cavan waiting a moment in silence while Oran chewed the bit of grapefruit in his mouth.
"Well?" Cavan demanded, at last.
"You invite six people-strangers to you and strangers to each other-to stay a weekend here at Zenana," Oran said.
"To what end?"
"To whatever ends they can devise for themselves. My idea embraces the theory that the human animal is basically instinctive, sexually predatory. He's conditioned to be less so around friends and around the natural restraints of society-but once let loose from both those safeguards...."
"You're taking a great deal for granted, aren't you, Oran? I mean, wouldn't I at least have to exercise some judgement about the kind of people I-"
"You mean match them, don't you? No, that would take the fun out of it. Remove the element of suspense. And, besides, my theory also includes the belief that at the heart of every human being, there lurks the soul of a beast. It has only to be let out of its cage. It was Shakespeare who said, 'There is no art to read to mind's construction in the face.' I'll go the Bard one better: there is no art to read the sexual repressions in a man's ordinary behavior.
But given a chance for unordinary behavior, he may prove to be a very different sort of mixture."
Cavan rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "If I understand you correctly, you are saying that I should choose six total strangers, invite them here for a weekend, then sit back and see what happens. It sounds ... simple-minded."
"It would be-except for one important addition. They must be constantly conditioned toward sex."
"Conditioned? What does that mean?
"Music, the right kind of books, and a slow distribution of cantharides in their food."
"You must be mad."
"Am I? You'd be surprised what a little Spanish Fly can do for the reluctant libido. It can put spurs into the dullest will."
Cavan frowned.
"I saw a female die once from taking a strong aphrodisiac. She was fucked continuously for hours by the crew of an Italian ship. Real low-life bastards, all of them. Her cunt was bleeding like a stuck pig before-"
"My dear Cavan, I'm not talking about brutally dosing anybody. I'm talking about, say, spraying the salad lettuce with a thin solution of a cantharis. Just enough to let it tone the blood, ruffle the hormones. A kind of incentive toward action."
Cavan was silent again for a long moment.
Then a sly smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
"A game preserve," he mused, slowly, "with human beings roaming this house-"
"This house of two-way mirrors. I am assuming that you have equipped the guest bedrooms with the same toy we played with yesterday."
Cavan grinned. "Of course I have. Complete with a secret passageway connected to every room."
"Then you have nothing more to do than pick up the phone there at your elbow and call Dexter."
"For what?"
"To bring you the telephone directory. Out of two hundred and fifty thousand names, you ought to be able to pick six who never heard of each other. Although they will all have heard of you-and this castle of a house sitting out on the mountain side."
"Do you think they will come?"
Oran laughed. "Who in his right mind would refuse, Cavan?"
Six
Cavan pushed the large telephone directory back and read the scrap of paper he had just finished scribbling on.
"How does the list sound," he said, hopefully. "John Palmer, Oscar Turner, Joe Matson-those are the males. And for the females-Miss Florence Evans, Miss Ellen Duff, and Miss Sandra Carlson."
Oran smiled. "You deliberately refrained from picking married women."
"Why not? As for the men, I think even if they are married they can manage to get away for a weekend. With married ladies, it might pose something of a problem."
"And one of the six names you read could pose a problem. They could range in ages from twenty to ninety."
Cavan shrugged. "You said yourself that making this project a kind of social grabbag would be half the fun. I hope you're right."
"What I really meant, Cavan, was that you have very little to lose. It won't be in the least bit dangerous. All you are providing is the atmosphere for reckless behavior. If my theory is wrong, then nothing has been lost. But if it's right...."
"A most interesting weekend of voyeurism, eh?"
"Or even participation, who knows?"
"You're Satanic, but amusing."
Cavan paused, thoughtfully. "How do I go about wording an invitation?"
"Merely put it in the simplest terms possible. Tell them the truth, that you have chosen citizens from the city at random to be your house guests for a weekend. They will be surprised, of course, but I am sure they will check with you by phone or letter. But eventually they'll come around. Every manjack of them!"
"You seem sure of it."
"I am."
Seven
Cavan was standing at the sheltered entrance to Zenana when the first of the guests arrived.
John Palmer turned out to be a handsome, friendly young man just over twenty-six. He wasn't dressed fashionably at all, and the thick shock of black hair hung a little too low over his ears. He was, he said, a student at the University in his last year, studying medicine. The invitation was a windfall to him for at least two reasons: he was absolutely broke, and he needed the relaxed atmosphere of a place like Zenana to bone up for some very tough exams coming along.
Cavan glanced at Oran and gave him an amused wink when the young man toted a crate of books up from his rattletrap car.
The two other males arrived very shortly.
Oscar Turner was in his middle thirties. Lean and tall and a bit reserved with his crew cut red hair and heavy horn rims. He seemed both pleased and suspicious about the offer, and let Cavan know immediately that he was an attorney by profession.
"Are you married, Oscar?" Cavan asked, pointedly.
"Divorced. Why?"
Cavan laughed. "It's just that I want everybody to be sociable at Zenana."
"I can assure you, sir," Oscar Turner snapped, "that I did not accept the invitation because I thought it was a Lonely Hearts Club adventure, or one of those weekend love orgies we read about all the time."
Cavan assured Turner that he was free to leave any time he wanted to, and that nobody was plotting to either induce or seduce him into anything he didn't want.
It wasn't quite the truth, but it seemed to soothe Oscar Turner's easily ruffled feathers.
The last male, Joe Matson, appeared incapable of being ruffled. He was the typical middle-class hero: short, beefy, likable. Very much married with four children and a jolly wife. In his loud sports shirt, his camera slung over his shoulder, a big cigar stuck in the corner of his jowled mouth, he seemed like the model tourist off for a weekend in Shangri La.
"Betsy-that's my wife-wanted to come along, too," he roared. "But I said, 'llon, you seen the invitation,' and so she gave up on it. Besides, like I told her, somebody's gotta stay home and look after the kids. Say, mind if I take some pictures, Mr. Kirk?"
"Take all you want, Joe. Be my guest."
When Joe Matson wandered off, clicking his camera relentlessly, Oran smiled at Cavan and asked him what he thought of his Game Preserve specimens so far.
"A varied group. I wonder if we'll have the same luck with the females?"
In a way they did.
Two of the females were young and beautiful. Florence Evans turned out to be the youngest-only nineteen. She was a true blonde, full of light and laughter, and quite happy, she said, in her career as a secretary to an important business man. Smartly dressed, she seemed like a pert butterfly going from one room in the large house to another-awed, intrigued, inspired.
"A very nice addition to the guest list," Cavan hummed, sizing up the young lady's legs and hips the moment she wasn't looking.
"Remember the ground rules," Oran smiled. "You're not to initiate anything. Just observe."
"I don't know how long I can respect such heartless rules," Cavan sighed. "I'm afraid the moment I watch that young filly take off her panties and bra, I'll simply break through the two-way mirror and have at it."
"You could have all kinds of hell to pay, in that case."
"It might be worth it!"
They were still discussing the basic elements of the forthcoming weekend when the second female arrived.
Her name was Ellen Duff-and she was, in some ways, a far cry from the lovely young secretary.
Miss Duff was close to forty. Prim and neat with her dark brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. There was only the smallest trace of makeup on her serious face, and her eyes, large and dimly hazel, seemed a little weary of he world.
"I am a teacher," she said, responding to Cavan's usual list of introductory questions. "I teach the fourth level in the Andrew Jackson Elementary School on Parkway Avenue."
"Married?"
"No!"
She said the word as if she had just been asked to take down her panties and show them all her well-behaved cunt.
When she had been escorted to her room, Cavan turned to Oran with a frown. "Our luck just ran out on her."
Oran smiled. "There's still one more to arrive. Maybe the gods will favor you again."
"You never include yourself in these little comments, Oran. Do you consider yourself above the siren call of sex?"
"Not at all. But you are the one who commissioned this adventure into erotica. It's Cavan Kirk-inspired and Cavan Kirk-motivated. I like to think of myself as some minor architect for one of your smaller monuments to Eros."
Cavan smiled. "That's why I like you, Oran. Even your ego is impotent."
Almost an hour passed before the final female guest arrived at the portals of Zenana.
Her name was Sandra Carlson, and she was a definite improvement over the spinsterish Miss Duff. Sandra was twenty-five, well built and brassy. Her makeup was too vivid, her hair too dyed, and the amount of gum she was chewing too large.
When she told them she worked as part of the Variety Act at the Silver Slipper Lounge on the West Side, they knew at once that fate had guided Cavan's finger through the telephone directory to her name.
"A stripper," Cavan whispered, nudging Oran in the ribs like a mischievous boy who has just seen the flash of a passing woman's thigh. "We ought to really see some action with that one."
"Things aren't always what they seem," Oran observed, quietly.
"She's what she seems, all right. I'll bet she peddles it on the side. She'll be so horny by tonight she'll take on the bedpost."
"Possibly."
"No question about it."
And so, with the arrival of the last of the six guests, all was set for the working out of Oran's peculiar, yet original, thesis: that a half-dozen total strangers of evenly mixed sexes would, somehow, find a way to express even the most bizarre of their hidden sexual repressions.
"A theory," Cavan said, in summary, "that I will have to see to believe."
To which Oran enigmatically added: "I think you mean it's one which you have to believe to see, my friend."
Preparations for the visitors had already been carefully made. Each of the six bedrooms was equipped with speakers which carried a constant program of music. Carefully chosen music. A touch of a dial inside each room could adjust the volume from a whisper to an ear-splitting roar. From his vast collection of records, Cavan had picked three kinds of melodies: something called Latino Voodoo which featured nothing but authentic drumbeats from the Caribbean, mixed with claves, finger bells, and maracas, then music from the Middle East complex and sensuous as Persian carpets, with guitars, flutes, rattles, and drums keeping a constant erotic beat going; and last, music of the African Arabbelly-dancing musiccalculated to rouse even the dullest blood to dance with lust.
Then the books. In every room, by every bed, a small bookcase had been placed. In each bookcase were a few harmless magazines and respectable novels. But artfully interspersed-like whores in a church-were the tempting morsels of classical erotica. Such masterpieces of stimulation as Fanny Hill, Grushenka, Justine and Juliette, The Lustful Turk, A Night in a Moorish Harem, The Perfumed Garden, and Venus in Furs.
The final touch, of course, was to be the dickering with food. Cavan arranged to have flown in from Mexico a generous amount of a specially-weakened solution of Spanish Fly. The crystalline powder made from the dried blister beetles of the Iberian Peninsula had been joined with a harmless and tasteless liquid so that it could be mixed, sprayed, or poured over any kind of food at all. Ostensibly, the aphrodisiac would do no more harm than to set up a mildly pleasurable, teasing itch in the genitalia of anybody partaking of it.
Unless, of course, impatience prompted a more reckless course of action through a heavier dosage.
In which case, even a saint would find himself burning for a holy fuck.
Eight
The first dinner, on Friday night, was a rather gala, innocent affair.
The chef in the kitchen had outdone himself in serving Cavan's guests the Barbecued Steak Ventura with all the elaborate trimmings-including just a whisper of the Spanish Fly over the small wedges of Tilsiter cheese in the salads.
Everybody ate and drank too much-especially the short, beefy, likeable Joe Matson, who seemed wildly happy to be away for a weekend from his wife and four children. He was like a big overgrown Boy Scout on an outing. Miss Duff remained her prim and proper self, but Cavan could hardly restrain a smile as he watched her fork the deadly bits of Tilsiter cheese into her pursed lips. He could almost see her groping along the path to total abandon.
The youngest of the group-John Palmer and Florence Evansseemed to hit it off at once. They laughed and joked across the table, and continued their conversation even after the company had adjourned to the large living room to have after-dinner drinks and watch a perfectly proper movieDoris Day being naughty, chased, and chaste.
At one point, noting the young couple sitting side by side on the sofa, Cavan had hurriedly whispered to Oran, "My bet is those two are fucking blindly before the night is over." To which Oren merely shrugged the observation, "I think you are being overly unimaginative, Cavan. My guess is those two have less in common than would appear. There's something odd about that young girl's eyes. And did you notice how sharp and long her nails are?"
That cryptic remark only made Cavan throw out another whispered scoff: "Yes, I can see her nails-all the better to dig into that young rogue's back when he's making her come. God, if only we hadn't agreed to those goddamned rules, I'd take her on myself before midnight. Can't you just see her in my room of mirrors, all that delicious beauty of hers naked and reflected in a thousand angles?" Her honied pussy-"
"The rules, Cavan. The rules!"
The evening seemed endless, and the more drinks that were poured down their throats, the less interested Oran became in pursuing the game. At eleven o'clock he excused himself and prepared to retire. Cavan accompanied him to the stairs.
"You don't mean you're going to miss out on the first night's fun?"
"You watch for me, Cavan. I'm sure nothing much will happen tonight, the first night. They seem a basically reserved lot. Perhaps your idea of screening them first-"
"I think you're wrong. Anyway, I'll make the rounds. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Good sport. Goodnight, Cavan-Sweet Prince of Pornography."
Shortly before midnight, the group broke Up, and the members of the disparate party made their separate ways to their rooms.
When Cavan had waved the last of them goodbye, he went immediately to the secret door in the library. It opened onto a series of intricate hallways built between the walls of the upstairs bedrooms. Deeply carpeted, so as to hide any telltale footsteps, the passageway provided the perfect avenue for a rapacious voyeur. A large mirror in each bedroom provided, in effect, a picture window into the bedroom for anybody standing behind it.
Cavan had every intention of looking into each bedroom to see what effect, if any, the collective efforts at sexual stimulation had produced in his innocent wards.
The first room he came to was Joe Matson's. He stood in the secret hallway, disinterestingly watching the rather pudgy fellow undress to his shorts, light a fresh cigar, select a sports magazine from his bookcase, and plop into the middle of the bed.
A stupid disappointment.
Cavan sighed, and moved on to Florence Evan's room. Here he was richly rewarded for his efforts. The beautiful, nineteen-year-old blonde was just undressing. She obviously was feeling the effect of the aphrodisiac. She had turned up the volume of room speaker, and as the voodoo drums beat out a savagely sensual rhythm, Florence began to undulate her hips.
Cavan stood transfixed behind the two-way mirror-a hard-on growing-while the sexy young lady divested herself of skirt, slip, panties, and bra.
She was marvelously built, Cavan noted. Her tits were full and firm with nipples standing out like pink thumbs. Her flaring buttocks framed the crease of her thighs, the soft, dark spot of fur over her cunt.
As she danced, Cavan felt his cock stiffening even more pleasurably.
He wanted to fuck her, and he fully intended to at a later date. At the present, he knew he'd settle for watching the young John Palmer get a piece of her ass. The youth certainly hadn't taken advantage of an obvious opportunity.
What was the younger generation coming to !
He continued to watch until his prick was throbbing painfully, then he wandered on to Oscar Turner's room.
Another disappointment. The tall, lean, intellectual attorney was merely pacing the floor, reflectively smoking his pipe. He seemed either lost in thought or bored-or both.
Cavan moved on to what he hoped would be the best sight of all-the room to Sandra Carlson, the stripper. She had to be up to something!
Again, he was bitterly disappointed.
Although Sandra was stripped to panties and bra, she was casually rec-lined on the bed, reading one of the sentimental novels and eating from a box of bon-bons.
It wasn't until Cavan moved down the hallway and stared balefully through the two-way mirror into Ellen Duff's room that he saw what he'd been lusting to see. And from the unlikeliest guest of all.
The sedate Miss Duff was masturbating!
The forty-year-old prim school teacher was sitting on the edge of the bed, directly facing the mirror, watching herself as she played the autoerotic game. She was buck naked, her legs thrown lewdly apart. With one hand she was manipulating a long, phallic-shaped dildo in and out of the surprisingly large, meaty lips of her cunt. The dildo had a brass ring on one end and Miss Duff's finger was securely hooked into it.
Cavan smiled. He'd never seen such a curious device.
Miss Duff varied the rhythm with which she pleasured her hot cunt. Sometimes she moved the phony cock very slowly, pushing it so far up into her slit that her finger almost disappeared. At other times she made rapid, jerking movements, as if trying to bring on a sizzling orgasm.
Cavan was particularly interested in her face and what she was doing with her free hand. Her face was a mask of abandoned lust, greed, joy. When the big dildo really gave her a thrill, she'd throw back her head and let her tongue lull out of the side of her mouth, as if licking at some invisible pair of sperm-choked balls. And her free hand kept up a constant self-teasing pattern with her own breasts.
Cavan was delighted to note that Miss Duff's tits were much larger than they had seemed to him earlier. The nipples were quite long, quite fat, quite red. She had tweaked and stimulated them until they were certainly twice their normal size.
God, how the wanton bitch was enjoying herself!
He had half a mind to break into her room and fuck the living shit out of her aroused cunt! He could show her how much fun a real prick could be!
Speaking of pricks, his own was bulging in his pants again.
Yielding to the ruttish temptation, Cavan unzipped his fly and let his cock ride out between his legs. Standing there in the dark, secret passageway, watching Miss Duff fuck herself with a dildo, he began to jack-off.
It was a delightful kind of perverted madness for him. A secret indulgence nobody need ever know about.
He was building very nicely to an orgasm when Miss Duff did something that made his hormones act like Mexican jumping beans.
She traded the medium-sized dildo she had been using for another one. The second dildo was a giant thing, all of twelve inches in length and as big around as his fist!
His horn cock throbbed as he watched her horse that monster between the moist flap of her pussy until it was buried deep up inside her. Then she began to move it in and out, back and forth, coming like a turned on faucet.
He could see the liquids sopping through her cunt hair, rolling down her splayed legs in a flood of hot sauce.
The erotic sight made him shoot off like a stallion.
His sperm hit the mirror in great glups and rolled thickly down the side. He kept up the automatic jacking until Miss Duff had finished her own endless orgasms and put away the dildoes. Only after she had crawled naked between the sheets of her bed, and clicked off the bed lamp, did he put his meat back in his pants and stagger off down the hall again.
Ellen Duff, the least one on them all to be suspect, had turned out to be the hottest minx in the cage!
He had to grin.
Wait until he told Oran how right his theory was so far!
He dropped by John Palmer's room, and found that he had again hit pay dirt. The impressionable, handsome young stud was lying on his bed, naked. He had a hard-on, and little wonder. The shameless jock had discovered A Night in a Moorish Harem, and he was enjoying the pornographic novel to the hilt.
Cavan was interested to see that John Palmer was hung well. In fact, his husky prick was a real whopper, with a head the size of a baby's fist. The youth was not jacking off, but he probably would. He'd damned sure have to do something to make that stone-hard cock lay down and be quiet.
It might be worth hanging around, Cavan thought, just in case John Palmer decided to try to put that big dong in, say, Florence Evan's cute young cunt.
But he didn't.
He was a bit exhausted from having shot his seed against the back of Miss Duff's mirror. And, after all, tomorrow was another day-the first day, really, of the long weekend.
But before trotting off to bed, he did make a mental note to have more Spanish Fly added to the food.
Not too much, of course. Just enough to really get the ball rolling.
It was silly to be timid about making the weekend an unqualified success, he thought. Even Oran would agree to that bit of logic!
Nine
What Cavan Kirk didn't realize was that the proverbial ball of sex had started rolling a long time ago for all his guests.
What he saw from one side of the two-way mirrors was merely the outward manifestations of the various twisted and hidden desires boiling in each of them. No doubt another pair of eyes would have seen in Cavan, when he returned to his bedroom, a sight just as shockingly private, as erotically curious.
Cavan couldn't sleep. He kept seeing the images again in his mind-particularly the vivid memories of Miss Ellen Duff inserting that lewdly large dildo up her spacious cunt, and fucking it like some strumpet from the pits of hell.
It brought his prick into an insatiable hardness again. And there he was, lying alone in his bedroom with his cock sticking straight up into the air-and nothing to screw.
Nobody to even suck it.
He felt like the unhappiest of men, and drifted finally off into a comfortless sleep.
But what Cavan Kirk had seen, or thought he saw, was not reality, but the ghost of reality. The grotesqueries of his own imagination, each fashioned and conditioned by his own mind.
The truth was quite another matter.
Take Joe Matson, for example.
What Cavan had seen was a disappointment to him. A short, beefy man with a five o'clock shadow, a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, lying on his bed calmly reading a sports magazine. A happily married man, removed from the throbbing nightmares of an over-stimulated libido, yes?
Nothing could have been further from the truth!
At the very moment Cavan was glancing in disinterest at the pudgy victim of middle-class values, Joe Matson's brain was whirring with very perverse desires indeed.
The article which had seemed to fall open in his hands was an interesting account of hunting the Grizzly Bear in Wyoming. It had all the details of the hunt: the establishment of the main camp with a good view of the surrounding territory, the steady search through binoculars along the sunny slopes and mountain meadows where the Ursus Horribilis-the horrible bear-might be feeding on rockchucks and mice, while the hunter stalked up-wind, getting the monster in his sights for the kill.
It was the kill that sent a pulsing surge of pleasure through Joe Matson's loins, making his small penis grow hard as a stone.
He could even sense the .300 Winchester Magnum nestled in the crook of his shoulder. He could also feel the mulish kick of the powerful weapon against his arm, and see the bone and flesh breaking in the bear's arrogant head. The eyes blinded with blood. The snout twisted in the agony of sudden, murderous death.
It was that kind of power that moved the otherwise easygoing, placid nature of Joe Matson to a sexual ecstasy that was more delicious than anything he had ever known.
Well, he had known it once-only once. The experience had sobered and frightened him to the point that he had pushed it as far back into his unconscious mind as he could.
It had happened when he was in the Navy, back during the Korean War. His ship had pulled into Yokohama, and he and his buddies had a weekend pass. They all wanted tail, of course, and singly and in pairs they had struck off in search of it. Because he wanted some souvenirs to send to his mother, Joe had lingered a bit too long in some of the shops, and when he came out he found that his buddies had disappeared.
He would have to find some Japanese ass on his own.
He parleyed with a taxi driver who drove him to a little house west of Nogeyama Park. He was met at the door by a small, pretty girl with slanted eyes and a toothy grin, an incisor capped in silver.
She bowed and scraped and invited him to take off his shoes and enter the house.
Joe was no virgin. He'd had plenty of sex-with American girls. But he was about to enter a new dimension in the relationship between male and female. Always before, he had been the one angling for sex, the one who had to be careful of the girl's feelings-even with whores-and he was not psychologically prepared for the sudden subservience which the Oriental girl bestowed on him.
She did everything but lick his goddamn shoes!
She undressed him, offered him tea, gave him a quick, soothing massage with her nimble fingertips, then took off her kimono and joined him naked on the straw mat.
The thought had run through Joe's brain that here was a creature completely willing to be his slave, sexually. All the things he had only dreamed about making a woman do to him were now a real possibility-his one chance to clean out the dark closets of his lusts.
"Start on my feet," he said huskily.
The girl glanced at him, her dark eyes limpid in the circle of her face.
"Feet," he rasped, grinning at her. "Lick 'em!"
A whore is a whore, and no doubt the Japanese girl had met crazy Americans before. She crawled on her hands and knees to the end of the mat and lowered her pointing tongue down to Joe's naked feet.
She licked one big toe.
He was leaning up on his elbows, watching her. For some strange, insane reason Joe Matson suddenly thought of his mother-tried to imagine her in that perverted, dethroned position.
It gave him a sharp pleasure, so he leaned back, closed his eyes, and brought the scandalous image into sharper focus in his imagination.
The longer the girl licked and sucked his toes, the wilder his bliss grew. His prick stood up between his legs like a slug of iron.
Joe had always hated his mother with her Bible-quoting platitudes, her apple pie, her cunt closed like a vault, her desire to smother and starve him like a loveless lover!
The willing young whore used her mouth on his body from his toes to his ears.
He kept his eyes shut the entire time, not wanting to lose the deliciously wicked image, the hypnotic belief that it was his goddamned Mom whose tongue was licking and kissing him so wantonly. Why the thought had come into his mind, and on what wings of the devil it had settled into his imagination, he hadn't the vaguest idea.
And he didn't care. He wasn't smart enough to care.
All he knew was that it gave him joy to imagine his strict, saintly, God-fearing Maw getting on her hands and knees, with naked butt and cunt raised behind her, and using her mouth like a slut. And he could see her clearly-the graying hair, the pale blue eyes, the shape of her prim nose, the flabby sag of her tits, the curling tuft of her cunt hair.
"Eat me!" he husked between clenched teeth and grinning lips. "Eat me dry, mumsie!"
He gasped as the girl's warm mouth closed over the head of his cock and sank down to his nuts.
The hallucination was complete! He could hold the demented picture in his mind for only a few rapturous moments, seeing his mother's cheeks bloated with the hardness of his cock, her tongue roiling hungrily and her lips puckering to suck him harder-then he spasmed.
It was only when his pleasure faded that the image fled, and he opened his eyes with shame.
He began to sob, like a child.
The girl was mystified, but not overly concerned. No doubt she had seen greater displays of Puritanical sickness from American sailors and GI's. She merely waited, knowing that once the husky young sailor's tears had abated, he would probably be ready to solidly fuck her.
But she hadn't reckoned with the odd enlightenment which had come over one Joe Matson.
Not only did he shrink in horror from the hideous thing he had just enjoyed vicariously, he felt impelled to be punished for it.
He had the girl beat his naked buttocks with a belt.
The whore did as she was told, thwacking his gradually blistering ass until she brought blood. Joe exulted in the pain, the retribution he felt for even thinking of his mother in sexual terms.
Now, lying on the bed in Cavan Kirk's house, the memory of that strange night in Japan came back to haunt Joe. Or to stimulate him. He thought, vaguely, that there might be some connection between that experience and the story he had just read about hunting grizzly bears.
He was damned if he knew what.
He finished his cigar, put out the light, and tried to go to sleep.
But he had a hard-on.
He was annoyed that it wouldn't go away, and wished fervently that his wife Betsy was there to do something about it ... Mom, as he and the kids called her ... good old Betsy ... Mom ... there to get his rocks off in the acceptable, middle-class way....
Or take the pretty, young Florence Evans.
Cavan saw her charms, all right. He saw all of them-the fullness of her pert, nineteen-year-old breasts bobbing as she danced animatedly in front of the mirror. He saw her lithe and naked body, the soft dark puff of hair covering her cunt, the rounded perfection of her pink-and-gold buttocks.
He even wanted to fuck her, but restrained the impulse.
It was, however, that very virtue which Florence herself had never learned.
Restraint was not in her vocabulary; it had been absent since her thirteenth year.
That was the year she lost her maidenhead. Not to one boy, but to four. All in one mad, lascivious afternoon in the upstairs bedroom of the home of one of the boys' parents.
Even as Cavan had stood in his secret passageway, watching what he considered the simple vivacity of a young girl enamored of her own beauty, Florence had been lusting after a hard prick.
Any hard prick.
In fact, she had been casting about in her mind since the second she arrived for the most likely male to screw her. And Cavan Kirk would have done just fine, thank you. She was too careful-had learned to be-to move too fast. But from the screaming itch of her pussy, she was wishing that she had at least given one of the males a smile. A wink. A suggestive lift of one eyebrow!
It wasn't that Florence didn't get enough sex She got it any time she wanted it, which was all the time. But occasionally she got herself into a situation where, for the given moment, she was utterly prickless.
It wasn't an easy thing to live with.
Undulating her naked body in front of the mirror, she thought yearningly back to that day six years ago when she first awakened to the glory of the male cock. The day had started innocently enough. She and Peggy Foster planned to spend the morning working on their horse notebooks. It made Florence smile even now to remember her total infatuation with the horse as horse. An interesting bit of Freudian symbolism that some headshrinker could have picked up in a flash and embellished to its final truth.
But at the age of thirteen, she had responded only to the strength and beauty of stallions, not to the overt overtones of the sexuality they represented.
Not so, however, with Peg Foster.
Peg was in possession of vast experience of the male anatomy. Thanks to Tim Foster, her sixteen-year-old brother.
Tim was that rare kind of boy who is born with lust blazing in his blood, and who has no more concern for where he gets it satisfied than a howling wolf cares where he gets a hunk of raw meat. Because of that careless bent, Tim had been playing with his sister's charms since she was eleven, and fucking her regularly since she was twelve.
On that fateful day, Tim had already decided to branch out. And he had coerced his own sister into deliberately setting up the trap. He thought it would be a grand lark to get his experienced tool into the untried crack of his little sister's best friend. It would be a gamble. The whole thing could go very wrong. But, like an animal on the clear scent of a prey, he instinctively felt that Flo Evans would be as susceptible to seduction as any other cunt, once it was sufficiently flattered-or sufficiently fingered.
When Florence arrived, she and Peg went dutifully to work on their scrapbooks. Peg's parents were gone for the day, and that bit of luck made the atmosphere easier to live in, gave it a kind of broad tone of liberty.
Into that liberty came Tim Foster, in jeans so tight that his manly prod was out-lined right to the pores.
He made sure that Flo saw his maleness by standing close to her, looking over her shoulder to admire the many pictures of horses she had collected over the months. He made comments, suggestions, criticisms. He let his arm brush over hers, his knee move slowly against her thigh, his breath lift the soft hair at her brow.
And then he played the ace he had carefully arranged with his sister.
"Hey, Sis, how's about running down to the drugstore and picking up a pint of ice cream."
"No," Peg snapped, according to plan.
"C'mon. I'll give you a quarter tip, and you can ride my bicycle."
Peg looked intrigued, also according to plan.
"Do you mind, Flo?" Peg asked, a little breathlessly.
"No, of course not."
"See," Tim Foster grinned.
In nothing flat, the impossible had been accomplished. Peg was out of the way, Tim was alone with the object of his sexual lust-Flo was about the ripest fig on the tree. Indeed, the seemingly casual touches and flirtations of Tim had already stirred something pagan and utterly romantic in her breasts. Vaguely, she thought he might go as far as to try to kiss her. And the thought of Peg's older brother, at the ripe old age of sixteen, actually being interested in her made her tremble like a leaf.
The moment Peg was out of sight, Tim moved in with all the assurance of the teen-age Casanova he was.
He kissed Flo right on the mouth.
It was a novel and pleasurable sensation for her. She had thought that the least he would venture would be a peck on her cheek, or a fumbling attempt to hold hands with her.
But kissing her full and hard on the mouth!
It flustered her!
"Let's go upstairs," Tim whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "We can kiss until Peg gets back-we wouldn't want her to catch us doing it down here."
What he said made sense.
Together, they went upstairs to a bedroom. Flo felt the wickedness burning inside her like a torch. She felt marvelously mature, grown up.
Tim shut the door and clicked the lock.
"Will we be able to hear Peg?" she asked, doubtfully.
He grinned. "Sure. I've got ears like a tiger."
He gathered her into his arms and began to kiss her with all the passion a horny adolescent male can muster-which is considerable. His tongue fought its way into her mouth and she found herself sucking on it to keep pace. It was her fatal error.
The minute she allowed him such intimacy, he made no bones abut desiring even more. His hand slid up under her dress and shot past the barrier of her panties with an expertise which would have shocked the most accomplished gigolo.
His finger was stuck deep into her cunt before she could take a second breath.
She struggled instinctively, but her struggles only drove his finger higher and deeper into her awakening slit. He wriggled and moved it, driving her into a sudden whirlwind of pleasure.
"Let's fuck, honey," he rasped, licking her lips with the sharp hardness of his tongue. "Let's have fun before she gets back."
"You-you won't tell!" she managed.
"Not if you won't."
"I won't."
He had her on the bed in a shameless number of seconds, her panties pulled all the way off, her virginal pussy throbbing like the gills of a fish thrown up on a hot beach.
Then she saw, for the first time, what Tim Foster had between his legs.
It looked huge to her!
"Lay back and throw your leg over my hip," he husked.
She did as she was told, and immediately felt something large and hard nudge between the burning lips of her cunt.
She couldn't escape. He had her pinned down, and one of his hands was playing with her naked buttocks. In fact, one finger was running up and down the crack of her ass.
The hardness grew harder and wider and suddenly she felt him entering her.
She threw back her head and gasped.
"Yeah, baby," he grinned. "Beg for it!"
His horny prick rode into the defenseless tunnel of her pussy and stretched the virginal walls wide. The pain blinded her, shooting sparks and flares against her eyelids. She felt as if a giant stopper had suddenly been shoved between her legs. She struggled again, in vain.
He was fucking her, moving his hips in a bucking movement so that his fiercely hard prick fed deeper and hotter into her crack with each shove.
Tears of pain turned abruptly to tears of bliss.
The more he fucked, the better it began to feel. Before it was over she was screwing with more gusto than he. She began to come with a rapid gathering of small pleasures until they exploded in one big fist of rapture.
She moaned and gurgled and clung to him as he continued fucking her through her orgasm.
After that, he could have humped her for a week and she would have merely soared with delight.
She forgot about her friend, Peg.
She forgot about everything except the kind of salacious joy he was giving her. Even when Peg returned, she didn't want to quit. On Tim's instruction, Peg dutifully made two phone calls, and three more of Tim's pals came over to join the party.
Flo was only distantly aware that Peg was also getting fucked. She concentrated only on the size and hardness of the endless young pricks that sank into that insatiable hole between her legs.
She let them all screw her.
At the end of the afternoon, she once more found herself with her favorite, Tim. They were naked together, and she was showing him how much she loved him by sucking his stubbornly hard cock with her mouth while he licked her raw pussy dry.
But it wasn't love.
It was lust, pure and simple.
The same lust that now circled on red-velvet wings through her body as she danced before the mirror of Cavan Kirk's guest bedroom.
Or consider the unique case of Oscar Turner, attorney-at-law.
Tall lean Oscar, with his horn rims and intellectual air. Oscar with the crewcut and his careful, sensible approach to things.
Would it surprise you to learn that Oscar is nothing less than a rapist?
Rape.
Not a pretty word, except to those who are caught in the maelstrom of its drive. And to them it can be blinding in beauty as the naked sun, wondrous as a handful of glittering sunbursts. It can be, to put it frankly, the only thing in life worthwhile. And even while the victims of the rape-urge fight against it with all the moral fiber of their being, it can still lurk over their shoulders, leering and grinning and beckoning with the most enticing of promises.
What Cavan saw in the tall figure pacing up and down his bedroom, pipe clutched judiciously between his teeth, was not what he thought he saw at all.
Oscar was neither lost in thought nor bored.
He was fighting back the raging impulse which had come up on him only moments before. Granted, it was an impulse which had been dormant for a long time-well, since the last time-but it was one he had succeeded in keeping in the background of his life, much the way one keeps a dreaded skeleton in a closet.
With his precise and wondering mind, Oscar had often tried to fathom the nature of his obsession. He even went to a psychiatrist once, but lost his nerve when the man turned out to be his own age. He couldn't bring himself to admit that he har bored such dark drives. The headshrinker was acute enough to know that Oscar wasn't telling him the truth about his problems, but he didn't press the matter. The psychiatrist seemed to believe that he would see Oscar again some time, some place.
Oscar couldn't dredge from his unconscious the genesis of his problem. Had he seen his own mother raped, and forgotten it? Had he been raped himself by a maiden aunt, and blotted the terrible experience out of his conscious mind? Had he witnessed the rape of a stranger?
He didn't know.
All he knew was that, in the fourth year of his marriage to the most wonderful woman in the world, he himself committed rape-on the fourteen-year-old sister of his own wife!
Cindy was her name, and she was the most enticing, prettiest, friendliest young lady one could imagine. She and Oscar had met only a few times, whenever Oscar and his wife, Joan, got back to Chicago for one or two visits a year. Oscar had never thought much about Cindy, one way or another, except in that vaguely sexual, admiring way that any normal male thinks when he sees the healthy pubescence of a fast-maturing girl. Besides, Cindy had only been ten years old when he and Joan married.
But when she came to visit them that summer in up-state New York, she was a tempting fourteen.
He and Joan had met Cindy at the airport, driven back to their house in the hills or Larchmont, and quickly squared the girl away in the guest bedroom. From the very first, Oscar had been delighted by the appearance of his wife's sister. He wanted to please her. He wanted the girl to like him. But cer tainly, he always told himself later, sex was the farthest thing from his mind.
Or at least his conscious mind.
But in the dark, festering wellsprings of his unconscious libido, he had already put his hoof prints on her virgin skin, already touched her body in its most secret places, and already He hated to think about it.
But even now, pacing up and down the spacious guest room of his host, Cavan Kirk, Oscar couldn't help but think about that night in Larchmont, three days after Cindy's arrival.
As fate will often have it, Joan had to be gone that third evening-one of her damned charity committee meetings or something. And that left Oscar and Cindy alone in the house. But fate wasn't through playing its nasty little game.
An hour or so after Joan left, one of those violent and sudden rainstorms came up that seemed to empty the vast reservoirs of heaven. Rain came down in a flood for the better part of the next two hours.
Cindy and Oscar enjoyed it. They made candy and popcorn in the kitchen. They watched television. They talked and chatted and laughed. They were even laughing heartily, Oscar remembered, when the phone rang sharply in the hallway.
It was Joan, saying she wouldn't be home at all. That the bridge on Highway 18 had washed out, backing up traffic for miles. She'd stay the night with Mrs. Eldridge, she said, and see them sometime tomorrow. And was Cindy all right?
"She's fine," Oscar assured his wife. "Don't worry, we'll manage things on this end."
Oscar could remember the singular elation he felt when he put the receiver down. It was as if some door had been opened for him, some silly barrier to his own pleasure suddenly stripped away.
When he told Cindy what had happened, the girl seemed concerned only for a few minutes, then shrugged the storm off with a grin. They both went back to watching TV and eating popcorn.
At ten o'clock Cindy yawned, excused herself, kissed Oscar lightly on the cheek, and went upstairs to take her bath before going to bed.
Oscar continued sitting in front of the TV, munching the popcorn. But his mind kept wandering from the bland images moving on the screen. He didn't see them, didn't hear them. His mind was on something else entirely.
His mind was on Cindy-how she must look naked.
He tried to shrug off the dark urge which came like a hot whisper into his mind. But he couldn't. And finally, like a thief in the night, he crept up the stairs and down the hall to the bathroom. He could see the strip of light under the door, hear the watery, muffled sounds of a body sloshing softly around in the tub.
His heart was pounding on his rib cage like a drum beat as he knelt in the dark hallway and put his eye to the bathroom keyhole.
He saw her.
She was just getting out of the tub, her body wet and shiny from the sudsy water. She crawled over the rim of the tub with her back to him, lifting one leg then the other so that although he got a delicious view of her soft, firm young buttocks-all naked and pink-he got only the most fleeting glimpse of the tuft of hair covering her cute young pussy.
She stood with her back to him, drying herself off with the towel. Then she turned ... It was reward enough.
He saw everything she had. The breathtaking V-line of her crotch, with the wet, matted brown hair making a little doughnut of fleece around the muffin of her cunt. And her tits-startlingly large for her age, with the puffed rosettes riding like dark coins at the ends of the peaks, then the identical little round cherries of her nipples poking out for emphasis.
Oscar had never been so lustfully excited in his life!
His cock throbbed like a stallion's in his crotch. He wanted to fuck her, come hell and high water! He had to fuck her!
Some unnatural instinct murdered the small voices of conscience and morality piping up at the back of his mind. He hid in the shadows of the hallway until Cindy came out of the bath, her robe tied around that luscious young body of hers, all clean and scented from her ablutions.
He waited until she was inside her bedroom, then he sprang out of the shadows, unzipping his pants as he ran.
He caught her just at the foot of the bed. His hands held her shoulders like a vise and whirled her around.
"Uncle Oscar!" she gulped.
It was the last intelligible phrase she got out.
In a matter of seconds he had ripped the robe from her body and forced her down on the bed. She screamed and kicked and yelped-and her strug gles only increased his lust. He theorized later that if she had been docile, had only grinned and assured him that she'd been fucked before dozens of times and that she had been hoping he'd do this to her, he would have lost all interest.
But her absurdly frightened struggles only poured more hot blood into his already gorged prick, making it hard as a stone obelisk.
His strength also amazed him. He held her arms pinned down on the bed with one hand, and with the other he got her kicking legs apart until her untouched young cunt was yawning like an open pouch.
Then he rammed his fiendishly stiff cock deep into her virginal crack.
She screamed like a nanny goat as the blunt head of his cock tore away her hymen and dragged it deep into her inexperienced pussy. On the very first thrust he buried the length of his manly dick into her until his hot balls were resting on the puff of hair circling her stretched young cunt.
Then he began to fuck her. Ruthless, savage see-sawings of his hips as he drove his hard-on deeper and deeper into the meaty warmth of her. Pleasure burned through him like a torch. The more she groaned and sobbed, the better he liked it.
He must have fucked her like that for fifteen or twenty minutes before she settled down into a kind of blurred coma of defeat, her legs spraddled wide, her violated young cunt responding slowly to the endless strokes of the big prick which filled it.
After a few moments of this transitional stage, she was feeling as much pleasure as he. He could feel her heated pussy begin to throb, to constrict as he pumped it, milked it.
She didn't struggle now, didn't move. Made no sound at all. He felt her juices running, flowing.
In the half-darkness of the bedroom, he put his mouth down and searched out one of her nipples. It was hard as a thimble. He began to suck it, using his tongue to roil it and tease the nipple even harder.
She moaned, lifted her buttocks hard against his thrusting cock-and spasmed.
A few moments later, she came again. Then again.
Her hardy young cunt was dripping inside with joy juice as he continued to fuck her.
In a few moments he grunted and made one final thrust, sending an endless gush of his sperm deep into the girl's hot hole. She moaned again, rotated her hips and allowed her pussy to have one more juicy explosion while his prick was still hard enough to pleasure her.
It was at that precise and unfortunate moment, that the bedroom light snapped on, and Oscar's wife appeared out of nowhere.
It seemed the bridge hadn't been washed out, after all.
Only damaged.
The way the girl was damaged.
The way Oscar's whole marriage was damaged.
The divorce was quick and violent. He never saw Cindy again, and didn't care to. He knew that once he had gotten her cherry, shown her the pleasure of being raped, she wouldn't be fit to have again.
What is it, Oscar wondered now, pacing Cavan Kirk's guest bedroom, his pipe clenched desperately between his teeth, that makes a man like me desire to rape virgins'!
It was a good question.
He only wished he had an answer.
Or a virgin....
Ten
As it happened-but without Oscar Turner's knowledge-there was a virgin about the place. The stripper, Sandra Carlson. Impossible?
Not at all. To think so would be in total disagreement with Cavan Kirk's friend, and inventor of this charade, Oran Teague.
People are not always what they seem.
It couldn't have been truer of any soul on earth than it was of Sandra. Even Oran would have been surprised to find that a twenty-five-year old, voluptuous, dark-haired young lady like Sandra, who made her living by displaying her naked body nightly in the Silver Slipper Lounge, was virginal as the mountain snows.
She'd simply never been fucked.
She had come close once, but Providence-and the fact that her mother was a light sleeper, even when drunk-had saved her.
Lying now on her guest-room bed, stripped to her panties and bra, reading a sentimental novel and eating one bon-bon after another, Sandra's mind was wandering back to that brightest of dark hours. It was the night one of her mother's clients decided she should be filled with the facts of life.
No doubt the sentimental novel was stirring her memory, like a finger in a pot of honey. Or shit, depending on your viewpoint.
Sandra had few warm and touching memories of her mother, and yet her mother's deathbed wish had served as the directional guide of Sandra's life. This, however, came long after the night one of her mother's male clients attempted to spread his charm to Sandra's teen-aged body.
About Sandra's mother?
A whore.
An alcoholic whore, at that.
The kind who very dangerously and foolishly mixes business with pleasure. Her business was getting screwed for money, her pleasure was drinking while screwing-and thus, after four or five clients, she was screwed and stewed. More than one client got more than his money's worth simply because Sandra's mom was so gloriously drunk that she didn't give a damn.
It was one of those nights that Sandra almost lost her maidenhead.
It wasn't that Sandra was ignorant of sex. More than once she had peeked through curtains and keyholes and window shades to watch her mother take on a male customer. Her reaction to seeing her rather well-preserved mother sprawled naked on a bed, with her plump legs thrown open to reveal a large, hairy cunt to whatever client was on hand, ranged the gamut of emotions. Sometimes she was amazed to see what her mother was capable of taking in the way of male genitalia.
More than once Sandra had seen men with pricks ten, twelve inches long ram them in up to their nuts in her mother's accommodating slit.
Far from complaining about the size, Sandra's mom seemed to prefer them. The bigger and longer, the better.
Especially when she was roaring drunk.
One of their mother's clients in particular was hell on a pussy. His name was Jocko-at least that's what Sandra's mom called him-and he was the proud possessor of the biggest prick in the city. Sandra happened to be peeking through a crack in the bedroom door the night her mother proved to her own satisfaction that Jocko did indeed have the longest one in captivity. The acid test was when her mother, with a drunken, happy giggle, began to lay silver dollars rim to rim on the length of Jocko's erected penis. From root to tip-head it took seven silver dollars! And as for the circumference of that mighty tool, Sandra's mother couldn't touch her middle finger to her thumb when she put her fist around it.
And Jocko could fuck like a heavenly Trojan.
His only eccentricity was that he preferred a hairless cunt-one shaved bald as an egg. It was certainly nothing more than ego-involvement with Jocko, his vain desire to see how much the vulva had to expand to take the entirety of his monstrous rod. To that end, he would take an extra long time just getting it into a hair-free pussy, inching it bit-by-bit as the lips of the cunt curled back wider and wider until it seemed gorged to capacity. Then, with a lewd grin, Jocko would feed the remainder of his prick into the twat with one savage thrust of his powerful hips, and the cunt would stretch another inch wider.
Sandra's mom always had a violent orgasm right off, then one after another like popping firecrackers when Jocko really got down to humping.
Many nights Sandra had stood at the crack in the door until her legs were numb, just watching what endurance Jocko had. He seemed capable of fucking for hours on end, keeping up that steady rhythm until his buttocks were glistening with sweat, and Sandra's mom was moaning like a Banchee full of LSD.
But it was the night Jocko came after her that she remembered best. Or worst.
She had stood at the crack in the bedroom door watching Jocko doing his act with her mother, then finally had yawned and wandered back to her own bedroom, slipped into her pink pajamas, and into bed.
She was twelve years old at the time.
She went right to sleep, and might have slept through the whole thing if she had been drunk, like her mother. But she wasn't and sometimes during the middle of the night she woke up with a start.
The room was dark, but moonlight was flooding in through the window and she could see very clearly that the covers on her bed had been thrown back, and that her pajama bottoms were off. Not only that, but Jocko was sitting on the side of the bed with both hands on her knees!
"Don't make no noise," Jocko whispered, grinning. "I ain't gonna hurt you."
"Where's my mother!?"
"Good and fucked, kid-and drunk as a lord. Now you just stay real still, and I'll see to it that you get a dollar, after-"
"You get away from me or I'll scream!"
He grinned, his eyes glinting sensuously in the moonlight. "You scream, and I'll stomp your mama's head in like a goddam pumpkin. You remember that. And don't get worried. I ain't gonna put my dick between your legs. Hell, you'd split apart like a rotten tomato. All I aim to do is lick on your pussy a little. Fun for both of us."
"No!"
But she was too late. She saw Jocko's tongue roll out of his mouth like a wet carpet, pointed into a big arrow of desire. He dipped his head between her legs and, and at the same time, pushed her legs wider apart with his hands.
She felt his big tongue lap against the tender, hairless slit of her cunt. She shuddered, half with fear and half with pleasure, as he continued to lick her in that most sacred, secret place.
Her pussy began to itch and burn. The more he teased it with the flat of his tongue, the more it burned and itched! And when he put the dull point of his tongue between the lips of her virginal breach, she gasped until he took it out again.
"Feels good, don't it?" he husked, grinning up at her in the moonlight. "You got the nicest little puss around, baby. Smells good and tastes good!"
Then he went back to lapping it with his hungry tongue.
In a few more minutes, Sandra was moaning with the bliss of what he was doing. She wondered if Jocko ever did this to her mother. She'd never seen him do it, but if the other stuff he did was even half this nice "Jocko!" she whispered, frantically.
He stopped licking for a moment. "Huh?"
"Do to me what you did to Mother tonight."
"Fuck you, you mean?"
"Yes."
She heard him laughing huskily. "Baby, you couldn't take the head of my dick, much less-"
"I'll bet I could. Let me see how big it is!"
"Well, I'll be damned," Jocko breathed. Then he stood up and unbuttoned his fly. His cock was already hard as stone from the excitement of licking fresh young cunt. He had a time even getting his hardened prick out of his pants, but when he did, it flopped out like a long, oversized baloney. He took a couple of steps until the huge cock was easily within reach of her.
She put the fingers of both her hands around it-or tried to. She felt all along the length of it, and it throbbed excitedly for her.
"Kiss it," he whispered, roughly. "Lick on it, baby!"
She decided it was the least she could do, since he had been doing the same thing to her.
She bent her lips to the giant head of his prod, and stuck out her tongue until it touched the warm, hard meat.
She licked him wetly, keeping both hands around the column of meat as she did so.
"I like it," Jocko gasped. "Eat it-eat it all night!"
"Not unless you promise to fuck me," she bargained.
"It's a deal," he wheezed.
She sucked and licked as best she could for the next five minutes or so, until it seemed to her that his cock was even longer, harder.
"Now!" she insisted.
And she spread her legs exactly the way she'd seen her mother do.
Jocko crawled on the bed and positioned himself between her legs.
He put the huge cap of his stiff cock against the untried lips of her tender young cunt. Then he put both hands between her legs and spread her pussy a bit wider with the tips of his fingers. The head oozed bluntly just inside.
It was as far as Jocko ever got.
Sandra's mother hit him over the head with a big black skillet, knocking him cold as a snowman.
Jocko never came back for fear of being shot.
The traumatic experience was enough to make Sandra a confirmed virgin. Never again did she even look at another man. And when her mother died of cirrhosis of the liver, Sandra was inconsolable.
On her deathbed, Sandra's mom made Sandra promise that she'd fulfill her old ambition of being a Burlesque Queen with a respectable trade, instead of a drunken whore.
Sandra promised, sobbing just like a heroine out of a sentimental novel.
And that was what she had done-what she was even now, lying hollow and unfulfilled on Cavan Kirk's guestroom bed, eating bon-bons as if they were pricks.
But knowing they weren't.
And that a novel is not like real life at all.
Suffer the case of another female down the hall. Our prim and proper schoolteacher, Miss Duff. Ellen Duff, the masturbator. Shocked?
But one mustn't be too hasty to condemn those who practice the ancient art of self-abuse. As St.
Augustine himself once rationalized, even the scorpion is put upon the earth for some good end. If Ellen Duff made a habit of ramming large wooden dildos up her substantial cunt, she had a reason for it. She was merely leading a life of phantasy.
She was, to put it pointedly, fucking her own father, the Colonel.
Her father had long since departed this world and was resting in Arlington with his hands folded peacefully over his Army uniform. Alone in the dark now with his braid and medals and clipped white mustache. His head half a skull.
But in Miss Ellen's mind he was as alive as ever.
And nothing gave her greater pleasure than to close her eyes and pretend that at long last her voracious cunt was getting its fill of that saintly bastard's big prick.
A treat her father had denied her all his life.
To unravel such a complicated morass of emotions and frustrations, one would have to go back through the years to Ellen's thirteenth birthday. That was the day she experienced the first fruits of sensual pleasure from a male. And little wonder. She was as pretty as a picture with her long black hair tied back with a blue ribbon, her starched white dress and her honey-gold legs.
Her father was, at that time, in command of a small Army post in the South. He was a strict disciplinarian, even when it came to his daughter. He never allowed her to fraternize with the young sons of the other officers, except on very formal occasions. Like a birthday party.
The party was on a Sunday afternoon, and Ellen had looked forward to it for weeks. Her head danced constantly with visions of pretty paper hats, presents, ice cream and cake and guests. The guests were of particular importance to her. She had not yet been driven into the shell of herself. That would come later, born of frustration over the ultimate rejection of her own father. The rejection, as we shall soon see, took a very curious form.
The afternoon of the party, however, Ellen was still innocent of the darker byways of sensuality. She was a virgin from toenails to scalp, and she moved among her young peers like some little fairy princess.
As it always happens, however, there was a dark villain among the lot. A young black knight who knew exactly what he wanted out of life, even at the age of fourteen: he wanted pussy, and he had already had a remarkable amount of it.
His name was Skip Lewis, and he was the son of a major in Ordnance.
Ellen was vaguely, girlishly drawn to Skip from the very first. He was taller than the other boys, with a thick mass of dark blond hair falling over his clear brow. His eyes were as blue as a summer sky, and his grin was quick and easy around his white, even teeth. A regular little roue. A libertine of the adolescent set. Had his record been made known to everybody assembled at the party, he would have been taken out in chains and propped in front of a headshrinker post haste. As it was, not even his father suspected the breadth and width of the young scamp's sexual exploits.
Skip had got his first piece of tail at the age of twelve, but had not really blossomed out until his decisive thirteenth year. That memorable collection of months had seen him grow from an excited, curious little satyr to something of an accomplished stud. Half of it was due to his sexual precocity, and the other half was due to the extraordinary size of his cock. Even at fourteen, he was hung like a grown man, with balls the size of ripe pears.
While the rest of the boys and girls were playing games like pin-the-donkey and post-office, he was sizing up the available cunt.
He zeroed in immediately on Ellen.
She was the prize piece in her fluffy white dress and dark hair. Just the kind of unplowed pussy a guy could really get hot over, given half the chance.
As luck would have it, Skip was given more than a half-chance when the party games turned to hide-and-seek. Instead of keeping his eyes closed, according to the rules, he squinted and saw exactly where Ellen dashed to. He took off after her with a vengeance.
Since Ellen knew her own house better than anybody else, she knew the best hiding place. She scampered upstairs to a small door leading to the attic.
Skip followed.
He went through the small door, and locked it behind him. In a few seconds he found Ellen gaily hiding behind a big trunk at one end of the attic. She was bending over with her cute little rump exposed in a pair of pink panties.
Without fanfare, without apology, Skip put his palmed hand on the crack of her pantied buttocks and tickled her crotch with his middle finger.
Ellen whirled up and around, her face flushed like the pink lemonade being served downstairs.
"Skip Lewis!" she gasped.
He grinned.
She could think of nothing else to say to him.
She could only stare. But the touch of his hand was still burning the flesh under her panties-and it was not an altogether unpleasant smarting.
"Let me give you a real birthday present," Skip said, in a low, husky voice. As he made the proposition, he rubbed the bulge in the front of his pants.
She had no real idea of what he meant.
"You've already given me a present," she stammered, remembering the green and gold leather diary with its little silver key.
"I know-but now I want to give you something to write about in your diary."
She stared as he whisked down the zipper of his fly and pulled out the hard pole of meat.
She'd never seen a prick before, and the size of it amazed her, dazzled her.
She gulped. "What do you want to do with that?" she managed.
"Put it between your legs," he grinned.
She knew, with a scattered sense of dread and curiosity, exactly what he meant. She felt the moist, virginal lips of her young cunt begin to grow hot and soft.
"It's ... too big," she wheezed.
"The bigger the better," he philosophized, taking the necessary steps to reach her. "Feel it. It won't bite you."
She felt with both hands. The big thing was hard and warm in her hands, and as her fingers squeezed and toyed with it, Skip Lewis grinned roguishly. His arm disappeared under her dress and touched her panties. His fingers invaded the elastic and found her cunt with expert swiftness.
When one of his fingers scratched along the trench of her pubis, she gasped and felt a million little ripples rush through her. "It tickles!" she blurted.
"So will this," Skip husked, and promptly drive his middle finger into her pussy up to his second knuckle.
She almost fainted with bliss, and fell back on a pile of old clothes behind the trunk.
Skip came down with her, wriggling his finger deep in her heating quim faster and faster. She groaned and closed her legs tight around his hand, but that only made the pleasure sharper and wilder.
He fingered' her cunt until she relaxed and sprawled her legs wide open. With his other hand he got her dress up around her waist and her panties all the way off her ankles.
Then he crawled over her and substituted his throbbing young cock for his finger. When he went into her, he had to hold his hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming.
"Relax, baby," he whispered. "When I get it all the way in, you'll purr like a kitten. I'll fuck you until you've got goose pimples!"
And he did.
For the next five minutes, while the other members of the birthday party tramped in and out of rooms upstairs and downstairs, he screwed Ellen's helplessly hot cunt until her tongue was sticking out with joy. He made her come over and over until her own love juice was flooding down her legs and into the crack of her buttocks.
Then he gave a grunt and spasmed deep inside her, shooting his boiling spunk into her, one jet after another.
He pulled his big wet prick out of her slit as she moaned with after-pleasure. For the final treat, he lowered his head down between her arched and throbbing thighs and licked her satisfied pussy several times, like a dog lapping at mush.
Then he zipped up, waited until she had put her panties back on and straightened her dress, and they went downstairs together.
"I found her," Skip announced, lightly, and grinned.
"Was it hard?" Anabelle Perkins trilled, innocently.
Skip gave Ellen a quick wink. "Hard enough," he said.
The trouble with Skip, Ellen soon found out, was that he lived by that boyish motto: find, fuck, and forget. He never touched her again. In fact, at the very next birthday party, she watched with blinding jealousy as Skip maneuvered Patty Hendricks upstairs in her parents' house. They were gone for what seemed hours, and when Patty came back down her cheeks were flushed with pleasure, and Skip had the contented look of a tomcat on his handsome young face.
It was then that Ellen began to wonder where she might find another of those things boys had between their legs.
Her father was the only male always available, so she cunningly elected him to be her comfort.
She spied on the Colonel every second until she finally got a glimpse of him naked. She was both delighted and excited to note that the thing between his legs was not only bigger than Skip's but much, much longer. By simple sexual arithmetic, Ellen concluded that Skip's dictum "the bigger the better" had to be correct.
The conviction naturally pointed to only one possible conclusion: she had to get her father to fuck her.
The outcome of that debauched little plan is best left to the reader's imagination. Not only was the good Colonel shocked speechless when Ellen proposed such an incestuous union, he promptly took decisive action.
He had her locked up in a convent.
She might have stayed there forever, a saint of hatred, if Providence hadn't liberated her by dispatching her father with a swift hand in his forty-sixth year. He was blown to smithereens while reviewing an artillery exercise. One of the fifty-pound shells unaccountably exploded as he was tapping it with his swagger stick.
Ellen was taken out of the convent by her Aunt Sally, and put into a private girls' school. It was at this worldly institution that Ellen learned the art of masturbating. The girls used anything they could get their hands on: hair brushes, tubes of shampoo, large bananas and cucumbers-and even fingers and tongues of their friends.
Most of the girls, it is to be assumed, outgrew the childish habit. Not Ellen.
Instead, she dreamed of bigger and better dildoes. Her reasons were simple. Not only could she manipulate the fat, hard, long imitation pricks any way she chose, she could do it any time she chose, and for as long as she chose.
And the dildoes never got soft.
The only elaboration she added to the delightful ritual was the fact that she always thought of her father as she jacked off-or in, to be accurate.
It amused her to imagine that, at long last, she was getting exactly what she had wanted.
Fucked by her hateful daddy.
And, as Cavan Kirk had plainly seen for himself, she carried her daddies with her everywhere she went.
The last of the guests-John Palmer-was perhaps the most hung-up of all.
This, despite the fact that he gave to everybody the unfailing impression that he was the pinnacle product of the AU-American boy. The fresh-scrubbed look, the Boy Scout smile, the intelligent glint in his eyes. The fact that he was in the last years as a medical student.
Who could possibly have fathomed the truth of this husky, friendly, black-haired young man!
Not even Cavan Kirk, who saw a paragon of youthful maleness lying naked on his guest bed, a pornographic book in his hands and the oversized proof of his masculinity standing up hard and eager between his legs-not even Cavan could guess that John Palmer was happily suffering from that most savage of all libidinal malfunctions: satyriasis.
Yes, an insatiable venereal appetite in the male.
Johnny Palmer had never in his life been able to get enough fucking. Nor had he been able to look at enough pornography, or cool the fire in his blood, blunt the horns on his head, hide the hooves of his feet.
His mind was one wide, yawning cunt. Beside the imagination of Johnny Palmer, the erotic thoughts of Cavan Kirk were like pastoral psalms intoned in Latin. But despite this capacity for sex, to the outside world Johnny Palmer presented the undisturbed picture of an ambitious, brainy, quiet young fellow.
No one in his immediate family-with the notable exception of his Aunt Helen-had the slightest inkling of the lascivious thoughts which tumbled hourly, like naked whores, through the cerebrum of such an exemplary youth.
Aunt Helen had good reason to know-and even better reason to keep her mouth shut about it.
From her viewpoint, her nephew's voracious appetite had come as something as a shock, to put it mildly. Not that she had been raped, or anything like that. Hardly. If anything, she had been the determined catalyst to bring Johnny into the full flowering of his profligate talents.
It all happened one weekend when Johnny was hitchhiking through Georgia. He was only eighteen at the time, and since his family was close-knit, he had decided that the only proper thing to do would be to drop by and say a friendly hello to his old Aunt Helen.
Not that Helen Gregshire was old, either.
She was thirty-eight.
But when you are eighteen, anybody above thirty is simply over the hill.
But family is family, and at dusk one Friday night he knocked on the door of his spinster aunt and waited with knapsack on his shoulder for the pattering of her footsteps.
When she opened the door, he grinned and she threw back her hands like a Colored mammy in an old Southern melodrama.
"Why, Johnny! It is you!"
"Hi, Aunt Helen. I was just passing through, and-"
And the result was that she insisted he stay overnight. She fed him all the food in the icebox, made him take a hot shower, fluffed the pillows on the downstairs bedroom, then brought out a bottle of sherry.
They gossiped and chatted until the wee hours of the morning. During one of those wee hours, his Aunt Helen broke out something stronger than the insipid sherry. In the back of the cabinet she found a bottle of whiskey. It was, she airily insisted, something she had bought a year or so ago for medicinal purposes.
It was cheap, vile-tasting whisky, but they drank it down as they continued to banter the family names around, dredging their minds of every scrap of chit-chat possible. .
Both of them, at the end, had the same thing on their minds.
The difference was that Johnny had always had sex on the brain, hanging above it like some huge stalactite ready to drop. His Aunt Helen, however, had arrived at her sensual desires by degrees through the long night. The sherry and whiskey had helped prod her dormant passions, but more than that was the sheer physical presence of her handsome young nephew.
She simply couldn't get over how good-looking he really was!
A sad thought kept leaping through her mind with the energy of a gazelle. If only he wasn't her nephew, but merely a gentleman caller!
Technically, Helen Gregshire wasn't a virgin. She had been "possessed" once by a Mr. Harold Ettinger from Memphis, Tennessee. He had been an employee of the railroad and she had met him at a band concert in the park. A real gentleman, he was. He bought her dinner on subsequent weekends, took her walking in the park, squired her to the movies, and sent her flowers.
And then one night he knocked out his pipe and asked her if she would go to bed with him.
It hadn't been much fun. Mr. Ettinger didn't really seem to know what he was doing. Or, if he did, he had very little expertise in the area. He grunted and puffed above her while he jabbed what turned out be a very small penis in and out of her bored vulva.
The only proud memory she carried of that experience was the fact that she had lost her virginity. For weeks she had gone about feeling like Delilah or Messalina. Terribly wicked.
But she dropped Mr. Ettinger and he disappeared at last up the tracks like some phantom conductor on a train bound for oblivion.
Now, darling Johnny was sitting in the exact same spot Harold Ettinger had occupied the night he asked her to go to bed. The coincidence did things to her thirty-eight-year-old imagination which were not only scandalous but incestuous.
Nevertheless, her cheeks glowed with warmth, and she felt a moistness at her thighs every time she glanced into the handsome young face of her nephew.
She couldn't help but wonder if he was better endowed than Mr. Ettinger.
He certainly couldn't be less endowed, she reasoned.
For his part, Johnny was very ready to fuck her.
He had been from the moment she asked him to stay the night. The wildest pornographic possibilities sailed through his skull like scarlet bats. In his knapsack at that very moment he had a half-dozen dirty cartoon booklets he had picked up in his travels. All of them featured well-known newspaper cartoon figures-Popeye, Alley Oop, Dick Tracy, Superman, etc. Each booklet contained nothing but graphic drawings of the familiar folks participating in every sexual act imaginable: Popeye fucked Olive Oil, Alley Oop screwed a wampus cat, Dick Tracy sucked off Junior, and Superman ate Lois Lane's cunt in a phone booth. Just the most casual perusal of such smut was enough to give Johnny an instant hard-on.
As he sat on the sofa, swallowing the last of his aunt's whiskey, he was conjuring still another possibility for a cartoon booklet. Why not something featuring him and his Aunt Helen? He saw himself in a simple line drawing with his cock sticking out like a lamp post while his Aunt Helen-naked and aroused-pulled her hairy cunt open and invited him to fuck her silly.
The thought made his cock stiffen in his pants.
He considered crossing his legs, but the whiskey had made him reckless. Hell, let the old girl see my prod!
Helen not only saw it, she stared greedily at it.
He had Harold Ettinger beat by a country mile!
Just how the whole amorous bout got started neither of them was ever able to specifically recall.
It might have been when his Aunt Helen settled on the sofa beside him and put her hand on his roaring hard-on.
Or it could have been when he settled on the arm of her chair and cupped one of her unspectacular tits and gave the nipple a playful squeeze.
Anyway, before one could make a hoe-cake flip they were upstairs in her four-poster, naked as jays, and fucking like the world would blow up at sunrise.
Johnny was pleasantly surprised to find that his Aunt Helen wasn't the old crone he had imagined. Her thighs were plump and flared, her tits were small but pointed and firm with nipples that grew three times their normal size as he chewed them. As for her cunt, it was hairy as a mop, tight as a drum, and hot as an oven.
She squealed and sobbed while his big dick rammed in, but once he had her plugged, she swung her legs up over his firm buttocks and purred like a panther.
They fucked for two hours.
Before he finished, her pussy was like a slop-jar running over with his nectar and the salty broth of her violent orgasms. He went to sleep with his cock still wedged between the flaring lips of her satisfied cunt, and woke up with it still in place-hard as iron again.
They fucked in the sunlight, rolling on the bed, making the springs shriek and moan. He made her come until she fainted. When she opened her eyes again, he was lying beside her in a sixty-nine position. He'd found a feather in one of her hats, and he was tickling her weary cunt with it. The delicious torment made her horny all over again, and she fed her itch by putting both hands around the base of his stiff young prick and sucking it with shameless, pulling strokes of her mouth and tongue.
They played that game until both of them were too hot to handle. They spasmed together as he substituted his mouth for the feather, suctioning her juice out and lapping deep into the meaty folds of her cunt with his strong tongue. She paid him the same compliment by tickling his balls with her fingers while he shot heavy gluts of sperm against her tonsils.
All that Saturday, they played erotic games.
His aunt locked the doors, pulled down the shades, and they romped like naked savages through every conceivable variation of lust.
They fucked in the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway, the living room, the pantry, the closets.
They read the cartoon booklets and acted them out.
They pretended to be dogs, horses, pigs, and rabbits.
When Sunday came, she was too exhausted to do any more than open her thighs while her legs hung over the side of the sofa.
He fucked her three more times in that position, then found his knapsack and left.
Lying naked now in Cavan Kirk's guest room bed, Johnny Palmer was reminded of that adventure with his Aunt Helen. The more he read of A Night in a Moorish Harem, the more he thought about how his aunt would look in one of those gossimer pantaloons, her hairy cunt showing through, and little bells tied to the ends of her distended nipples.
Then he traded faces on the belly-dancer he had conjured. He put Sandra Carlson's face on the wanton spook, then Ellen Duff's, then Florence Evans'.
It was the blonde, nineteen-year-old face and body of Flo Evans which triggered his most bestial rut.
With a grin, he began to jack-off his rigid cock.
He wondered what his chances were of getting Miss Evans off in a corner for an uninterrupted fuck.
But he knew he'd have to be careful. He'd hate for Cavan Kirk to think he was interested in nothing but sex.
Eleven
"And so," Oran Teague said, settling into his chair on Cavan's expansive terrace and frowning balefully at the open-face grapefruit in front of him "what happened last night?"
"Nothing."
Oran glanced at the impassive face of his host, and read the disappointment there.
"Nothing?" Oran echoed. "But surely you saw something. I mean, with the advantage you had to being able to run up and down your secret hallway and peer into every bedroom, I thought you would certainly be able to top what I saw."
Cavan's nose twitched slightly, like an animal picking up an odd scent.
"You saw something, Oran?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I did. Quite by accident, but-"
"You saw one of our guests doing something?"
"No, nothing like that. It was Dexter I saw."
Cavan looked momentarily bemused. A small frown ripped across his brow. "Dexter? You mean my servant boy?"
"Of course. He's the only Dexter about, isn't he? Yes, I saw Dexter entertaining that colored girl you yourself were pleasuring only a week or so ago."
Cavan snapped to attention. "But I sent that girl back with her brothers-"
"Apparently she returned on her own. Or on the invitation of Dexter himself. At any rate, they were together last night in your mirrored game room. The same place you had her."
Cavan stared at him, his cheeks flushing suddenly with initiation. "What did they do?"
Oran smiled and sliced his spoon deftly into the soft surface of the grapefruit. "It would be simpler, my friend, if you had asked me what they didn't do. I watched them for the better part of an hour, and when I finally trundled off to bed they were still-"
"Dammit, what was that little fart doing behind my back?"
"Fucking her."
"What else!"
"He ate her and she ate him."
"What else!"
"He sodomized her-several times. The lad has a really extraordinarily large and long penis. It stayed hard as a rod of basalt the entire-"
"And that heathen Congo slut! I'll bet she loved it!"
Oran smiled. "I'm a fairly good judge of human nature, Cavan, and I'd say that black child had never experienced more delicious orgasms in her whole life-present company excepted, of course."
"Don't try to soothe this thing over, Oran! I'm very irritated. Very upset."
"Why? Because I saw it and you didn't?"
"Of course not! Simply because I don't allow my servants to treat my property so-so cavalierly."
"Really, Cavan. All the boy did was get himself a piece of coon tail. It isn't as if-"
"How the devil did you happen to see it?"
"Very accidentally, as I told you. After I left you last night, I was on my way to bed. I remembered that I had left some cigarettes in that viewing room, so I just stepped in to get them. That's when I noticed that somebody was putting on a show in the room with mirrors. When I saw it was the same black girl, all nice and naked for your good-looking Turk-"
"He's Moorish!"
"Very well, your Moorish servant boy. I thought I might as well settle myself into one of those easy chairs and watch them a while."
"And you watched for a bloody hour."
"On the edge of my seat; they behaved like animals. Like creatures that ought to be in a zoo. Ribald behavior at its best."
"Describe it."
"Really, Cavan, I-"
"I want to know what the little bastard did. I intend to have a word with him."
Oran sighed, and put his spoon down beside the uneaten breakfast. "Well, as I said, both of them were quite naked. You know how dark the girl is-like carbon, black as the ace-of-spades except for those mauve-colored nipples of hers, and that glint of pink that shows when she spreads her cunt apart. And as for Dexter, he's much lighter. A dusky, caramel brown. Very smooth skin, no hair to speak of at all on his body except for a small tuft of thick black wire above the root of his cock-"
"And you said his cock was big?"
"I'd have thought you might have had some occasion to note that for yourself in the past, Cavan. Haven't you ever seen the boy naked before?"
"Of course not. Why should I?"
"I only meant that with your penchant for theatricals-for the dramatic in art and life-I thought you might have prevailed upon the youth to, say, fuck his sister in your presence."
Cavan paled. "Who told you Dexter had a sister?" he rasped, painfully.
"Why, you did, Cavan. Don't you remember? You said you bought the both of them at an auction in Marrakesh."
"Yes, yes, yes-I recall now. All right, go on."
Oran sighed, and drew his thoughts together again. "Well, as I told you, the boy was unordinately well hung. A monstrously large and long prick hung between his legs-something quite out-of-proportion to his body size. It looked like somebody had performed a mockery of a transplant on him by putting the cock of an African satyr on a boy of sixteen-"
"The little devil is eighteen, almost nineteen."
Oran nodded, then shrugged. "It's difficult to tell with the Middle Eastern type. At any rate, he certainly knew what to do with his talented topi after she got it hard for him. In fact, he-"
"Wait, wait! How did she get it hard for him?"
"She licked it and kissed it all over. Then when it began to rise up, she sucked it with all her might."
"The black tart!"
"She was quite good at it. I didn't dream that she'd be able to get even a third of it into her throat, but the ambitious little cocotte took over half of his oversized rod and moved her choked mouth up and down on it until tears were running down her cheeks."
"And what was he doing?"
"Smelling her asshole, as far as I could tell. He didn't seem to be kissing or licking it. I think he was merely moving his nose up and down the deep crack between her buttocks, as if sniffing for some hidden perfume, some subtle mystery of the female in heat."
"There's no mystery to the female in heat! He was smelling for shit, the debauched little ape!"
"Be that as it may, he soon substituted his finger for his nose, and while she continued to suck on his quite thoroughly stiffened prick, he worked his index finger into her asshole right up to the second knuckle and wriggled it."
Cavan closed his eyes as if to blot out the spectacle. Yet it was obvious he could see the black whore of a girl on her hands and knees, turned so that her buttocks were in easy access of Dexter's inquisitive hands. He could see the boy's finger prodding deep into her buns while she chewed and sucked continuously on his huge and horny cock.
Oran cleared his throat diplomatically, and waited for Cavan to open his eyes so that he could continue. But Cavan didn't open his eyes.
Oran waited a very long time.
"Cavan?"
"Yes."
"Shall I go on? Shall I tell you the innumerable ways Dexter found to stimulate his black playmate once she had his boyish cock in full erection?"
"No, I don't want to hear it."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite."
Oran waited another long moment, staring with bemusement at the blanched face of his host, at the tightly closed eyes, at the trembling lips and chin.
"Cavan, I do believe you're jealous of that boy's sexual vigor."
Slowly, Cavan opened his eyes and looked into the smoky distance beyond the terrace.
"If I ever find out that he is screwing the women I have already pleasured-and doing it behind my back-I shall kill him."
Oran said nothing more. And it was just as well.
The air was suddenly like ice.
Almost in impatient retaliation to his feeling of having been duped-or sexually double-crossed by his boy-servant, Dexter-Cavan ordered the dosage of Spanish Fly doubled in his guest's fare the following night. The development both alarmed and amused Oran. It amused him, for example, to see the sedate Miss Duff, her school-teacherish lips pursed over every lifted forkful of food, masticate the aphrodisiacal mush as innocently as a baby taking pablum.
It alarmed Oran, however-who liked to think of himself as a man with a handful of tattered morals still to his credit-to see the young, clean-cut John Palmer filling his mouth with heaps of the erotic building stuff, to say nothing of the misgivings produced in him by the dainty imbibings of the blonde, nineteen, beautiful Florence Evans.
To add to his confused feelings, he had to admit that the phantasies at work in his mind were intriguing-the thought of the husky Palmer directing his ruttish needs directly toward such a perfect model of femininity as Flo Evans.
In fact, he knew that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see the two of them naked in each other's arms and given over to the kind of abandoned fucking that only the very young can enjoy.
Even in his impotence, Oran felt some vague and wistful yearnings-ambitious as a ram's-to emulate their ability. But he knew that this was mere wishful thinking. He could lap up a pound of the undiluted Fly and feel nothing more in his genital area than the shadow of a twitch.
It never gave Oran joy to speculate on his unfortunate condition. When he thought of himself in metaphorical terms at all, he dipped back into his scholarly taste for erotica to the ancient work De Figuris Veneris, imagining himself to be one of those little children trained by the infamous Emperor Tiberius Nero to satisfy his most jaded of passions. That scoundrel of sensuality used to have a dozen hand-picked children, some mere infants, bathe with him in his marble and onyx tub. The children were too young to attain erections, but they knew well the function required of them. They suffered the task of stimulating Tiberius by nibbling on his shrimp-sized penis with their tongues and lips until he was titillated into a violent, selfish orgasm-until, in fact, his teaspoon of yellow sperm floated in the water like so much flotsam. It was a curious kind of phantasy, Oran knew, and certainly not one worthy a man of his intellect and refinement and taste. And yet what was he, he wondered, if not one of those unphallic infants, incapable of doing anything but nibbling on the real pleasures of others?
He hated his impotency with the suicidal rage of a wild beast caught in a cage.
The only consolation Oran could draw from his condition, if consolation is not too harsh a word, was the fact that each and every soul he had ever met was also bearing some heavy cross of frustration.
Take Cavan, for example.
No satyr in the annals of Classical Erotology was more superbly endowed to perform the act of sex than Cavan Kirk. Oran had, in the course of knowing his friend Cavan over the years, been a frequent witness not only to the size, length, hardness, and girth of Cavan's cock, but he had seen him use it with a kind of endless and stubborn mockery of human limitation. From the jungles of Borneo to the swankiest penthouse apartments in the largest cities in the world, Cavan had parted the willing, boiling lips of countless cunts-young and oldand given them all the delicious taste of paradise that comes with being literally fucked into a state of blissful hysteria.
No slit on the face of the earth could fail to respond with drooling spasms of love juice to the constant pumping of such a manly prick.
And yet again, was Cavan happy?
Obviously not.
Like Nero himself, Cavan Kirk was seeking the newer, lusher, darker byways of self-satisfaction. Self-abuse, really. Like some smutty-brained little boy who hides himself away in the family closet and masturbates in frustration.
This whole tableau-this feasting of strangers on food designed to bring to the surface their most licentious, secretive desires-was nothing but an elaborate masturbation of the brain of one man.
Or two, to be fair.
After all, Oran knew that this collecting of guinea-pig strangers was his scheme as well as Cavan's.
And the thought was not without a certain amount of painful guilt for him.
Creating a monster or two may not be easy, but it is far easier than dealing with the monster once it is created.
And this Saturday night of the weekend would have to prove the plausibility of the imaginative plan. Otherwise, Oran's usefulness to the powerful and whimsical Cavan Kirk might come to some kind of vengeful end. And he didn't want that. He had his biography yet to write. He had a whole world of observations yet to make on Cavan before he could hope to bring his magnum opus into being.
And so it was that he sat at the baronial table the evening of the mighty cantharic dose, and watched the unsuspecting guests fill their guts with enough of the lust-drug to make them all mad as fucking hatters.
Cavan Kirk had no intention of being disappointed in his sideshow. Promptly after the boring rituals of sociability were over in the great living room of Zenana and the guests had scattered to their rooms, he was excited as a boy who has just been promised a glimpse of his sister's cunt, something in the nature of an initial experience.
"I certainly won't be disappointed this time," he laughed. "And I insist you come with me, Oran. You've been something of a prig all through this evening, anyway. I saw you glowering and picking at your food. If I'd thought further about it, I'd have had your fodder dosed with Spanish Fly, too."
Oran smiled. "And did you taste a little yourself, my friend?"
"No. I'm never tempted by such artificialities.
Anyway, I told you once about seeing the effects of a real dose of some Devil's spit on a hapless young peasant girl in the hold of an Italian freighter. How she got there, or whose idea it was to administer the blister beetle mixture to her in the first place was never quite clear. And while the final effects were somewhat unfortunate-the girl died in less than twelve hours-I think no female ever met her maker with a more satisfied cunt."
"The dosage, you say, was massive?"
"Brutally so. She didn't eat or drink anything, however. One of the sailors smeared the lips and interior of her pussy with the sex powder while two of his friends held her down with her legs spread apart like a velvet wishbone."
"And the effect?"
"In a matter of minutes the powder set up the most violent itching and burning inside her pretty little puss that a horny man could ever hope for. She simply had to be fucked. The sailors were in line halfway up the stairwell. No sooner had one screwed her deliriously demanding cunt, then another shoved a hard prick into her. She was fucked thirty or forty times, continuously. Her twat looked like a foaming porthole before it was over. Turned inside out, raw and red as liver, a Niagara of Neopolitan sperm."
"Disgusting."
Cavan gave his friend something of an arch look. "A curious word for you to use, Oran. Let's not forget that you are the Moliere of this little drama being enacted right now."
"I certainly didn't write murder into the program."
Cavan chuckled. "Nobody is going to die-but I fully expect the transports of pleasure to take several of our guests, if not all of them, to the portals of heaven. I'm equally sure the general rule will be that one good orgasm deserves another. Comelet's see what there is to be seen."
Oran obligingly followed his host to the hidden door, and entered the secret passageway that led inexorably along the line of bedrooms with their two-way mirrors that looked, as it were, into the sexual souls of the occupants.
They hit what can only be called pornographic pay dirt right off.
Joe Matson was entertaining Miss Duff in his room. Perhaps entertainment is too dainty a word to describe the preliminary activities which those two fire-filled guests were doing. Certainly, the middle-class wife of Joe Matson-prototype of the average American male-would have been shocked speechless and driven blindly into a divorce court if she could have witnessed what Oran and Cavan were privy to.
Joe Matson was getting fucked like a woman.
Cornholed, to put it into the vernacular that would have pleased Joe himself, or at least communicated the reality of the situation to him. And his ample, hairy anus, raised high as two large chunks of ham were being rammed by Miss Duff with nothing less than the largest of her overly large dildoes.
Cavan and Oran could only glance at one another in a kind of blind stupefaction before directing their enthusiastic stares once more through the two-way mirror. Not only were their eyes entertained, but their ears. Cavan had thoughtfully arranged the inclusion of a small, magnifying speaker to pick up the sounds in each bedroom-sounds that were directed like whispers to the secret corridor without the disadvantage of having any of the corridor sounds directed back.
"Mother!" Joe Matson was whining, his beefy, puffed face flushed as the color of a valentine.
No female in the annals of time had ever produced a more loathsome, hate-filled scowl than that which now creased the otherwise placid features of Miss Duff, the schoolteacher.
"I'm not your mother!" she hissed, the words dripping like venom as she plunged the thickness and length of the brutal dildo deeper into the yawning crack of such a willing asshole. "I'm your daughter-I told you that! I told you I was going to teach a dutiful father how it feels to want the very prick he always denied his own flesh and blood!"
Oran drew his breath in slowly, and let it out with a kind of stifled sigh which grew even more pronounced with Miss Duff's next stinging barb.
"You shit-eating, sanctimonious swine! How many times I've dreamed of taking this kind of revenge on you! There! Feel it! Feel every fucking inch of it bruising your damned bowels!"
"Good Christ," Oran muttered, sucking his lower lip under his chattering teeth. "The woman's mad!"
Cavan grinned, enjoying the spectacle in its bold entirety. "Mad with lust. I don't know what's driving our sedate schoolmarm to such heights of her Electra complex, but one thing is sure: her subconscious desires are finding glorious fruition."
"You may call it glorious," Oran snorted, "but I find it depraved to the point of nausea. And what about Joe Matson? What hidden and horrible urges could-"
"You heard his plaintive cry, didn't you?" Cavan interrupted, eyes bright with the sportive pleasure of it all. "He called her mother. The silly, fatuous bastard thinks he's being fucked by his own mother!"
"In the anus?"
"Merely a matter of doubling his pleasure. He wants to be punished for some reason, so he's invented this most perverted avenue to express his mania."
They watched, spellbound still, as Miss Duff continued the weird sexual ritual to its obvious conclusion.
She was, as she had been, positioned behind the naked and uplifted buttocks of the pudgy Joe Matson. She had her legs spread apart to give her hardy swings more leverage. With both hands firmly gripping the base of the oversized dildo, she was ramming it in and out of his stretched and bleeding bunghole with such violent thrusts that on every upward plunge his whole body vibrated and lunged forward like a lineman being tackled in a rough game of football.
It was obvious that the relentlessly savage club fuck was bringing him to the kind of orgasm one is lucky enough to experience only too infrequently in this dull life. The kind of mad sperm-letting that makes the stiffened penis seem to vomit with bliss.
"Ahhh!" Joe Matson groaned, his voice like fingernails grating against glass. "I'm coming-COMING!!"
Cavan and Oran watched as the white jets of semen blew thick and hot from between Joe's legs, wetting his overhanging belly, dripping down on the sheets like a dragon's snot.
Miss Duff drew the bloody, shit-smeared rod from the halves of Joe Matson's buttocks and thrust it into his hands.
In a flash she had lifted her dress and pulled down her panties. From behind the two-way mirror, her unseen guests got a blinding glimpse of her pussy-large, hairy, black.
"Now I want to be fucked, father!" she demanded. "And I don't want it done like some mincing faggot pretending to be a man. I want that bullprick in me until I scream. Until I come like some hellcat you littered into the world for the single purpose of dicking to death!"
They watched eagerly as Miss Duff threw herself back into a chair and hooked her legs over the side. It made her exposed cunt a very vunerable target indeed for the best the dildo had to offer.
Joe Matson, still puffing from the excess of his own vigorous climax, nevertheless assumed the position required of him. His hairy arms looked apelike holding the blunt instrument of cunt-torture-and his actions bore out the further resemblance of that jungle creature's lack of compassion and finesse.
He rammed the dildo so high up into Miss Duff's yawning cunt that she threw back her head in a mad rage of pain and joy.
He used it on her in a steady rhythm, pushing it deep and high, then rotating it until the stretched lips of her pussy seemed almost ready to split. But juice-lust and pleasure juice-already dripped from the engorged circle of her cunt. She was loving it. With her eyes closed and her teeth clenched around a witless leer, she was at last being fucked by the prick of her dreams-her own father's large and horse-like dong.
"I've seen enough," Oran breathed, turning away while Cavan continued to stare at the tasty sight of a prim old hypocrite getting her pussy skewered with unrestrained joy.
"All the bitch needs is a man," Cavan murmured, his voice a low husk of contempt. "But from the looks of the size of that cunt of hers, I think she'd have to be screwed around the clock to reach a fitting climax."
"Let's go," Oran insisted. "Surely the others can't be as depraved as these two. I had no idea the drug we put on their food-"
"No idea!?" Cavan laughed abruptly. "My dear fellow, it was your idea. You keep forgetting that. You persist in the hollow delusion that what you're seeing sprang from the mind of some incarnate fiend, rather than your own sensitive soul. It's all perfectly innocent fun, anyway. It's obvious Miss Duff has always wanted to be fucked by her own father-and it's equally obvious to anybody with a fair mind that our clownish Mister Matson would rather have his tongue up his mother's cunt than pick daisies in the meadows of heaven."
"All right," Oran nodded. "I'll admit my part in the charade. But I didn't dream such revelations-"
"Would smack so soundly of the human spirit? You've read only the bold type of man's behavior, Oran-and neglected the naughty footnotes. But let's do go on-I'm wild to see What the others are up to myself!"
Oran sighed, but trotted along like Leperollo behind an aroused Don Juan.
Twelve
They came next to Johnny Palmer's room, and found it empty.
Cavan grinned. "He's hunting something. Out of his lair like some lean young fox scouting for cunt ... and I can imagine whose."
"Can you?"
"Of course. Our blonde and beautiful Miss Evans. Flo, I think she prefers to be called. She has the body of a goddess. I told you about seeing her dance naked in front of her mirror last night. But that was when her blood was only faintly stirred with a little of my chef's Spanish Fly. She downed enough of it tonight to make her clitoris clang like a cowbell. Chances are she and that young buck are screwing themselves into hell this minute."
"Well, they certainly aren't doing it in his room. Perhaps in hers?"
"You sound anxious to find out."
"I've never denied being enamored of watching a healthy and well-behaved young man seduce a pretty girl. I've even written such scenes in my novels."
Cavan shrugged deprecatingly. "I've read some of those sex scenes you write. Your style is impeccable, Oran-but much too Victorian, bluenose. Lovers in your novels cohabit like ladies sipping tea. Much too politely. And, anyway, it's all done between the lines and between the chapters. You never get down to what you authors call concrete detail."
"I don't consider that a valid criticism. But, on the other hand, I've never pretended to be a champion of smut-"
"We're back to that vapid argument again, eh? Wait until you see what young Palmer is probably doing right now with that dong of his. I saw it, you know, while he was lying naked on his bed reading something much more racy than one of your stories of misty romance. His prick was up like a Greek column. I swear to God it would answer any virgin's dream."
"Or awaken in her a nightmare. If he's really got his mind set on Miss Evans-"
"Of course he has. She's the youngest and the most beautiful female about. Any stud worth the salt would want to get into her pants."
"Do you think she's a virgin?"
"That may depend on our timing. If we hurry to her room perhaps we'll witness the kind of transformation that makes a female respond to the poetry of a young man's prick."
They did, indeed, arrive just in time.
From the rectangle of the clever mirror-view, they were scarcely late arrivals to a visitation that had all the outward appearance of being truly Victorian in propriety.
John Palmer had just tapped on the door of Flo Evans and was being admitted with a smile that seemed charmingly surprised, exquisitely timid.
"You see," Oran whispered. "Perhaps a schoolgirl crush, but little more."
"Much more ... to come," Cavan chuckled. "I'd stake an orgasm of my own on it. That stud-buck has more on his mind than passing the time of day. He's been rehearsing the path to her glory for hours, I'll wager!"
"She does look so untouched," Oran sighed, almost forlornly. "Perhaps my desire to see a seduction was overzealous after all."
"You'll enjoy it, you saint, don't worry." They watched the slow opening of the act, as if they were critics witnessing the uneventful beginning of a bad Sardou drama-or something Jean Genet might have dashed off, then tossed into the wastebasket as being unworthy of his oestrus brain.
Flo Evans invited her young guest to sit down in a chair worlds away from the bed. She smiled prettily, and they began to talk, and Cavan impatiently twisted the knob on the hallway speaker to catch every syllable of the chat.
"-nothing odd at all about it," Flo Evans was saying, obviously in response to some small question from John Palmer. "But I did think the Salmon Fricassee had a bitter flavor. It could have been the watercress. I've never heard of putting sprigs of it over the toast garnish, anyway."
"I think it's a Canadian custom," John Palmer said, as earnestly as if they were discussing the advisability of using psyllium seed or agar-agar in the treatment of hemorrhoids.
"There's your lecherous conversation," Oran breathed, smiling. "See? Their minds couldn't be further from sex."
"Don't be idiotic. It was the watercress that contained the Fly. It's got to both of them. He's hot and so is she. They'll fuck in a wink!"
The conversation inside the room continued, being fluted out to the shamelessly prying ears of their unseen watchers.
"I hope it hasn't given you indigestion," John Palmer said politely, his handsome face a portrait of concern.
"Not that, exactly ... but an odd feeling. I'm lucky, I guess, that you're a medical student."
"Is the pain in the upper or lower region?"
"Now we're getting there!" Cavan whispered triumphantly.
"Lower-at the base of the spine, I think."
"The cunt, you vixen," Cavan husked. "Tell him your vulva is on fire!"
"Really, Cavan," Oran hissed. "You're not sitting in a prompter's box."
They listened further.
"Is it a sharp pain, a throbbing one?" the young would-be doctor inquired. "Or merely, let's say, an itch."
"Both."
"Both."
"Both?"
"I mean ... it's a throbbing itch."
"At the base of the spine? You're making medical history. Wait until I tell Professor Roberitz in my-"
Flo Evans suddenly threw her head forward and laughed. Her cheeks flushed scarlet as roses.
Her head snapped back into position, allowing her pert breasts to thrust outward.
"It's not at the base of my spine, and you know it. My cunt's on fire!"
Neither Oran nor Cavan dared to speak for fear of losing even the smallest scrap of dialogue which might follow.
Flo leveled her blazing eyes at John Palmer's slightly startled then grinning face, and took a husky breath. "What does the doctor prescribe for my condition?"
"An injection."
"Of what?"
"Sperm-the hotter and quicker, the better."
"And where on earth would I get a prescription filled at this time of-"
The naughty nonsense was never finished.
John Palmer had his prick out of his fly in an instant, and it rode upward with a thickness and length that brought a shudder of envy to Oran Teague's throat. To be impotent as he was, and to be taunted by the power and vigor of a young man's horny phallus-rock-hard and pussy-ready-was really the crudest of fate's endlessly cruel jokes on selected segments of humanity.
"I told you the rutty young bastard had a big one," Cavan laughed. "And look at the way she's worshipping it with her eyes!"
It was a valid observation.
From the instant the naked instrument had appeared out of the young stud's unzipped fly, the girl's eyes had not left it. She seemed to be tasting it, feeling it with the hot stares.
"Are you a virgin?" John Palmer said, stroking his prick into an even stiffer state.
"Of course she is!" Oran heard himself moaning.
But once again Flo Evans laughed. The shrillness of her voice had the texture of flint rocks struck together in the hands of a demon.
"Virgin!? I live to be fucked!" She crowed.
"That's nice, baby doll, because I want to fuck you all night. Just the two of us screwing our guts out!"
They were both taking off their clothes, like children wildly impatient for a naked dip in a swimming hole.
"I warn you," Flo snapped, "I've never been able to get enough-even big ones like yours. Oh, dear God, my cunt can't wait for it!"
She was quickly naked, her lithe young body thrust back on the bed and her legs spread with brazen need. , He got out of his shorts so that she could see his truly large, incredibly hard cock.
He came to the bed and crawled over her-but instead of putting that club of hot meat into her expiring slit, he moved up over her dog-fashion until the blunt head of it was nuzzling her half-parted lips.
"Suck it," he rasped. "Get me horny. A half-sucked prick is the best kind to fuck with!"
"My pussy!" she moaned, argumentatively.
"I'll take care of that. I know the female anatomy better than you think. Just suck me, and I'll tickle your clit while you do. You won't be sorry!"
Her mouth opened in a wide yawn and took the stiff offering of his cock. She began to suck hungrily, making greedy noises as her tongue and lips pleasured him.
True to his promise, he reached behind his own buttocks into the drooling cavern of her spread thighs and located her erect clitoris with his thumb and index finger. He began to massage it slowly and firmly, pulling it in a little upward stroke which made it harden even more into a blind thumb of lust.
"How idyllic," Cavan whispered, rubbing the front of his trousers in order to either keep down or bring up the furious buldge his own penis was making inside his pants.
"Idyllic?" Oran wheezed.
"Yes-nymph and satyr. They've found each other, Oran. You should be quite proud of your theory. I think it's working with the perfection of ... of a marvelous pattern of God's own cunning."
"Or the Devil's," Oran countered.
They watched for a few more entranced moments while the perverted scene continued. Flo was sucking the big cock deeper and deeper into her throat and moving her legs in a dreamy rhythm to the stimulation of her burning clit.
"They'll be at this forever," Cavan observed, at last. "We'll simply stop by off and on to see what new ways they've invented. A little form of bed check. We'll do it with military precision."
"You don't mean that you intend to spend the rest of the night on these ... vigils?"
"Of course I do. You heard the immoral young stallion, didn't you? He said he intended to fuck her all night. I wager he can-"
"No more wagers. I'm sick to death of-"
"Very well, we'll move on. But surely you have some faint interest in the repressed specialties of Oscar Turner, our scholarly lawyer-and the only one left for him to prosecute."
"The painted whore, you mean."
"Sandra Carlson, the stripper. She's an artist, dear Oran. No doubt one of the best burlesque attractions in the city. Perhaps even one of the last red-hot mamas."
"Hardly Mister Turner's type."
"Judging by appearances, I'd say you're right. But on this Walpurgis Night, appearances have gone rather by the board. Haven't they!"
"I wonder," Oran said, almost to himself, "where it will all end."
"In truth," Cavan laughed.
The fact that neither Oscar Turner's nor Sandra Carlson's room was occupied gave Cavan something of a disagreeable shock.
"Fucking in private-doing it outside the rules!" he yelped.
"Really, Cavan, you've become a little unstrung about this whole thing. Simply because you find their rooms empty is no reason to automatically assume-"
"Sex is in the air, you ass!" Cavan snapped, turning suddenly fiery eyes on his friend. "I'm not only patently annoyed with the way in which you have failed to respond to what you dreamed up as a delicious game, but the way in which you constantly "Then I beg your pardon to retire to my own room, and let you pursue this festivity as long as you want."
"I intend to-but I have no intention of letting you desert me yet."
"Of what possible use could I be to you?"
"It depends entirely on whether Oscar Turner and Sandra Carlson are together."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning precisely this. There's no doubt in my mind that of all the females-despite the nymphomaniacal desires we've just seen festering between the legs of that lovely girl back there getting her pussy tweaked so rapturously-that Sandra Carlson is the real sex prize of this collection."
"Because she's a stripper, you mean."
"That, plus the fact that she's built for the kind of endless fucking and eternal tit-sucking, pussy-fingering, butt-fondling partying that every lady of the burlesque line is. God, don't you think I've had enough experience with such Sapphic hellions! They take sex where they can get it. They'd as soon have their cunts licked by a bulldog as by an Adonis. They live to feel the juice glutting their holes. Man, boy, beast, woman. It's all the same to them!"
"In that case, how can you doubt that she isn't at this very moment satisfying herself with Mister Turner?"
"Because there's another she might rather occupy herself with."
"Another?"
"Dexter!"
Oran had to let his sexless lips curl back in a smile, which brought an even darker circle of irritation to Cavan's cheeks.
"You think it's funny that my own servant might be putting his heathen young dick into that cunt!?" Cavan demanded.
"I really don't see that it matters. Wasn't it the ancient Aloysia Gigaea who said 'Laetus festinusque accurrit'-sex with a young man is both 'blithe and joyous'?"
"To hell with your literary claptrap, goddamnit! I won't have a hireling of mine fucking a guest!"
Oran sighed. "What do you propose-a search party?"
"If necessary, yes!"
"Why not just put your young Moorish dog in chains. You might even lock his extraordinary penis in one of those medieval things they called chastity belts and carry the key around your neck like an Ankh."
Cavan's face looked both flustered and foolish for a moment. It was obvious that his hysteria had reflected back in his own mind as something unworthy of a man of his wide taste, wide experience. His control.
"It isn't that I object to the young scamp's promiscuity," Cavan blurted, "but since you told me about his clandestine adventures with the Negro girl I had hired for my own personal pleasures...."
"Boys will be boys. He saw an opportunity to fuck a newly awakened pussy, and grabbed it. Besides, I'm not at all sure what the preliminaries were. Perhaps the girl seduced him. Certainly what you and her horse-hung brothers did to her virginity would be enough to make her demonic for sex."
"You still don't get my point, Oran. You're being very obdurant about it, too."
"The point, then."
"The point is that the game was to be the matching-or even the mismatching-of our guests. We certainly don't need an outsider like Dexter spoiling the delicate balance of things simply because he's horny. Sandra Carlson and Oscar Turner-the saint and the sinner. Those are the two whose chemistry I'm most interested in seeing mixed."
"Very well. I agree. I do see your point. I even agree to help. Where do you think they are?"
"The garden."
Oran stared at him doubtfully. "What on earth have you that-"
"Something that Oscar Turner said at dinner. You were busy discussing with young Palmer the views of some Greek doctor."
"Yes, I was telling him that Galen's early views of man's anatomy held for thirteen centuries-despite the fact that the old fool believed the human breastbone was segmented like that of the ape, when actually-"
"Never mind. Never mind! I only meant to inform you that while you and Palmer were discussing Galen, Oscar Turner and I were chatting about an entirely different kind of Greek."
"Who?"
"The one who did the statues in my garden down by the pool."
"Praxiteles?"
"Of course."
"The nude males."
"The best copies this side of the Atlantic."
"I wasn't disputing the beauty of them-or the human and divine spirit emanating from them. In fact, the copy you have at the right of the pool, the one in dark bronze-"
"The Boy from Marathon."
"-Has a distinct resemblance to Dexter."
"Be that as it may, Oscar Turner expressed an interest in seeing them-by moonlight."
Oran's eyebrows rose slightly, like the small wings of moths. "Moonlight? Do you think that indicates-"
"It indicates nothing more to my mind at this moment than the fact that we have two empty rooms on our hands, and while we stand here gabbling about the supple languor of Praxiteles' style, Oscar Turner is quite likely milking Sandra Carlson's starved pussy under the light of the moon."
"Sex for art's sake?" Oran grinned.
"You don't see the subtlety at all! Not at all!"
"You yourself called them saint and sinner. That's not subtle, either."
"But imagine-Oscar Turner, the intellectual esthete, turning Sandra Carlson over and over in his mind as some undersexed Pygmalion creating his oversexed Galatea. What better inspiration for it than under the stars, and under the marble forms of perfect nudes."
"If he's all that esthetic, then he's holding her hands and reciting to her the collected odes of Horace."
"Yes, while her cunt is boiling to be fucked! I wouldn't miss it for all the gold coins of Philippi!"
Oran smiled. "The harlot and the scholar. Perhaps you're right-it might be better than anything ever seen in the Restoration Comedies of Congreve."
"Less art and more fucking, my friend. Let's sneak into the garden and see if the two of them are yet Greek and nude and knowing!"
Oran and Cavan were a shade late.
In fact, had they started their nocturnal exploration of the vast wooded area surrounding the magnificent pool south of the main house some forty-five minutes before their pseudo-literary, hopelessly philosophical conversation took place in the secret passageways of Zenana, they would still have been too late.
A rapist after his victim does not always depend upon the formality of the clock's tick.
Certainly not when the rapist is Oscar Turner, and his bloodstream is crammed to bursting with the damning effects of an aphrodisiac. Although during dinner Cavan Kirk had been highly perceptive of Oscar's interest in viewing the naked Greek statues by moonlight, he had been totally blind to the fact that the suave attorney's favorite food was-quite literally-watercress.
Oscar had wolfed down enough to scare the wits out of a whorehouse.
It was that burning, driving need to rape-to fuck in such ungentlemanly, unacceptable terms-which had caused his mind, quite early during that dinner, to cast around the table for the most likely partner for such a happy adventure.
As Oran and others had done before him, he rejected out of hand the possibility of violating Florence Evans. She reminded him a bit too much of his last unpleasant episodes, that of raping fourteen-year-old Cindy. He didn't want the mess of a yelping virgin on his hands, not in the shadow of such a respectable and powerful man as Cavan Kirk. Lord, he might never survive such a scandal. So, although his brain burned on the one hand with the satyr's need to put cloven hoof on the soft flank of an unwilling, unexpecting female and ream her cunt with savage force, the higher, still-functioning cerebrum of his legal mind told him to, for God's sake, choose his victim with care.
And what better victim than one whose pussy had been taught every lecherous variation and defilement in the book? Who, but Sandra Carlson!
He had watched her all through dinner, with eyes slitted and cunning, while she ate with her pinkie finger distended like a little erected cupid's cock.
A courtesan of the old school.
A woman who made her living by taking her clothes off in front of horny men to the beat of a drum.
And the mythic lore about strippers being willing to sell their flesh after the shows couldn't be entirely unfounded. This, however, was mere speculation on Oscar's part. He had never in his life been to a burlesque house. The self-image he had of himself simply didn't allow it. He wouldn't be comfortable among cigar-smoking, whiskey-breathed, obscenely panting men of the middle and lower classes.
And women denuding themselves in public was unquestionably one of the lowest forms of human endeavor.
Still this was no horseshoe-shaped arena they were dining in. It was the baronial mansion of Cavan Kirk, and they were eating off gold dinnerware, sipping priceless wines; seeing each other through the sensual glow of tall, spiced candles.
And certainly nobody was about to suggest to Sandra Carlson that she do a bump-and-grind and throw a black brassiere at her host.
But Oscar knew that crouched in the back of the mind of such a creature of lusts and footlights, SEX had to be lurking like some oily serpent ready to strike.
Just as it was coiling in him.
Sandra, then.
None other but the likeliest one of all paired to the unlikeliest one of all. The irony was exquisite, neat, and without loopholes. Like a well-worked brief he might take into court.
He'd drop by her room after dinner, ask her to take a stroll down to see the Greek statues in the moonlight, and then he'd rape her. And the only possible worry to pester his mind would be the distasteful fact that she might laugh at him. A woman like her who has known the hard and throbbing pricks of endless men-sailors, roustabouts, brutes-might find his steaming need somewhat anti-climactic. Boyish. Inept.
But at least it would be that most paradoxical of all gambits-a safe rape!
Therefore, long minutes before Cavan and Oran had started their initial smut-hunt along the arcane corridors of Zenana, Oscar had tapped on Sandra Carlson's door to invite her for a stroll toward coital bliss under the marble nudes.
For Sandra's part, the watercress had played one of those nightmares which is less indigestional than psychological. The stimulant had brought back a batch of childhood recollections that were as vivid-and as lewd-as any handful of postcards ever hawked by a Frenchman on the shoddiest boulevard of Paris.
She remembered her night with Jocko.
She remembered the sight of her mother stacking seven silver dollars in a row on his stoutly erected prick.
She remembered how he liked to put it into her mother's shaved cunt, quarter-inches at a time, until the lips of her hapless but happy pussy curled back in a huge full moon of joy.
But most of all she remembered Jocko coming into her room that night to suck her pussy while she licked and kissed his big thing and ultimately begged him to fuck her with it.
And the sound of the iron skillet bouncing off Jocko's poor head when her mother, her drunken mother, discovered the truth of the matter.
She remembered-but not with a gust of passion.
She remembered with the age-old fear and relief that she had been saved from such transgression-saved so that she could later put her damp fingers in her dying mother's hand and swear to never touch a man-to go on the stage and become the spangled star her whore of a mother had failed, in her endless weakness of real flesh, to become herself.
And now the watercress (she was both accurately and inaccurately attributing her slightly queazy feeling to that bit of fodder) was simply putting more foul and nasty thoughts in her head. So much so, that if she dared close her eyes she could see nothing but Jocko's jumbo dong-ready, willing and able to make her debauched.
One can only imagine her relief to find a gentleman like Oscar Turner tapping on her door and asking if she would care to join him for some evening air.
It was precisely that, she reasoned, that she needed to clear her head of such dissolute thoughts.
And a man like Oscar Turner-a man with degrees and things-a lawyer!-was as far from the kind of men who always whistled and stamped and hooted at her from beyond the footlights as a man could get.
He would certainly never slyly proposition her, or attempt by subtle, slow hints to seduce her.
Such tactics, she was sure, would never so much as enter his head!
Thirteen
While Cavan skirted the surrounding terrain, looking for all the world like one of Napoleon's Marshals viewing the empty defeat after Waterloo, Oran stood with one finger tapping his jaw in the moonlight while he stared up at the wonder of one of the nude marble copies of Praxiteles. It happened to be one of the master's best works-the Apollo Sauroktonos-a magnificent depictment of a beautiful young mature male standing in a pose of almost feminine coyness against a tree upon which a large phallic lizard is climbing upward. The boy was holding a dart with which he was apparently about to transfix the reptile. As so often is true of fourth-century Greek sculpture of the male form, the head of the young man was almost indistinguishable from that of a girl, and instead of the sexual muscularity of the body as seen in, say, Pheidian torsos, the contours of the body were exquisite, soft, sensualized to the point of shameless worship.
"Dammit, where the shit are they?"
It was Cavan's voice which brought Oran's thoughts abruptly away from musing on the Hellenic preoccupation with the dubious beauty of the male divine.
"They could be anywhere, couldn't they?" Oran sighed. "After all, this estate of yours rivals the size of the Deer Park of Louis XV."
"They can't have gone far. My instinct tells me that he'd fuck her by the pool-under the shadows of all those hard stone pricks."
"Perhaps the smallness of them discouraged him-or her?" Oran mused, then laughed softly at his own original observation. "Odd, isn't it, that the Greek sculptors, who seemed to venerate the male form in marble and bronze, never gave them cocks large enough to pleasure a week-old kitten. I wonder why."
Cavan glared at him. "Esthetics!"
"Wouldn't you be the last soul on earth to champion the view that a small cock is more beautiful than a large one? One, say, the size of your own?"
"Only for screwing."
"The Greeks did plenty of that Cavan. Read The Satyricon or The Carmina of Catullus. Petronius was the kind of sexual cynic who would have fucked his brother one night and his sister the next."
"The Greeks-"
Cavan broke off with an exasperated grunt. He had long ago learned not to parry words with Oran. And he had just as often observed-once in Oran's hearing-that his friend talked a better prose than he wrote.
"The Greeks," Oran continued, building the small motif into some kind of concerti with perversity of one who had grown used to compensating for his sexual impotence at least by making his words erect and vigorous, "were what George Bernard Shaw called 'privileged men.' Liberated fuckers, in your terms, Cavan. They never heard of Cal vinism. Never saw a witch burned for being pleasured by the Devil. They fornicated in the golden light of a time the like of which we shall never see again."
"The Greeks were all queers."
"You surprise me, Cavan. You bring to mind another aphorism of Madame DeGirardin: 'Love with men is not a sentiment, but an idea. The Greeks merely-' "
Oran's lofty observations were interrupted by the sudden overriding squeal of a woman's frightened voice. It echoed across the pool toward them like a thrust of flame.
"Her!" Cavan breathed. "Now we've got them!"
They both turned in time to see a dark figure-unquestionably that of Sandra Carlson-running pell-mell behind a gracefully reposing naked athlete by Praxiteles. She was followed in a flash by another form.
Dear Oscar.
"The bitch is playing hard-to-get," Cavan hooted, but softly. "Can you imagine it! Can you even comprehend the psychology of such a wanton mind! Fucked by legions of men with no more manners than goats-and for a refined type like Oscar Turner, she plays the virgin-of-the-woods!"
"I think she's possibly being assaulted," Oran said, quietly.
"Rot!"
"Perhaps we should see."
"I intend to-but not so that they will see us! We'll go around the East edge of the pool. They'll be there behind the statue-cock and cunt in glorious combat!"
They quick-stepped on silent feet, taking a route Cavan knew well. It led them right to the base of the statue-the sounds coming from behind that work of art were something less than harmonious.
It sounded very much as if a hand were firmly clasped over someone's mouth while a furious brushing together of bodies filled in the remainder of the sound effects.
"Fucking her, by God!" Cavan whispered, delightedly.
"Raping her, you mean. Plundering her."
In moonlit profile, Cavan's face seemed to light up like a separate lunar surface, as if rape were the icing on the cake of his erotomania.
Without so much as making a twig snap, both Cavan and Oran inched around the base of the statue so that they could view the exhibition in progress.
What they saw left little doubt of the ancient law of the attraction of opposites.
Oscar Turner was abusing Sandra Carlson with a savagery that should have made the statue above them tumble from its pedestal.
Even to Cavan's cynical eye, it was obvious that his guest from the Silver Slipper Lounge had never been violated by so much as a high school beau. Her pussy was quite viewable in the bright moonlight. Her dress had been wrenched upward across her navel and her panties torn to shreds below her knees. The cunt in question was small, tight, dry and the monster whose hands and knees held her imprisoned on the ground was trying with every stratagem known to the male from time immemorial to ingest that private trench with a cock entirely too large, too long, and too stiff for graceful entry.
Sandra Carlson moaned, screamed against the palmed hand that stoppered her mouth and fought with an impotence that rivaled-in an entirely different way-Oran's own.
She might as well have been a butterfly fending off a bull.
Oscar Turner thrust the bursting head of his cock into the constricted lips of his victim's sex, and with one, two, three brutal lunges of his hips drove the whole hellish hard-on so deep into her gulch that she fainted dead away.
At least the incident gave Oscar a moment's respite.
As Oran and Cavan watched-silent as the marble males of Praxiteles-Oscar breathed heavily, sweat glistening on his leering face like the swamp waters of hell.
Sandra's momentary unconsciousness gave him just the time he needed to rip his belt from his trousers and truss her hands behind her back. He did it with the expertise of a rodeo champion tying the legs of a helpless calf. Then he stuffed his handkerchief into her mouth like a ball of ticking.
She was at his mercy now.
Ready to be fucked, ready or not!
He waited until her eyelids fluttered wildly open, and then he began to move inside her, feeling out the length and width of her never-before-explored cunt. The size and hardness of his cock seemed to find a melodramatic resistance against the grainy, pulpy walls of her vagina that only made him madder to fuck her.
His hips moved in ragged, barbarous rhythms, driving his hard meat ever deeper into the hot cesspool of her pussy.
Her pain was even more dreadful than his pleasure.
Never had a maiden been so pillaged.
Cavan and Oran watched until their eyes were strained by the constantly moon-clouding light. Oscar Turner seemed bent on screwing his prize until his prick might bulge out the other side of her-until the head of his cock would pop up from the slit of her asshole like the triumphant head of a giant turnip.
Sandra thrashed and groaned until it was senseless to do it. Then, corpse-like, she lay quiet and let him fuck her like a docile mare that is lost at last to the stallion's drive.
When it was obvious that such heavy friction against the tunnel of her cunt was bringing her to orgasm. Oran glanced at Cavan, expecting to see the telltale grin that would signal his pleasure at the total success of the weekend romp.
He was surprised to see quite another development.
In fact, Cavan was not even watching the final flowering of pleasure taking place at the base of the Praxiletes.
He was instead looking upward at the statue itself.
It was as if he were seeing something for the first time in his entire life, something that had no voice, but spoke to him nevertheless.
In ancient Greek.
Fourteen
Why Oran allowed himself to be led-like a slave at the end of some odious tether-back through the corridors of Zenana he couldn't, for the life of him, imagine.
He was sick of his own invention.
It had worked out too well, if not too wisely. This canny product of his mind, watered and nourished by the insistence of Cavan Kirk, had flowered into a kind of neuter nightmare that left him cold, disinterested.
Why should he care that the house of his wealthy friend had been turned into a saturnalia of men and women who had found some leering opportunity to be themselves, to really be themselves with as much vigor and thanksgiving as their bodies could generate?
But he allowed himself to be drawn along.
He and Cavan left the two initiates of The Game-Oscar Turner and Sandra Carlson-fucking like pigs under the statue in the garden. Oscar's rape had turned into an animalistic ritual of seeing just how far he could go in violating the bleeding, frothing pussy of his victim. And he had gone quite far already. Sandra had become, in effect, her own mother. She had invited that shadowy phantom of a night, that might-have-been in her phantasy, into the reality of a night-that-was.
Jocko had come back to put, at last, that hellish, oversized peter into her demoiselle cunt. The pleasure of it was riding through her loins like horsemen bearing torches.
Her mother had simply been a goddamned liar.
A cheat.
The life of an honest burlesque queen, bumping and grinding only to retreat to the innocence of her virginal body was something her mother had rejected because it deserved rejection. Getting fucked by a man's long and wondrous dick was the show business of life-the applause of love.
Cavan and Oran left the couple to work out their own orgiastic destinies, and returned to the house.
"I want to see if our Mister Matson is still having that middle-class ass of his reamed by Miss Duff's father-imagery," Cavan explained, grinning.
But Oran noticed that Cavan's grin was less than a sign of mirth. There was a darker, deeper meaning to it-as if an epigram had suddenly been put under the microscope of self-introspection. Even self-enlightenment.
When they half-ran down the secret hallway to the mirror which gave a picture of Joe Matson's room, they found a sight too bizarre for even the imagination of a professional pornographer.
Ellen Duff was on the bed, her legs thrown so wide apart she looked deformed. Her ankles were tied to the posts of the bed, strapped to them with strips of sheeting until they were incapable of moving a jot.
Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Joe Matson, his naked, hairy buttocks in a squatting position was administering the last rites of the Devil's Pleasure to the happy schoolteacher's orifice.
He had the largest wooden dildo of her collection in his hands-something resembling a baseball bat-and he was shoving it in and out her gaping pussy with the strength of a lumberjack sawing wood.
On each outward thrust, the meaty, bruised lips of Miss Duff's cunt rolled back like rubbery petals of some exotic jungle plant. It was obvious that her slit had been frothing for some time, slobbering like the stuffed mouth of a sacrificial animal being gorged before the slaughter.
What was even more obvious was that she was in seventh-or possibly eighth-heaven. The sounds coming from her lungs were less than human. They were the gagging yaws of an animal riding the razor's edge of lust.
"He'll kill her with that damnable thing," Oran husked, terrified.
Cavan looked at his friend with a small hard stare. "A father kill his own daughter? You've let that Greek statuary make you into some kind of latter-day Euripides, Oran. The only tragedy we're witnessing here is the fact that the dildo is far too small to really satisfy her. Tomorrow, or the next day, our Miss Duff will be sitting in front of her kiddies, her voice calm as a kitten's, and more at peace with herself than she's been for years."
"You seem so sure of that."
But Cavan had not heard the response. He was already heading down the hall again, toward the room where they had left young Johnny Palmer toying with Flo Evans' clit while she sucked his huge and vigorous prick into a condition to satisfy her nymphomania.
They soon came to the room, the mirror.
There again, passion's dart had embedded itself in the hearts of the young participants. The initial proceedings had long since been transferred into an orgy of rutting lechery. The sight of those two young creatures fucking boldly, heatedly, brought to Oran's literary mind a phrase as old as the smut books that used to be read by candlelight in the 18th Century.
"In the very lists of love," Oran murmured.
Cavan was silent. He watched the sweating body of John Palmer-buttocks tight and thrusting, muscles standing out in his back, head bobbing with every downward plunge-and seemed to be seeing the shadow of something he had known in the past. The shadow of himself.
A man young and virile enough to think he could fuck forever and forever, like the long-ago night in the Hong Kong whorehouse.
As for Florence Evans, her beautiful young legs were twined around her lover's back like two hugging tendrils of flesh. Her buttocks-like inverted, heat-filled balloons-were rising and falling with a strength that made her femininity irrelevant. She was madly fucking her stud back, her pussy like some tongue-less mouth filled to bursting with the hard beauty of a prick big enough, long and strong enough to sate her if it took a month.
Cavan's face seemed made of stone as he watched.
Then, suddenly, he turned and started down the corridor again. "Where-" Oran began.
But it was too late. His friend was already well on his way.
Oran returned to his own room alone.
Oran had been amused from the very first that Cavan Kirk always did things to perfection. To final completion. He had noted that fact in the few days it took to make preparations for the six strangers who were to be participants in the odd sexual frolic hatched from Oran's own brain. He referred, of course, to the elaborate preparations made in terms of redecorating the bedrooms; in providing music for the senses, piped in like Muzak in a Bordello; and in the selection of literature to stir the mind toward libertinism.
Cavan had not neglected Oran's room, either.
Unless Oran chose to turn the small knob located to the side of his bed, he was treated all night long to music which Cavan-with an advanced sense of the sardonic-had chosen especially for him.
Over and over he was subjected to a particularly remarkable version of a very modern world: Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima, a modern piece of Polish music that tore at the nerves with stringent shifts of strings and horns.
At first, Oran had thought these lection a mistake-and a resounding example of Cavan's lack of memory, since Cavan knew perfectly well that Oran cared only for the harmonic, balanced, sensible strains of Antonio Vivaldi, for his violin concertos, as arranged by Bach for the clavier and organ.
And then, on the very night he had witnessed the young Moorish servant soundly fucking the Negro girl, Oran had understood Cavan's choice.
It was, indeed, a sadistic piece of tastelessness.
The Threnody was nothing more than a reminder to Oran of his impotence-of the horrible genetic effects the atomic radiation had had on millions of Japanese males. How they had been rendered sterile as eunuchs, how their seminal vesicles, ejaculatory ducts, their bladder and prostatic processes had been violently affected by the blinding American flash that day in August, 1945.
It was cruel of Cavan to remind Oran that he had been impotent all his life, a mutant from conception.
It was the final swaggering sneer of the Goatman whose own phallus can rise to any occasion!
Then there was the literature set in the small bookcase beside Oran's bed: dozens of hand-printed, rare, out-of-the-ordinary pamphlets and books on the subject of sensory, secretary and motor forms of the sexual neurosis of impotency-the primary cause of which was acute and compulsive masturbation in youth.
"Lies!" Oran had snorted the first time he turned the pages over. Then he had thrown the book halfway across the room.
He had never masturbated in his life because he had never had an erection in his life.
Cavan had handed him shit to eat!
It was on such thoughts Oran was brooding, having gone back to his room after Cavan disappeared down the hall.
Let them all fuck. Let Oscar and Sandra do their little curiosa of prick and pussy in the garden under the stony smile of a statue-let Joe Matson ram telephone poles into Miss Duff's slit while each thinks of his father-mother sickness-let those younger generation, the new breed of John Palmer and Florence Evans, send electric thrills through their loins until they mesh like molten lead into one supreme and killing orgasm. Let them!
He intended to get some sleep.
But that was not to be, either.
Almost before his head was curved into his pillow, a pounding on his door jarred him awake.
He tried to ignore it, even shouted for the intruder to go away.
But Cavan's voice came through the door like the rumble of thunder.
Oran turned on his bed light, put on his robe, and opened the door.
Cavan Kirk stood before him absolutely naked, his prick in full, throbbing erection.
"What on earth," Oran breathed, the blood draining from his veins. "Have you gone completely mad!?"
Cavan grinned. "Yes ... I've decided to fuck Dexter."
Oran glared at him, then remembered the look on Cavan's face earlier in the evening when he had been staring up at the carved face of the perfect young Praxiteles male.
"Then do it," Oran sighed. "Pederasty isn't all that unusual. But why wake me-"
"Don't you understand?" Cavan shouted. "It's come to me, too! I must have been a fool to think I could escape the temptation to....to know myself!"
"It's the hour, Cavan. The madness of this whole-"
"No! No, it isn't. That's just it:-the revelation has come to me." He took a deep and gulping breath. "I'm homosexual, Oran. Fay-faggoty queer! I have been all my life. The endless slits and empty pussies-"
"You're merely jaded, aroused by all this-"
"And I tell you I wouldn't trade that boy's asshole right now for the loveliest cunt in the worldnot even for his sister's, who died with my cock up her hole."
"Died?"
"I fucked Dexter's sister to death."
Oran said nothing. The flushed eyes, the glow on Cavan's cheeks was like some mad Christmas cheer, some gift that had been handed to him from heaven.
"And all the time-all the time," Cavan gasped breathlessly, "it must have been Dexter's body I was really wanting, Dexter's tight young male buttocks I was screwing, lusting after, craving!"
"Leave the boy alone, Cavan."
"It's too late for that. It's arranged. He's in the Game Room, waiting for me. I merely came to ask you, as my dearest, oldest friend, to watch the rebirth of wonder for yourself."
"It's late."
"It's never too late to view a miracle."
The aphorism had its effect on Oran.
It was then that he thought of his book-his own secret corridor through which, for years, he had been watching the life of this extraordinary creature of money and sexual insanity.
It might make an interesting biographical
CHAPTER, at that.
"All right, Cavan," he said quietly, "if you want me to watch you perform again, I will."
Cavan laughed in delight and turned to lead the way.
As he turned, Oran caught sight of Cavan's erected penis and felt the ancient envy, the filthy trick God had played on him for so long without sense, or sensibility.
Or even humor.
Oran settled into one of the soft chairs in the room of two-way mirrors which provided a view of the larger room with its conch-shaped bed. The very room where he had first watched Cavan take the body of the young Negro girl and turn her into a deviate-a turning which would ride her like a devil for the rest of her life.
And now Cavan intended to do the same thing to his young male servant, Dexter.
Cavan paused for a moment in the hidden room with Oran, and both of them looked through the mirrored wall to make sure Dexter was there.
He was fully unclothed, lounging naked on the bed with a glass of Cavan's expensive Scotch in his hand. Dark, handsome, young. And thoroughly masculine, as Moorish males so often are.
"He knows?" Oran breathed.
"Knows, my friend?"
"What you intend to do with him!"
Cavan smiled. "In a manner of speaking. He knows he's been invited into the room for a fucking."
"But does he know that you-"
"No. I decided to borrow a bit of Oscar Turner's art. Anyway, the scamp won't dare refuse me. He knows I can turn him out into the streets at a moment's notice. He has no papers, no money, no language."
"But he's young-those things don't always mean anything to young boys."
"He wouldn't leave me. He's devoted to me. He watched me fuck his sister to death without raising an eyebrow. That should prove some kind of loyalty. Perhaps infatuation-even love."
There was nothing Oran could add to that.
He remained silent as Cavan left the room to join his young paramour in their moment of truth.
Fish.
The word came into Oran's mind with all the abruptness of a jack-in-the-box. But it stayed there so firmly, so willfully, that he spoke in a question.
"Fish?"
And then he modified it, and brought the association back into focus in his mind. "Pike" he whispered.
He was remembering the dinner he and Cavan had shared a few weeks back, soon after Cavan had enjoyed himself with the young Negro virgin in the very room where now he intended to possess his servant boy.
I think you, as a writer, might find the symbolic parallel between pike and man very interesting.
Those had been Cavan's very words. And Oran concentrated to the rest of the conversation.
All right, Cavan-what is the pike's fishy nature?
Cavan had smiled and said It's the tyrant of other fishes because it not only eats them, but it also eats its own kind.
To which Oran remembered responding: A queer kind of fish, eh?
"Pike," Oran echoed aloud, watching through the mirrored wall as the door opened and Cavan naked, aroused-came into the room to face the surprised boy.
Oran sat quite still in his chair. He could feel the blood in his veins turning into a fluid lightness as he stared at the naked body of the man he had known so long-and yet had never really known at all. The pike in the ocean of the world's lust.
But the vision-the transformation in Oran's brain-was more than that.
He saw that Cavan Kirk was a fish-something out of a surrealistic movie, a posturing in a Dada darkness. He saw the nude body, tall and stream-lined, covered with smooth, glinting scales. He saw clearly the long head and the great mouth with its lower jaw projecting and filled with strong, sharp teeth. The pectoral, dorsal and anal fins. And the eternally hard penis-the largest fin of all-with the slit in its coral head like an opening and closing gill.
As Cavan approached the boy on the bed, the room seemed to fill with the sea-green electricity of violence. Threat.
And then it happened.
The young boy drew from under the satin pillow a long curved knife with a jeweled Persian handle. Something like the cutlery a fishmonger uses to strip the entrails of his dead catch.
With one quick, flashing lunge the youth drove the knife deep into Cavan's trim belly.
Oran rose from his chair, staring hard at the unbelievable shock before him.
Cavan raged and staggered forward, his muscled arms grabbing at the boy like hooks. But the knife was flashing over and over again-in crisscrossing, brutal arabesques of precision. And Cavan's intestines were spilling like scarlet and gray ropes across the blindly, absurdly protruding stiffness of his own cock.
The master was down and the boy was still stabbing.
Cutting him up like a catfish. Butchering him.
Oran fell against the mirrored walls, supporting his body with the palms of his hands, transfixed by what he was seeing. But his transfixion was taking another form in the heating blood of his own body.
Blood?
Not that, but a mucous, vibrating liquid of life. As if he were emerging from some pre-Cambrian age of his own self. As if he was growing from an algae to a trilobite to a tailed amphibian-stirring with a power of rebirth that he had not known since he was swimming in the embryonic slush of his mother's womb.
The Moorish boy was cutting off Cavan's prick now, ripping it off at the roots and holding it up like the dripping fangs of a monster snake.
A snake that had violated his beloved sister's virginal holiness.
Oran watched-and responded.
A faint hardening at first, a palpable firmness, then a slow-growing stiffness stirring between the legs of Oran Teague.
The lust-murder was bringing a violent erection to his cock, a triumphant smile to his open lips.
A smile which terrified him by what it revealed.
And what he knew about himself-and his quaint future-at long, long last.
