"Shooting Star" by the young American writer Teddy Arnold was one of the frankest, most dramatic revelations of the actual experiences of a male prostitute ever written. Too sexually revealing to be published in the States, it was originally printed in England. It enjoyed a tremendous sale with the London book-buying public until it was banned by the Chief Censor's Office. Driven "underground," this novel became a favorite collector's item of avant-garde erotica.
The prominent analyst, Dr. O. Berndorff, has some interesting comments on types similar to the characters in this novel. From his actual case history files he states:
"Joseph W. was a virile, attractive young man of twenty-seven who confessed he had made his living for the past five years acting as a male prostitute. His clients generally were well-fixed matrons older than himself. In describing one of his first "dates" for money he said, This old girl was about forty and not too bad-looking. I took her to a motel and when she took her clothes off, I started playing with her tits. Before I knew what was happening, she had my cock out of my pants and was giving me one hell of a hot blow-job.
"Afterwards she told me she'd rather suck a guy off than have his cock up her cunt-she just loved it. As soon as she felt a load of hot scum in her mouth, she'd pop off and have her orgasm. One night she blew me three times and I was so tired I could hardly drive home. Of course, she gave me extra money as a bonus for every blow-job after the first one. She used to tell me that her husband wouldn't let her suck him off often enough, which was why she had to pay for healthy young cock on the outside...'"
The reader should find the knowledge of perverted sex behavior described in this novel useful in avoiding similar unwholesome situations. It is from this point of view that Continental Classics presents this complete and unexpurgated version. It is recommended only for the graduate student and the mature adult reader.
A.L. Saunders, M.A. New York City June, 1969
CHAPTER ONE
Rod Bradley was extraordinarily good-looking-someone as young and handsome as himself he thought cynically should be driving a classy convertible instead of the wreck he was pushing along Manhattan's West Side Highway. He had never been to Riverdale, before, but he had confidence in his instinctive sense of direction to help him find the distinguished mansion that was his destination. Would it be his destiny, too?
He took the exit that said Riverdale Avenue and seeing that he was headed right, began to study the house numbers in their plushiest of plushy neighborhoods. Until at last he saw the number he wanted, 1337, worked in fine iron filigree, imbedded in the rough stone wall that fronted the very exclusive and secreted property. A circular drive the ornate iron gates on each end standing open led back into the tree cloistered yard.
Which drive Bradley disdained, not daring to drive his beat up Chevy to the front door. Instead he parked on the street, chose the center gate, a quaint, rustic thing, obviously a relic of a colonial house, reeking of history and decorum. Even as he let himself through the creaky, low door, he couldn't help but note the manse's exclusiveness, telling himself that if everything was as Ken Holman had told him, it was hardly a setting to rouse a policeman's suspicion, let alone tolerate such a crass thing as an out and out raid.
Class, Rod thought. With a capital K.
The late afternoon sunlight, crystalline, subtly shaded by the nearby Hudson, visible from the high vantage point gave the colonial house a timeless serenity and charm. Standing inside the gate, pausing briefly to survey the grounds, the two-storied structure, Rod Bradley again marveled at the incongruity of the setting.
Who'd ever dream-he thought. What a layout!
The lawns and gardens were scrupulously manicured, and stretched for at least three-hundred yards on each side of the house, five-hundred yards in the back. And if space alone did not confer privacy, then the containing wall about the property, the luxuriant stand of. trees, shrubs, and the flowering bushes just inside it did.
To the neighbors, to the casual passers-by, there couldn't be the slightest doubt that this home was eminently respectable and inviolable. It was as if a monster sign were hammered into the velvety lawn: Interlopers, snoopers, peasants, keep out!
The feeling was all pervasive, and Rod Bradley felt like he had no right at all on the lovely premises. This despite the fact that he'd been summoned, and was expected at this minute, somewhere inside that stucco-brick red-tile-roofed house.
Now the man reached the aged stone steps, ascended to a wide, gracious terrace. A riot of flowers bounded the arms, their scent, heavy on the air. And then, at last, he was pushing the doorbell.
Immediately he became conscious of the fact that somehow he was being watched. And while there was nothing so vulgar as a peephole or a two-way mirror, he knew it was so. Impatiently he rang again.
He jerked, looked around to pinpoint the source, as a hidden speaker barked. "Yes, Your name? Do you have an appointment?"
Flustered, Bradley said, "Yes, I'm expected. Will you tell Miss Innstrom that Rod Bradley's here. I have a three-thirty appointment."
There was momentary silence, and then the massive, plank door opened. To reveal an equally massive man standing within. Brawny, muscular almost to deformity, standing over six-feet tall, the man made Bradley, five-eleven himself, feel small in comparison. He was bland-faced, indication of subnormal intelligence, an ingrained expression of animosity carved into his features. And yet, somewhere along the line, manners of a sort had been pounded into that brutish skull. For, with ponderous elan, he stepped back, ushered Bradley in.
"This way, sir," the man undoubtedly the house's "muscle," said. "Miss Innstrom's expecting you."
There was a long corridor, coolish and gloomy, and yet, with the sunlight streaming in from various ante-rooms, still somewhat pleasant and inviting. Plank floors, graced here and there by large, braided rugs, carried out the antique motif. Iron hoop chandeliers hung from the exposed beams. Sparsely spaced, straight-backed settees and chairs lined the walls.
It was hushed in the hallway as Rod followed his guide, and he sensed let down. Then he caught himself. What'd you expect, jerk? To see women running naked in the halls? To hear them screaming and thrashing in then-fuck sessions in a distant room somewhere?
He felt an evil stabbing as they passed a branch-off in the corridor, and he saw the wide, oak-bannistered stairway leading up to the second floor. That's where good hot fucking takes place, he thought. Anyway, according to Ken.
"In here, sir," the muscle-bound man said, stopping before a plain, unpretentious door. He buzzed twice. "Go right in."
Behind the door the early Colonial-American decor was abruptly blitzed, as everything suddenly became screamingly modern. Perhaps the contrast made it seem so. There was a small anteroom, tastefully furnished, and a table upon which papers, pencils, pens, and ledgers were scattered. Plus a modern, electric typewriter.
"In here, please, Mr. Bradley," he heard a female voice hail him.
He followed the voice, found himself in a spacious, sunlit room, which, quite apparently, was used for cunt and prick purposes, being in fact, part of a suite personally occupied by the ravishing, arrogantly smiling blonde who sat on a severe, Danish modern davenport. A blonde who was dressed in a figure-hugging lounging suit, a lusty creation comprised of a too-tight, cutaway jerkin and clinging slacks, both garments made of royal purple velvet. A fluff of lace exploded from beneath the vest, accentuating two huge tits that needed no accentuating whatsoever. Gold slippers graced her pretty, small feet.
One arm on the back of the davenport, one foot tucked beneath her. Olga Innstrom was a vision of feminine loveliness. Large breasts, sleek ass molded legs that wouldn't quit. Not to mention a mouth-watering cunt that the material exposed in detail. A vision of mouth-watering sensuality. A tempting picture that drove the pressing, imminent business from his mind. Business that was now suddenly slapped in his face as he saw three glossies, all of himself, propped up by pillows.
"Hello Rod," she said coldly, "right on time, I see. I like that. Promptness is of the essence in my life." She lifted her cigarette holder, took a long, almost sensual puff. "Other things I like too. Like the way you stared when you walked in. Flatters a woman's ego to have a man look at them like that. Especially an older woman like me." Her look turned hard, calculating.
"You dig girls, don't you? You're the kind of guy who gets the urge to fuck everyone he sees, aren't you? That's important in my business, too."
Rod was suddenly defensive. There was something too cold, too self-assured about the woman. His fleeting admiration and desire to screw her swiftly diminished. He imagined seducing her would be like making love to a machine.
"Not every girl," he forced a smile. "Only the pretty ones. Like you."
"Better and better, Rod. I can call you Rod, can't I? Gallantry is an all-too-necessary prerequisite around here. Sit down, won't you?"
He headed for a chair ten feet from her. "No," she laughed. "Here, beside me. So I can take you in better. In the flesh. These pictures don't do you justice."
He smiled, returned, sat beside her. "Ken got them to you all right, huh?" It was a stupid thing to say.
She wrinkled her nose. "Ken? His name is Kenneth. You will please refer to him as Kenneth whenever you're on the premises. Kenneth's much more attractive sounding."
Bradley blundered again. "You mean it's all set?"
"You're leaping to conclusions. Mr. Bradley. I said no such thing. There are quite a few matters we have to be sure of. You can understand that, I'm sure. I just can't let anyone come in here and..."
"Yes, I understand. I'm sorry."
"Kenneth tells me you're down on your hick, Rod. Although that doesn't necessarily follow. I certainly don't see why any red-blooded, virile, normal male would have to be in sad straits to take a job in my... how shall I put it... employ? Some men would pay me, I imagine." Her eyes pierced his. "You are a virile, normal man?"
Gradually some of Rod's usual bravado returned. "Last time I fucked I was. Would you like to have me prove it, here and now?"
Trace of a sneer formed on her lips. "That remark was uncalled for. If you're hired, you'll have every opportunity to prove yourself. But not with me, luckily."
She opened the manila folder, put a pair of black-rimmed, sequinbowed glasses on. "Kenneth and I had quite a long talk about you. He certainly thinks highly of you."
The feeling's mutual, I'm sure."
"Loyalty. Another good trait. Do you mind if I review this with you? To verify things, so to speak?"
"No, ask me anything you like."
"Yes," she murmured preoccupiedly. "Rod Bradley. Is that your real name? Or a Hollywood stage name?"
"That's my real name."
"Mmm, good. Rod Bradley, born Springfield, Massachusetts, twenty-six years old, parents still living, though you haven't seen them in five years. Stevedore, salesman, carny barker, truck driver, and finally salesclerk in New York. You do get around, don't you?"
"I do all right."
"Sounds like you're a very disorganized, unsettled young man."
"I got time to settle down when I get old."
"Well said. To continue. No personal tragedies to speak of, you've never been married, you finished high school, took one year at Columbia, then dropped out." She looked up. "What happened? Didn't you and education see eye to. eye?"
"I got sick of it. It seemed unrelated somehow. I couldn't see how reading Keats and studying about the Spanish Armada had any bearing on the way life's being lived here and now. I guess I got itchy, wanted to go where things happened."
"Like in St. Louis? When you were driving a truck for Richmond Freight Incorporated?"
Instantly Rod Bradley went rigid; he felt the blood drain from his face. St. Louis? Richmond Freight? How had she found out about that? I know I never told Kenneth anything about that deal.
"Surprised, Rod? Please don't be. I certainly wouldn't be one to hold a thing like a hijacked truck of high grade booze against you. And besides, they never were able to prove it, were they? When a person's in a jam, when he needs money, hell do almost anything, won't he? Even to stooping to fuck for Olga Innstrom?"
"How'd you find out?" he husked. "I thought..."
"You thought you'd gotten away with it? I've got my ways of finding out things. Don't look so stricken, Rod. Your secret's safe with me, I mean. I'd never tell. Unless you ever crossed me, I mean. I imagine I could make things pretty hot for you if I tried. Especially since I know who your fence was."
She sorted among the papers in the folder, brought out certain photostated affidavits, a bill-of-sale among them. "Remember this? How Don Lanza made you sign it? So he could at least plead innocent if anyone ever traced the stolen load to him?" She smirked. "And, since Lanza's been dead for six months nobody would get hurt but you?"
"You don't miss a trick, do you?"
"Just so you know where you stand, Rod. So you understand this is no nickel and dime operation. The big boys have got a finger in this thing, they look out for then-own." Olga Innstrom paused, smirked meaningfully at Bradley. "Whether you come in with me or not; whether I let you come in, has no bearing. I'm covered either way. You'll never breathe a word to anybody. You won't dare."
She fanned out the glossies before her. "Pretty pictures, Rod. Real pretty. You're a gorgeous prick, Rod. I've got clients who'd get stomach cramps from wanting that cock in them. You bring out the material instinct in a woman, or something like that."
Abruptly she was all business again. "Let's get on with this. You worked at Rodney's in New York, didn't you? In men's suits. That right?"
"I'd expect you would. Some Jane you were loving then got you hipped on the theater bit. All of a sudden you were taking courses at the Drama League, you were trying out for walk-ons in off-Broadway productions. You had a summer at one of the yokel barn shows. And right away you figure T.V.'s missing a good bet. Any luck?"
"Nothing yet. There's an independent outfit that's interested; they told me to check back."
"Don't bother." She pursed her lips. "They fold fast, those fly-by nights. Notoriously no pay." She sniffed, dropped the typewritten sheet back into the folder.
"You're presently Irving in a flea-bag apartment and your money's running out."
Olga Innstrom's eyes mocked him. "You been making out with any of the co-eds? I hear Thompson Street is crawling with them. Or maybe the Drag crowd's more your speed. Some of those boys'd fight for a trick like you."
Rod bristled. "I'm strictly hetero, Miss Innstrom. I get along okay, and not from dewy-eyed college girls either. Anyway, my love life is my business."
"On the contrary, Rod. Your love life is very much my business. Because once you sign up with me, you aren't going to have any outside love life. You're going to be saving all your goodies for the paying customers."
"You put it so delicately."
"Delicately or not, that's the way things are." She dropped Bradley's eight-by-tens into the manila file. "Now, dear. You've met me, you've met my strong arm boy, Mack Calabrio. You've seen the layout, no doubt you're convinced it's a safe bet. You know you'll get no chance to con me. I imagine Kenneth's filled you in on the kind of operation we run here. That right so far?"
"Check."
"You're a drifter, Rod. As far as I'm concerned, that's all you'll ever be. Maybe if you came in with us it'd help you get hold of yourself. Moneywise anyway. The other I can't guarantee. Now, before we go any further, tell me, do you want in or not? No hard feelings. But if I ever find out you shot off your mouth about this, you'd better watch out, that's all." Her eyes probed his. "I have a damn good idea you're desperate for this job, what your answer'll be. So, before I waste any more time with you, let's have it. Yes or no?"
For a solid sixty seconds Rod was silent, looking down at his twisting, knotting hands. Sure he knew what Olga Innstrom's operation was, he knew it was ugly and perverted. Also he knew that the woman knew him almost better than he knew himself. Her capsule biography of the disorganized mess he'd made of his life. And God knew, he was desperate, he was broke, he needed a stake. If Kenneth hadn't painted the life with such glowing colors, if he hadn't harped on the easy money so incessantly, he'd never have considered it in the first place.
But there was one thing he hadn't counted on. That was the vulpine Olga Innstrom's knowing about that one most darning secret in his past. That altered things considerably. But even so, he temporized, what difference does it make? Money's money, and money was what he didn't have right now. Jobs weren't to be had. Not jobs that would give him time to circulate, to make the casting office rounds. So what? They'd get along fine; even without the gentile blackmail they'd have gotten along fine. And why blame Olga? She has to look out for herself too, doesn't she?
"Well, Rod?" she prompted, breaking into his reverie.
"Yes," he muttered. "I want in. Providing the money's right."
"The money's just what Kenneth told you. We split down the middle. You've got no sweat there. We charge what the traffic'll bear, and you'll always get your share. You'll have no gripes. Ask any of the other guys about that. A happier, better paid stable of stallions you won't find."
"AH right," he agreed. 'That's fine by me."
"Good. Glad to hear it." She leaned back, smiled lewdly. "Now, if you'll stand up, we'll make the final-
"Stand up? What do you mean?
"Oh, God, for a city boy, you sure act sappy. Standup, I want to look at you, see what kind of stud I'm luring. Stand up, do you hear?"
Dumbly Bradley rose, stood before her, an expression of intense bafflement on his features. Self-consciously he fidgeted, not knowing what to do with his hands.
"Turn around," she smirked. "Let's see that handsome frame."
Slowly and somewhat clumsily, Rod turned. "Peel off that jacket. I want to see those shoulders."
Bradley shrugged out his suit jacket. Turned to face her. And instantly quailed before the domineering, scathing mask her face had become. "Okay, baby. Now the rest. Peel it off."
Bradley felt his hair prickle all over his scalp, a shudder brought goose bumps to his arms and legs, all down his back. "What...?" he gulped. "You mean..."
"Yes," she snarled. "Undress, stupe. You don't think I'm putting you on without seeing what I'm getting, do you? My clients pay through the nose for the fucking they get, they've got the right to expect nothing but prime beef. Hurry it up, now! Or are you changing your mind? There's the door if you are."
For long moment Rod Bradley stood dumbfounded before the beautiful blonde. Not like this, he thought. It just doesn't happen like this. A dame you've never seen before just doesn't up and tell you to strip because she wants to see your prick.
"Right here?" he muttered. "With the windows open and everything?"
Don t worry about those windows. Unless you're going to let some flowers and weeds panic you. Now, for the last time, are you going to strip or not?"
Woodenly, his face distorted in an expression of utter disbelief, Rod's hands came up, began to undo his tie.
"Now you're getting some sense," Olga sniffed.
She halted him when he got down to his shorts and undershirt, made him turn around several times, her eyes greedily assessing his thin, bronzed legs and arms. Then, at last; "Okay, Rod. The rest now."
He'd never felt so foolish in his life. As he stood naked in the middle of the elegantly appointed, modernistic living room. Perhaps had it been a darkened bedroom, or even a bathroom. But this... Reflexively his hands dropped, crossed to conceal himself. But with an imperious gesture the woman waved his hands away. Let her eyes bore and flit over his body. Always they returned to his cock and balls.
The man Olga Innstrom saw was a lean, bronzed specimen, as trim as a halfback.
His shoulders were hard, his chest blocky, his pectorals looking like polished granite. He was a handsome man, his face on the verge of prettiness, the effect marred by a too sharp jaw line, a too intense twist at the mouth. His eyes, crouched beneath shaggy eyebrows, seemed tormented. His hair, coarse and almost straight, a dark brown color, accented his piercing stare.
"Very nice," she sighed, her gaze turning briefly opaque. "Very, very nice." She sat erect, put her feet on the floor. "That tan becomes you. You've got a marvelous figure." She laughed thickly. "And I do mean figure."
Now she relaxed, fell back into the cushions. "Come over here, Rod. That's it. Raise your arms. That's it. Mm. Some dame's gonna swallow her gum, taking that in... "
Her hands came out and Rod jerked as he felt the soft fingers stroking his back. As he felt them sweep down his spine, flutter over his ass. Then they rested on his hips, gently but firmly turned him around. And while he stood before her, she stared at his dong to her heart's content.
"Rod," she intoned. "Very nice. How appropriate. Some Rod! That's the very best for sure."
Rod winced. It wasn't the first time he'd endured the pun. Practically every girl he'd ever fucked used it. If they had any imagination at all, imagination that made making love something more than mechanical reactions they wouldn't have said it. He hadn't expected the cliche from Olga though.
Now he was startled anew. As Olga Innstrom began to slide her hands on his chest. Now on his stomach.
She laughed in cold deprecation. "Is that the best you can do, boy? C'mon, get with it."
Her hands moved faster around him. Then they slid down his legs, began stroking his legs. Her success was almost instantaneous. His limp prick, though about seven inches, now grew and swelled until its length was at least ten inches. It was two-and-a-half inches in diameter with a huge, purple head accentuated by the large "eye".
"There, dear," she soothed. "That's more like it. Much more like it. That's the kind of stud this place needs."
Abruptly she was tired of the play. She pushed him away. "You'll do nicely."
All at once he was seized by the strongest desire to humiliate the woman as she'd humiliated him. "Are you sure that's enough? Maybe you'd like some other demonstration?"
She looked holes through him. "Not, today, sonny You're special, yes. But not that special. I've get boys here that outrank your cock by quite a bit. If I'm ready, I know where to go for some real cock. And for now, it won't be your door I'll come knocking at. Maybe someday, dear, but not today."
She turned her back on him. "Go in the other room and get dressed. Then come back in here, and I'll fill you in on all the rest."
Now fully clothes, sitting in an uncomfortable chair near Olga Innstrom, listening to her tick off a long list of rules governing the establishment she presided over, Rod Bradley found it hard to believe that the interlude of a scant five minutes ago had really happened. The woman was so coldly impersonal now, it was impossible that she'd commanded him to disrobe, had assessed his body, prick and balls in such a forthright and cold manner. And yet, happen it had.
There are many and varied restrictions. Such as:
The prohibition of cameras, miniaturized tape recorders, or any other equipment that might be used to the detriment of the house's female patrons. Mack Calabrio, the bouncer, would personally search and every one of the "boys" upon entry, and heaven help the man who was caught trying to smuggle any such documenting impediments into the house. "Boys" on duty would drive their cars into the huge garage behind the house, would enter by a rear door. Each of the dozen or so regulars was invested with tenancy privileges, and could live in the house if he chose. For a price, of course. A price too rich for Rod's blood, and which fringe benefit he turned down.
The "boys" would be available on six hour call, and would come in on stand-by basis if they desired. A practice which, in the long run, would prove lucrative, as there were, at that very moment, three well-heeled society women upstairs getting their cunts fucked to distraction by the house's stand-by crew.
Which brought Olga to an important point. The house would have a flurry of business tonight. Thus the hurry up summons this afternoon. Mrs. Vivian Gabriel, wife of John Gabriel, owner of the Gabriel chain of drugstores, would be his client that evening at nine-thirty. And after that, who knew what else would turn-up?
There was something about the women arriving in the house cars, something about rare occasions when the "boys" would have to go on the road, but information was coming so fast that Rod couldn't catch it all. The name of Mrs. Gabriel, one of New York's most outstanding socialites, rang in his mind, burned him with astonishment.
My God, he raged, things like this can't really be. Not in this day and age. What incredible passion frenzy must possess the Gabriel woman that she'd jeopardize everything, past, present, and future, for a night at Olga Innstrom's unique joy house?
"I don't need to tell you to be sensitive with Vivian," he broke from his thought to hear Olga saying. "She's a new reference and this will be her first visit. I'm going on Kenneth's recommendation that you are an accomplished loverman, that you'll be able to fuck her in fine style. Even make Mrs. Gabriel want to become a regular guest."
"I understand, Miss Innstrom. I'll do my best."
"You'd better. Remember, no cave man stuff. Some of the girls you'll have will want you to rape them. But until you feel Mrs. Gabriel out, discover her special quirks, play it cool."
"Am I being pushy if I ask how much she'll pay?"
"I told her two-fifty. She never let out a whimper." Olga rose, indicating the interview was over. "Any other questions?"
"I don't think so. You said nine-thirty?"
"You'd better come at eight. Let Mack get you set up. Kenneth will fill you in an other, more intimate details."
Olga stopped him in the small room leading to the ball. "There's a little story I should tell you, I suppose," she said. "Just in case you're looking at things from a cockeyed angle. Perhaps you wonder that a place like this exists, can do a land office business. Well, if you do, you don't know as much about women as I thought you did. Women have needs, just like men. Sometimes even worse. Only they have it rougher. Most of them care about their reputations. They can't go out on the town and do something about that itch as easily as men can. A place like this is perfectly natural. They're commonplace in Europe; Chicago and Los Angeles have had them for years.
"I'm getting sidetracked. I started to tell you a story. As a case in point. This may surprise you, but Trudy Shaw is one of our regular clients."
"Trudy Shaw," Rod gasped. "You mean the Trudy Shaw? The T.V. and movie star? My God, she's worth millions; certainly she doesn't have to revert to... "
"Let me finish. The truth is that Trudy Shaw, at thirty, beloved to millions of fans all over the country, the same doll who plays in all those inspirational and religious shows, is an uncontrollable nymphomaniac. She's got ideas about fucking that curl even my hair. She wears out two, three guys every time she drops in. Once she was here for a week straight."
"It can't be true. Not Trudy Shaw."
"Now here's my point, sport. That talented and beautiful woman's got a monkey on her back just as bad as any junky or alcoholic alive. So what's she supposed to do about it? Jeopardize her reputation, her career, destroy her faith of millions of fans by alleycatting around? Which is worse? That, or her coming here to let off steam? It's her secret, and it's going to stay her secret. I'm not going to tell, neither is any boy fucking in this dump, you included. That's why all the security precautions."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at things."
"It's the only way. Listen. By coming here a gal like Trudy's able to keep on an even keel, she's able to go on making her much needed contribution to the world. And who are we to criticize if she's got this sick thing?" Olga's eyes narrowed, her voice took on a hissing tone. "There isn't a human being alive who isn't hiding some ugly secret."
Now she refocused her vision, became calm. 'Trudy Shaw's only one of dozens of female T.V. and stage stars who give us their problems. Women who are married to cold fish, to husbands who insist on fucking the asshole even some tangled up with faggots. Physical love is a natural function; some people, men and women alike, have to have it more than others. And when they can't have it, what're they supposed to do? Go out of their minds, do something disastrous?"
She stopped, stared at Rod. "You see what I'm getting at? There are places for men. Why not for women?" Olga smiled in odd mischief. "You might consider we're running a clinic here. Granted, it's only for those who can meet the stiff rate, but that's the way it has to be, police protection and security being expensive as it is. And you Rod, are about to become a doctor in that clinic. Think this all over, dear."
Rod turned away, tried to conceal his troubled state of mind with flippancy. "Just call me Dr. Kildare," he said.
"See you tonight," she smiled. "Around eight."
He broke from her, strode rapidly down the hall. Then hesitated, turned as she called his name again. "Yeah? What is it?"
"You'll do us both a favor Rod, if you park that crate of yours in the garage as soon as possible. It hardly adds class to the place."
Mack Calabrio seemed to appear from out of nowhere and after taking him through a number of winding hallways, they ended up in the rear of the house. Obediently Rod trotted around to the front driveway, started up his car and parked it where its ancient lines would disturb no one. Then he took a deep breath, for some reason the fresh air was very welcome and smelled good in his nostrils.
CHAPTER TWO
When Rod reported for his first night on duty, Mack Calabrio was waiting to greet him. It was the most physical greeting Rod had ever gotten. He was gone over from stem to stem by the educated hands of Olga's watchdog, and when Mack was sure that Rod's suit concealed nothing but his skin, he was allowed to enter.
"Listen, Bud," Mack growled, "this routine happens every time-and I'd hate to tell you what happened to the last guy who tried to slip a mini-recorder past me. So don't ever get any wise ideas, see!"
"Don't worry," Rod replied, "I got plans to live a long time, and something tells me I'm going to need my health on this job."
Calabrio plodded before him. "This way, kid. I'll give your friend Holman a buzz." Halfway down the hall he led Rod into a small cubby hole of a room. Going to an innocent appearing stretch of wall, he touched a concealed lever, and a panel in the wall slid open to reveal an elaborate control board sporting a myriad of switches and buttons and glowing lights. He pushed one of the fourteen or so buttons on the panel, and turned to Rod. His tone full of the patronizing quality only the very stupid can adequately affect, he said, "So long's you're here, I might as well tell you about some of this stuff."
"Do that little thing," Rod quipped, feigning an insouciance he didn't really feel. In fact he was very nervous and uncertain of himself. There was a sick excitement in his guts, he felt his legs shudder at spasmodic intervals. And he cursed himself for a fool. Come off it jerk. Get hold of yourself. You act as if this was first time you ever fucked a woman.
But the bluff didn't work. For he knew that tonight was going to be different from anything he'd ever done before. It would be the first time he'd ever sold his prick to a woman. To a high class society tart at that. It would be different, all right. Very different.
"You ain't listening, Bradley," Calabrio interrupted. "Pay attention. Now get this. You've got room eight. See, here's your button."
"Cute little devil, isn't it?"
"Don't be wise. Miss Innstrom said I had to show you around, but that don't mean I have to take lip from you. Now listen. When you got a broad up there you've gotta let us know. There's a button up there you push. It lights up here. When you and the tramp's finished with your screwing you gotta push this other button. You listening?"
"Yes, I'm listening."
"When you push that one a light goes on in every room in the house. That's a warning for everybody else to stay in their rooms, that you're showing a customer out. These cunts are damn fussy about that. They don't want anybody to see them. So those halls have to be empty, you gotta have Cruz or Tony on hand to jockey them back to their pads or to their own cars, whichever way the tramps want it. Is that clear?"
"I think my brain can assimilate that devilishly complicated information."
"Smart guy." The brute's hand went back to the panel. "Here's my button. Number one. Whenever you want to let somebody out, or go out yourself, you gotta call me. So don't get any ideas about coining and going as you please."
"The dames don't want to be seen," Rod challenged, "but you get to see every one of them."
"That's what I'm paid for. I been around, I can smell trouble a mile off. So I watch the doors. We never had no trouble since I came." He seemed childishly proud of himself. "Miss Innstrom trusts me."
Abruptly a red light flashed on the control panel. "Your friend, Holman," Calabrio said. "He's coming down. He can take you up, show you the rest of the layout."
At that moment a smiling Kenneth Holman, a thin, yet athletic appearing man, roughly six-feet tall, his blond hair cut in a boyish crew cut, broke into the room. In boisterous greeting, he put out his hand, said, "Hi, Rod. Welcome to the club. Glad to see you. I see you passed the tests with flying colors." He winked.
"Clear the panel," Calabrio snapped.
"Clear the panel," Holman mocked him. "Yes, Mother Calabrio." He advanced, pushed the proper button and the light went out. "Jeez, what a worry wart."
"Miss Innstrom said that I was..."
"Miss Innstrom said..." Holman mimicked in a high falsetto.
"Watch it, buddy," Calabrio menaced. "Unless you want all those pretty teeth smashed in."
"Get lost, creep." Holman shot. "Before I tell Miss Innstrom on you."
Grumblingly the man let himself out of the room, disappeared, "God," Holman said, "What a character. You'd think he owned this joint the way he acts. A regular mother hen.
"Harmless, is he?"
"Hardly. Once you know him you'll find out just when to quite needling him. He'd as soon break your head as look at you. Real mean. But he does a job. Now and then he comes in handy other ways."
"What're you getting at?"
"Sometimes Olga puts him to work upstairs. Some of the girls dig it rough. They don't make them more he-man than that animal."
Kenneth smiled smugly. "How'd it go this aft, pal?"
"You dog," Rod slapped his shoulder. "Why didn't you warn me?"
"I should have. But, hell, man, that would've spoiled your fun. Cute, huh?"
Rod shook his head slowly. "What about that weird dame? What's with her? Fill me in."
"Later, Rod. You're gonna have loads of time to find out, all about little Olga. For now we'd better get you upstairs, show you the ropes. Olga mentioned a nine-thirty. You must have made a good impression if she'd let you handle an entirely new client. You watch your step with this Mrs. Gabriel."
"I will. Since when do I need advice on handling dames?"
Ken's smile was tinged with curious pity. "Boy, you really got an education in store for you. These dolls aren't like any you've had before. When they want it so bad they pay two-hundred and up for it, look out?" He shouldered Rod toward the door. "Upstairs, pal."
Upstairs was hardly what Rod expected at all. For as they mounted the stairs, the transition from style to modem as in Olga's part of the house, was instantaneous. And not merely stark modernistic, but extravagant modernistic as well. The carpet in the long corridor was rich and deep, a muted white. Fabulous Danish chairs, couches, table, and lamps were spaced along the wide hallway. Furniture that would never be used, that was there merely for effect. For once a woman mounted those stairs, she definitely wasn't in the mood to linger in the hall.
A slow-moving mobile, a copy of a famous original floated in space halfway down the hall. The walls were done in an erotic mauve, the stuccoed ceiling a match to the carpeting.
"Man," Rod breathed, appreciatively.
"Really gets you, huh? One thing you can say for Olga, she's really got taste. Planned this all herself. But wait'll you see the room. That's where she went all out. After all, if these rich doll types are going to get fucked, they want to be fucked in style."
But now, as they came further into the hall, Rod stopped suddenly, was frozen in his tracks. "Hey, Ken! Those doors!"
Holman laughed. "I thought that'd get ya. Cute, huh? Every door a different color. That's so when the customers call Olga, they can ask for whatever color they like, take the guy that goes with the door. And for the gals who can't make up their minds, for the gals who like to live dangerous. Olga's got a color wheel downstairs. Every spin's a gamble."
"You're kidding me."
"Hell I am. That's the honest to God scoop. I'm here in number three, the green door. You're in number eight, the blue door."
For a long time Rod stood looking at the twelve closed, pastel-tinted doors, his face a mask of bewilderment. And finally; "Any special significance to the blue door?"
Ken chuckled. "Yeah, there is. The new boys always get the blue door. You know, just like the blue booties when you're first born? Lots of the gals ask for the blue door. They want to sample the new guys right away."
Rod continued to look around dazedly. "And the other doors? What about those colors."
"Nothing special. Only Ed Johnson's door. And Vince Fletcher's. The black one and the orange one."
"Black? For a door?"
"Yeah. Ed's a colored boy. A real big prick. We get lots of calls for Ed's cock. I guess every dame that ever comes here gets around to asking for him sooner or later."
"And the orange one?"
"Vince Fletcher's a specialist, sort of. If you know what I mean. Doesn't care what he does-suck, fuck, ram'm'n the ass or whatever."
"Some gals, more than you'd expect, dig that too. But then Vince really's got no corner on it, we've got a couple other of those jockeys around here. Only Vince's the real artiste. He's kind proud of the way he makes those women howl."
"Keep it up. You'll be turning my stomach in a sec."
"You asked, didn't you? Hell, we're in business, we've got to cater to everything under the sun. From whipping right on down to something as simple as voyeurism. You'll run into all of 'em before the week's out."
"Nope," Rod said firmly. "There are certain things I draw the line at."
"That's business. Only remember this. The specialists draw down extra loot. If those babes dig it strange, they're only too happy to pay a bonus."
"And you?" Rod asked.
"Oh, I'm straight as hell," Ken grinned mischievously. "But I've been thinking." And he made great show of licking his lips.
"C'mon." Ken said when they stopped laughing. "I'll show you your new home."
They stood before the door, and Ken indicated the buzzer. There was no other marking whatsoever on the door. "Another gimmick," Ken murmured. "You, never bring the dolls up here. They come along. The way Olga tells it, they dig that long walk upstairs alone. They dig ringing that buzzer, waiting to see who's gonna answer the door. It's like they get all worked up inside with a dirty spoon. Puts 'em in a proper frame of mind."
Ken Holman flung open the blue door, switched on the lights. "'Here we are. Home, sweet home."
"Holy cow!" Rod gasped. "You weren't kidding, were you? Man, what a layout!" Ken said nothing, gave his friend time to examine the fabulous room. Which carried out the blue motif to an almost ridiculous extreme.
The carpet was a pale blue, the walls were pale blue, the bed and bedspread done in a deeper shade of blue. And in between, varying shades of white and black, gradations of blue. Again the decor was extremely modern, the dim lamps in the room giving it an aerie, infectious unworldliness, providing a setting where everything else but the most erotic work at hand could be completely forgotten.
There was a compact sitting area with chairs, tables, a davenport. Again in blues and blacks. To one side Rod saw a small, but extravagantly stocked bar built into the wall Here another mobile sailed, a squashed, ellipse of plastic hung from the ceiling, gave muted light.
Then, of course, the bed, the most important piece of furniture in the room. "Sturdy devil, isn't it?" Rod said pushing experimentally at the mattress.
"Made to last," Ken said. "Still, from what I hear they're replaced every year. All beat to hell." Now he moved to the wall, showed Rod were all the switches and push buttons were, at the last flipping a brown dial to the right. Instantly the room was flooded with soft, soothing musk from a hidden speaker. "Olga has it piped in. Some of the dolls like it."
Then they were in the bathroom, again done in blue tile; stool, tub, sink, everything. Even the toilet was done in a pastel blue. "Lord," Rod said, "she thinks of everything, doesn't she?"
"Righto, Rod." Kenneth moved to the medicine cabinet. "Here's your other samples in case the client doesn't care for the rubber there. After you've fucked certain ones you'll know what they prefer. Don't be shy. About that time you can ask 'em point blank, and they'll tell you without batting an eye." He held up a diaphragm. "I kinda think your Mrs. Gabriel will go for this."
"I'll make a note of that."
They were in the sitting area; Ken was mixing them some Scotch and water. "Drink a little while you're waiting, Rod. It'll slow down your reflexes, you'll be able to make the fuck last. When these babes are paying, they don't want you like a jack rabbit. Besides, some of the gals will be pigs, they'll turn your stomach the things they'll do. Booze helps then, too."
He sipped his drink slowly. "Oh, yeah, Rod. One more thing I gotta show you. Step out in the hall a minute. Close the door. Then listen."
Rod did as he was told. For a minute he stood there, staring and listening. Hearing nothing.
"What'd you hear?" Ken asked when he reentered.
"Nothing. Was I supposed to?"
"Nothing? I was standing in here yelling my head off. Calling you ever dirty name in the book. These rooms are soundproofed like no rooms in history have ever been soundproofed. So if your lady friend begins to holler, let her enjoy herself. Nobody'll ever hear a whisper."
"Man," an amazed Rod Bradley breathed. 'Talk about your functional plants. Now I've seen everything."
Holman smirked. "No you haven't. Not yet. But there's plenty of time." He glanced at his watch. "Nine bells. I'd better blow, give you a chance to collect yourself." He paused at the door. "Later, pal. Don't forget, watch your lights. Especially with Gabriel."
"Thanks, Ken. I'll do that little thing." Ken was just going out the door when Rod called him back. "Oh, Ken. One more detail."
"Yeah? What is it?"
"That deal with Olga today. She sorta dropped a bombshell on me. Something I thought nobody knew. What's she got on you?"
"Oh, that," Ken smiled shamefacedly. "She does that to everybody. She's got to cover herself, I guess. There ain't a boy in the house who hasn't got his back marks."
"And you, Ken?"
"I got involved in some stag movies once. I hit an all time low. She got hold of a copy. It goes to my folks if I ever get out of line." He looked at Rod. "You?"
"I hijacked a truck once. Bonded booze."
"Yeah? Well," he shrugged. "Like I said before, welcome to the club."
Then Kenneth was gone. And a highly disturbed Rod Bradley was left sitting in his chair. Thirstily drinking courage. And perhaps forgetfulness. As he waited for Mrs. John Gabriel to arrive.
He was a trifle light-headed when his buzzer finally sounded. Almost immediately he was back to normal, the impending mail-order love event looming monstrously in his mind. He rose, checked the room, his own suit. Then, his heart hammering, he went to open the door.
There was a tense, frightened look on the woman's face, it seemed to Rod she swayed slightly as he opened the door for her. "Hello," she said timidly, sending a last furtive look the length of the hall, before she stepped inside. She stood in an awkward pose, barely clearing the door to let Rod lock it, the fumes of gin an unmistakable testament to the fact that Mrs. Gabriel had been sipping courage also. For a long time, from the look of it.
"I do hope I've come to the right room," she said hesitantly. Olga-Miss Innstrom told me the blue door. This is my first visit..."
Almost mechanically Rod pushed the button on the wall, signaled downstairs that room eight was now in use. From somewhere he recalled neglected gallantry, Olga's instructions a out names. "And I certainly hope it won't be your last. Vivian, isn't it?"
"Yes. And you're Rod?"
"That's right. Won't you sit down? Perhaps you'd like a drink, we could get to know each other better "
"That would be very nice... Rod.' Her look turned slightly coquettish, and in her intoxication she revealed her extreme delight in Rod's handsomeness and savior faire. It's worth it after all her expression read. This isn't going to be difficult at all.
Rod Bradley was surprised and pleased. The woman was hardly what he'd expected. Granted, she was on the downhill side of thirty, but he'd been anticipating something much more grim. In her pinched, lusterless way Vivian Gabriel was even pretty. Her body was too thin, her breasts small, but dressed to the nines as she was, there were compensations. Her blonde hair was beautifully coifed, her legs exciting in smoketoned hosiery, her feet encased in dainty pumps, the toes and heels dagger sharp. All in all, a vision of trumped up sexuality, her efforts to make herself desirable partly pathetic and partly inflaming. That she wanted a man that badly.
Yes, Rod repeated inwardly, it looks like quite an evening. She won't be hard to take. Not by a long shot. And for a hundred and a quarter.
"Martini?" he said.
"Yes," she smiled, her eyes boring even more boldly into his, "that would be nice."
Rod brought the drinks, sat down beside her on davenport, feeling an almost benevolent delight as he slid close to the woman, felt her stiffen in delicious expectancy. He handed her the martini, then dropped his hand onto her knee, gently began to slide the silky material along her nyloned knees. "Here's to your health," he toasted.
He could all but feel Vivian squirm with joy as he tightened his hand on her leg. She tensed and went limp in slow pulsings. "Thank you," she chirped, raised her glass in salute, a lecherous gleam igniting her eyes. "To you. Especially to yours."
The martini blended very nicely with the previously consumed Scotch, and Rod felt more and more at ease began enjoying himself tremendously. And for this I get paid? The thought of making love to the love-starved woman, of giving her ecstatic delight, become as intoxicating as the liquor.
Now she giggled softly, slumped, let her shoulders lean on his. "I suppose you think I'm an awful thing-a bad woman-to come here, to you like this. To pay for affection like I'm doing. I... it's just that..."
"Please," he shushed her, deserting her knee, putting his arm around her shoulders, drawing her even closer. "Don't talk about it, Vivian. You're here, and that's important. Your reasons for coming here are of no concern to us. We're glad to have you, and that's that. Unless it makes you feel better to talk about it. I'm here to listen, to give you any comfort I can."
Comfort, he thought. Boy, that's a word and a half.
"You don't think badly of me? Really? It's-well, wrong for a wife to seek another man's cock." She shook her head, her face tensed in anger. "But what if the husband doesn't love his wife? What if he hasn't fucked her in over a year? John never was a demonstrative man, it was like he had ice water in his veins instead of blood. It was as if the things-I mean fucking was repugnant to him. He always acted like he was in a hurry to screw and get it over with. And some nights, when I needed his prick so terribly, he'd just fall asleep."
She fluttered her eyelids rapidly. "If only just once... he'd have fucked me like I was a woman."
"Don't Vivian." His grasp tightened, and he put his lips in her hair. "Don't talk if it hurts you."
"He's a good husband otherwise. I shouldn't blame him. But there are times I could just scream for needing fucking so much." She shuddered. "If only he weren't so indifferent."
"Stop dear," Rod soothed, playing his role to the hilt. "Don't think about it. You're here now, you've taken the step. And we're interested in you, I'm interested in you. Very definitely. Like this."
And very carefully he raised her head, lowered his lips to hers. It was like an electric current had ripped down her spine. As she fought herself tighter to him, pressed and ground her lips hungrily to his, as she slammed her breasts against him, caught him around the neck with a clenching, almost suffocating grip. Her pitiful, animal whimpers all but turned Rod inside out. And he returned her embrace, worked his lips into hers, again swamped with the sense of self-sacrifice. If he was bestowing delight.
They held the savage, throbbing kiss for what seemed forever, the woman's face wet with tears by the time she finally released him. "Oh, dear," she quavered, "oh, dear. If only John had ever kissed me like that."
She gulped down the rest of her martini, turned on Rod again, her eyes wild with lust now. Immediately she was clawing his head down, was devouring his lips. "To hell with John." She gritted, her tongue sallied forth, timidly at first, as if expecting rebuff. But when Rod welcomed it with his own, it was like someone had set a match to her, and her tongue wound and bunted and probed with pagan frenzy.
A firecracker, Rod thought, a torpedo. Who'd have thought it? This from a mousey little blonde like this? A pillar of Manhattan Society?
And he reached behind and touched the strategically placed mercury switch, extinguished all the lights. Except for the small globe lamp that hung over the bed. Then as the woman sighed and went limp, her lips never losing their hold on his, he opened her jacket, began to fondle her breasts, to twist and knurl the nipples through her blouse and lingerie. "Yes, yes," she gasped, letting her lips slide, bury themselves in his throat.
"Oh, Rod, yes. Do that. I like it. I do."
She collapsed in his arms, her teeth nipping his throat as he opened her blouse, slid his hand inside her brassiere, cupped her breasts, caressed, made them hard. Then, finally, when his hand wandered downward, pulled back her skirt and slip, she raised herself to accommodate him. She sighed a long, wailing cry as his hands reached out and caressed her asscheeks.
And despite the fact that this was to be a purely professional affair. Rod couldn't help but feel his own desire balloon his prick to its full ten inches. God, he cursed himself, talk about your damned amateurs!
Still the sobbing, sibilant gasps kept breaking from her throat, changed to animalistic whines and barkings, and indication of her peaking, deranging need. Her teeth nipped him repeatedly, her tongue slid silkily along his under jaw, surrendered in wanton abandon.
Until she could stand no more. All at once, a final gasp escaping her, she was up from the couch, she was gulping the remainder of Rod's own martini. Then she was pulling him up, dragging him toward the bed.
"Oh Rod, you darling, forgive me. I can't wait. Fuck me! I need you to fuck me so!"
But when they came to the bed, and Rod moved to undress her, she pulled away. "No," she hissed, an insane glint in her eyes. "Let me. I'll do it." And the black jacket was thrown aside, the white, prim blouse was pulled from her skirt simultaneously. "You'll watch, won't you. Rod?" she pleaded, the urgency in her tone pitiful. "You'll watch me undress? John would never watch, even when we where first married. He thought it was immodest. You'll let me undress for you, won't you?"
A prickling, stinging sensation shot down the back of Rod's head. What the hell? he thought. What kind of kicks are these? Then he remembered his job. "Of course, Vivian. If that's what you want me to do. I'll watch."
Watch he did, as the entranced woman went through a long and erotic removal of her clothing that would have made a hardened Miami stripper shake her head. She showed the limits of her long frustrated sexuality by twisting and exposing herself in acrobatic frenzy. As she proudly displayed the exotic lingerie she'd worn expressly for this purpose-an ensemble of heavy, black, opaque silk with sheer panels.
Had he not been so aroused, so amazed, the display might have embarrassed him. But as it was, he merely huddled on the edge of the bed, watched right to the end. Until the moment when she was totally nude, when she fell back on the bed beside him. He drew his lips down to her breasts and began to suck the cherry hard nipples his hand tweaking and rubbing the nipple his mouth was not engaged with. The only sounds in the room were of his sucking the nipples and her whimpering moans. He moved his hands down to her asscheeks and thighs.
Again he was surprised and pleased. For though thin the woman's body was still firm, still velvety, still surging with carnal impatience. "Soon," she slurred, "oh, darline soo... "
But when he moved to douse the light preparatory to undressing, she pulled him back. "Please," she breathed, "let me watch you. I let you watch me."
Baffled beyond recall now, Rod struggled to his feet, slowly undressed before her restless, persistent and idiotically adoring eyes. Never had Rod, felt so much like a God as he did during those moments. As the woman all but worshipped him with her eyes.
"My beautiful darling," she intoned as his undershorts fell away, as he turned to face her. "You're such a handsome... such a gorgeous man. And you're going to... fuck me... It's too good to be true."
She shuddered, tipped on the bed, half rose. "Come here, dearest," she commanded. "Close to the bed."
He did as she said. And there, while he stood in trembling dismay, her hands came out. A fiery light exploded in her eyes, and for a moment Rod thought she was going to pull his cock off his balls as she massaged.
But she didn't. Instead she tore herself away, fell back on the bed. "The lights now, darling," she purred. 'Turn them out."
She pounced on him like a carnivorous, starved animal when he came to her, again brought his head down to her breasts for the pleasure sucking of her nipples. She went into paroxysms of rapture as the pleasure and yearning kept shooting through her, building, building. And a rapid, compulsive change took place within he. The supposedly fined and reticent woman unleashed all the carnal repressions she'd caged up inside her throughout her strated life, became a snarling, curse-spewing wanton. As he graphically described her building sensations, using every four letter word Rod had ever heard, and a few that were improvised in her frenzy.
Until she could wait no longer, tore herself away, proudly guided his prick to her cunthole.
"Fuck me... You don't know how long I've waited for this."
Then it was happening. As slowly, very slowly, taking great satisfaction in tormenting the woman, he brought his huge cock to her pussy hole, ramming it in her cunt, pulling out, pausing, starting, pausing again.
Until she was screaming at the top of her lungs, cursing him for his prolonged treatment. But then there were no more curses. Only long, hoarse sighs.
"Oh, oh," she groaned. "You darling, you darling! John was never like this. Never. Not even when he was young. Oh, Rod, Rod. Please, darling, please. Fuck me now. Don't make me wait any more. I can't stand it."
Rod Bradley didn't make his client wait any longer. For now, with single-minded purpose, concentration and skill, he attended to her clawing needs. He rammed that huge ten inch prick into her cunt until it was almost in her womb. He rammed like a stallion oblivious of the refinements. He fucked her with the abandon that she craved. Her hole was stuffed with his hard cock and she came-once-twice-three times. Between comes he would suck and play with her nipples, making her yearn for more fucking. Now four comes-five-six...
She was screaming in deafening harshness, telling him everything, using the coarsest of gutter language as she released her seventh orgasm. It was then that Rod caved After all, duty went just so far.
It seemed a giant hand was pinning him, lifting him twisting him like a wet dish-mop. Then it was flinging him heedlessly, far out in space. And he was turning rear over tea-kettle. Over and over. Falling, falling. Choking out his fear. And yet not quite fear. Fear mixed with an awesome stunning delight.
While a proud, squirming Vivian Gabriel, with a real man for the first time in her life, was helping him shoot his load, draining him, wringing him.
"My angel, my angel," she sobbed, her arms around him like steel bands. "You were wonderful, so wonderful. I've never been fucked like that... never before in my whole life... ever had a come more than once." A wishful longing infected her voice. "Do you suppose... after a while? I can stay until midnight and get fucked once more?"
He chuckled, muzzled her breasts with his nose. "Of course, once more. Twice more if you want. You haven't get some hair-triggered jack rabbit here, you know." He guided her hand to his prick. "Right now. If you want to help out a little."
She shuddered sensually, savoring the offer. "No, darling," she said. "I understand. I can wait."
But she lied. Because, a scant five minutes later, she was begging to get fucked again and he was ready for her pussy.
It lasted an eternity this time. And Mrs. John Gabriel, for the first time, had the fucking of her life.
"Here," she said, pushing a hundred dollar bill into his hand just before he escorted her downstairs. "This is for you. For treating me so well, for treating me like a woman." She smiled, the beatific gratitude on her face Something to see. "If only I'd known about this place before. Things could have been so different. I'll be back darling. I'll ask for you again. Again and again."
He kissed her once more, thanked her. "I'll be looking for you. You really know how to use a man."
She laughed coyly. "I was all right, wasn't I? For a beginner?"
"You were great, just great."
"Think what I'll be with just a few more lessons." She fluffed her hair. "I've got to go now. John will be expecting me home soon."
Rod flipped the proper switch. A red light replaced the white one. Cruz was waiting. They started down.
Rod had barely regained his room when the blue, bedside phone rang, startling him. "Yeah?" he said.
"It's Olga Innstrom. I've got a surprise for you. Trudy Shaw just called. She wants you at one-thirty."
"Oh, no..." he groaned. "But, hell, I just finished screwing."
"Never mind. Trudy's got ways of taking care of burned out pricks. She specifically asked for the blue room. That's you, dear. Take off now, go visit Kenneth. I'm sending, Bella up. Beside, Trudy asked for Kenneth too. You'll be alternating each other. It's going to be a marathon. Kenneth can fill you in on the details."
"I don't think I understand what's expected of me-and who in blazes is Bella?"
"Bella's the maid," Olga replied. "Ken will fill you in on the rest of the night's program. How'd you like Mrs. Gabriel?"
"Oh, she's just a living doll," Rod replied.
"Well, you must have given her the screwing she wanted, she's reserved you for her next time," Olga laughed suggestively as she hung up.
What did Ken get him into, Rod wondered. The situation was getting wilder and wilder-he prided himself on his fucking ability, but just how long did they expect him to keep screwing without even a coffee break?
CHAPTER THREE
Rod was spending some time with Ken Holman in Ken's room while waiting for Trudy Shaw of T.V., the stage and films, to put in her appearance.
"Well," asked Ken, "How'd you like your first cash customer? Was it different from what you expected?"
"Frankly the whole thing was kind of fantastic. She made me feel like a doctor giving her a health treatment-I never had any woman so grateful after fucking me before."
"I know the feeling. You get that at first. It dies off later, and it becomes a job just like anything else. You haven't seen anything yet. They get real pathetic. They think they're actually buying love. I've had some beatup dogs plead with me to go away with them. They've got scads of dough, they'll set me up, they'll give me anything I want. Cars, clothes, the works. If only I'll go on loving and fucking them. It's real sad."
"And what about Trudy Shaw?"
"That's different. She's got no illusions. She isn't about to throw a half-million a year by keeping a lover boy. It's cut and dried with her. She's accepted the fact that she's a case, that she needs attention at least once a week. And that's all. None of this love goop for her. She pays, and so long, sonny, it was grand."
"Sounds sweet."
Ken made a wry grimace. "Yeah, she's sweet. Wait until you see her in action."
"Another thing, Ken. What about this taxi service Olga provides? Who does that work?"
"Real cagey item, that. She's got these two black Caddies. After she's been fucked, she's taken back by Cruz and Tony in time. They're two with a record long as your arm. Anyway; Olga gets a call and sets up the appointment. The dame drives to his parking lot on Upper Broadway where one of the boys is waiting for her. She parks and comes out in one of the Caddies. After she's been fucked she's taken back to the parking lot. She's on her own after that. There are exception, of course, but basically that's how it goes. Simple?"
"Yeah. Sounds real smooth."
"Olga's smoke-screened the neighbors into thinking she's married to a doctor, that all the comings and goings are just part of the business. Emergencies, you know." Ken chuckled. "Some emergencies."
"And what about our heaps coming and going?"
"Olga stops that too. We usually come out in a cab, or in one, two cars at the most. She's rushed today, but shell clue you soon. Well make arrangements to pick you up. Sort of a car pool."
"Man," Rod marveled anew. "She just doesn't miss a thing, does she?"
"Nope. One smart chick. She's really coining it."
"And her love life? She got a special boy friend?"
"Not that I know of. She's pretty much of a loner. I guess some bozo royally shafted her once, she's got a mad on for all men. But every now and then... You'll get a call one of these days. She likes to put new boys through their paces. I know for a fact that she digs dat ol' Ed Johnson de mos'. Another rumor is that she fucks Mack Calabrio every once in a while. That's real weird. She treats him like a slave. And he just wallows in it."
Now Kenneth Holman fell silent, stared sullenly into space. "Yeah. You'll learn lots in this place. Lots and lots."
Laughing, he rose. "Like right now. There's something you gotta see." He flipped the proper switch and the red light flared to life. "Follow me."
Silently they went to the end of the corridor, where there was a tiny balcony looking down on the stairs. A balcony that was seemingly merely decorative, a dead end. "I'll show you our preview room. The famous Ed Johnson in the bargain."
Carefully Ken pushed at a thin seam in the paneling, and Rod was amazed to see the panel open like a door. Then they were inside a darkened, carpeted foyer behind the spring-secured panel. The omnipresent control box blinked redly at them. A touch from Ken and it was white again. "This way," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."
They stood before another blank wall. "I'm gonna open a peephole," Ken said. "Once it's open, don't even whisper. Nobody's supposed to know we're here."
"What is it?"
"Another of the house specialties. For those dolls who like to watch. Ed's been moved into this room special, he knows what's going on, but his date doesn't. He's putting on two shows tonight. Look him over, pal. That's your competition."
There were no more words. For now Holman slid a narrow strip of paneling, and they were given a view into what Ken had jokingly called the "preview room."
It was just that, Rod's mind boggled at the concept as he saw the six-by-eight, cubicle, carpeted, decorated, soundproofed, furnished with a long davenport and a small table. But the most unique feature of the room was the two-by-three hole that had been cut into the wall. A hole concealed from the occupants of the inner bedroom by a thick, one-way mirror. Momentarily Rod was reminded of a huge television screen. Only the erotic drama being played out on that screen would ever be shown on T.V.
For there, in the inner bedroom, a pretty brunette, a wild-eyed woman of perhaps twenty-eight, totally nude was spread out on the bed, watching in terror as the large Negro undressed before her. The lights were on, obviously at the woman's request, for she wanted to see just what she was getting for her money.
What she was getting must have really been something, Rod conceded, staring at Ed's naked back. For while he couldn't see what Ed's girl friend did, he could see the way her eyes glazed in fear and wonder. The man was at least six-two, his shoulders and arms were rippling, heavily muscled, glistening dully in the dim light. His waist was trim, his legs thin, like sturdy columns.
And then, a low, gasping moan breaking from the voyeuristic female in the cubbyhole as Ed turned, let his audience see him fully. Rod understood why the girl's eyes were so wide and staring, why she seemingly cringed before the Negro. And Rod saw his "competition" and realized that he was totally outclassed. He saw a prick that was unbelievably enormous in length about twelve inches, and thick as a woman's wrist. It hung fully aroused with two huge balls dangling behind. The pubic hair was thick and crisp, all in all very enticing. Small wonder Olga had been so scathing during her inspection that afternoon.
And then, before four pairs of watching, fascinated eyes (the voyeur female having her hired escort on the davenport beside her), the Negro advanced on the bed, gathered the small, white body into his arms. The woman struggled, had serious second thoughts about her fuck adventure, but Ed wasn't about to put off. He had a job to do and he was determined to see it through.
They saw the woman's body lurch and thrash as the man slowly but steadily inserted his huge cock into the woman's cunt. They saw her mouth form into a large 0, they saw her throat pulse with unheard screams. But still Ed rammed his cock in her pussy. Until the look on the victim's face turned to one of surprise-pride, even. And lastly-of incredible rapture.
"Man," the woman in the preview room, of perhaps forty-five, expensively dressed, gasped. Her body began to writhe and jerk against that of her escort. "Isn't that something! One of these nights-when I work up the courage that bastard's going to screw me!"
Her paid lover, not the least bit perturbed, chuckled. "You do that, Rose. Every gal should know a prick like that at least once in her life."
As the bedroom drama went on, things got more and more wild with the woman named Rose. Rod was torn between two shows. Rose climbed up on her friend's lap, her back to his chest. Her passionate sighs and gasps grew louder. Now her hands darted down; Rod couldn't be absolutely sure what she was doing. Once the man with her lurched, his own hands joined the melee under her skirts.
But when Rod heard the ragged kiss of a zipper, when he saw the man squirm against the woman, when he saw body rise and toss in slow rhythm, her hands remaining entangled in the welter of lave and nylon, he knew what was happening. They were fucking dog-fashion, though sitting down.
He turned away, feeling somewhat sick. "Lord talk about foul, rotten, shows," he said as Ken slid the peephole strip back into place, came to him. "That woman, who was she?"
"Didn't you recognize her? That's Rose Henaberry. You know, the old maid who writes all those newspaper gossip columns. Her boy friend was Vince Fletcher. So you know what he's got ahead of him tonight. The doll in bed with Ed is an important exec with one of the big insurance companies in town. A gal with a big curiosity... and after tonight, a bigger cunt!"
He held his watch to the white light on the control panel. "One-twenty. C'mon, we'd better clear out. Be ready and waiting for dear Trudy."
He grinned. "Or did you want to watch some more? Maybe you've had enough education for one night?"
"You can say that again."
"Well, there's still Trudy. You pass that one, nothing!! shake you again. C'mon, pal. Back to the wars."
Trudy Show arrived ten minutes late. And when she was finally admitted to the room, both Ken and Rod saw instantly that she was well tanked up. It wasn't a careless, drifted-into drunkenness, it was a methodical and deliberate drunk. A drunk firmly intended to rout any vestige of conscience, to blitz any last remaining inhibitions.
And yet, despite her state, she was still a lovely woman, perfectly groomed, exquisitely dressed, a provocative vamp. It was as though she wanted to be desired for herself, not merely tolerated because she could raise the price. Even the alcohol couldn't conceal the mute pleading and expression of lostness in her gaze.
Trudy Shaw, thought it was played down in her roles, ripe, voluptuous women, her breasts bursting of delight her waist trim and supple, her ass and hips alive, and questing, her legs alluringly thin and silky. All of which the gown she wore-a dove gray silk with and extreme plunging back-and an obversely demure decolletage-complimented, set off to breath-taking perfection.
"Kenneth, darling," she squealed, turning on him the minute she was inside, pulling him close to her full tits, touching her cheek to his avidly, "how well you look. Aft'r las' time I thought you'd never be the same again. Tha' was fun, wasn't it? I thought I'd never ge' enough of your precious cocky. You were such a dreamboat, baby." Again she hugged him. "Whew, you don't know how good life is until you have to go without a good screw!"
Her eyes became concerned, as if sensing coldness in Ken. "You want me don't you?" She stood back, looked him up and down. "You doll," she gloated. 'Trudy knew she could coun' on you." She turned on Rod, looked at him speculatively. "Who's y'r friend, Ken? Is this Daddy's li'l helper, for tonight?"
"Rod." Ken said, sneaking a quick wink at him, "I'd like to have you meet Miss Trudy Shaw."
"I'm pleased..." Rod said. "I've been looking forward to this. I... "
"Not so much as I have," she cut him off. Then slowly she prowled around Rod, looking him over with painstaking care. "Pretty, aren't you? A real pretty boy." Belligerence crept into her tone. "But you won' get by with me on your looks. I see pretty boys like you every day of my life. I kiss'em in every show. I wan' a man who can fuck. You pretty guys are usually fizzles. Too much in love with y'rselves t' do a good job. C'n you perform, Rod? Like a real man?"
Rod found it very easy to dislike Trudy Shaw. "I'm quite sure I can make things "come" for you," he said coldly. And to remind her; "I haven't had to hand out any refunds of late."
"You know who I am? And what I am? I suppose Kenny here's told you all about me. Olga too. Did they tell you I'm the bigges' tramp on Broadway? That I dig fucking sixty different ways from Sunday? Does that make you feel superior as hell, pretty boy?"
"No, Miss Shaw. I... "
Expertly Ken interceded, sidetracked her from the semi-maudlin mood she was in. "C'mon now, Trudy, let's not be so short with the help. This is a party, remember? Here, let's have a drink, cheer everybody up. That's gorgeous dress, dear. It does wonderful things for you. And those shoes..."
"You're butterin' the ol' lady up," she blurred, "an' I love it. Kenny, you're such a sweet ol' lover. When all time it's only what under this damn dress that you wan'." She fell onto the davenport, rolled toward Rod, immediately forgetting her antagonism of scant moments ago toward him.
"Later, Trudy," Ken joshed her. "We've got all night for that. But for now. What's to drink?"
"Gibson, baby. I'll bet I've had a zillion of 'em already tonight. Ain' so, Rod honey?"
"Gibsons coming up," Ken said.
But Trudy didn't hear.
She was snuggling still closer to Rod, stroking his face with fluttery fingers. "I'm sorry," she said woozily. "I didn't mean to be so snotty to you. It's jus' a thing I get wh'n a guy's jus' too han'some. You'll forgive me won't you? You'll be good to Trudy?"
Rod smiled warmly. "As good as I can be."
"Lemme see," she snickered, and immediately she placed her hands on his prick and balls and found him, also to his surprise very much aroused. His prick was standing up, all ten inches like a soldier waiting and looking forward to action.
"Baby," she shrilled. "You too! Oh, we're all gonna have such a good time together."
They sat talking and drinking and it became more obvious that Trudy was on the verge of splitting a seam, so beside herself with lust was she. Also that she was deeply attracted by Rod, curious as to what he'd bring to the fuck orgy.
Until Rod caught Ken's eyes, saw him signal that he should drink more. A strange puzzlement filled him as he recalled Ken's earlier warning. How had he put it?"... They'll turn your stomach, some of the things they'll do. Booze helps then, too." Was that what he was getting at? And if so, what kind of capers could he expect from Trudy before the night was out?
It was a command Trudy concurred in. For seeing Rod toying with his drink, she brought her glass to his lips, forced her drink down his throat. "Drink up, honey," she laughed. "I don' wanna be the only one who's sailing. I wan' company. Tha's what I'm payin' fr. Company. Lots of everlovin' he-man company. Drink, damn you, drink!"
Docilely, feeling the liquor cut in, Rod let her feed him the whole glass. Then his own. And he felt better and better. Until now, as the woman fell into a pointless incoherent monologue in which she extolled her enjoyment of men, the unique pleasure they could give her, he saw Ken nod again. Follow my lead, his look said.
Ken put down his glass, came closer to Trudy. His eyes warned, Rod, and very delicately and slowly, he began to work down the shoulder strap of her gown on his side. "Mmm, baby," Trudy sighed, and went limp. "Now we go." Immediately, Rod began loosening the strap on his side. Until both hung loosely. Then he duplicated Ken's advances, move for move, began sliding the gown down her titties.
The built-in brassiere fell away, and the woman's creamy, luxuriant tits spilled out, jittered and lush in the soft light. Instantly Ken's fingers closed on the turgid, crinkled rosebuds, began to gently manipulate them. Rod's fingers did the same.
The woman shivered, moaned softly, then went still. Only the sound of her rapid, puffing breathing could be heard above the strains of the piped in music. Until at last: "Oh, suck them, boys. You sweet lovers, suck them. Love them."
Rod hesitated overlong. Her taunt hit him like a whiplash. "Whatsa' matter, Rod? You proud or something? Do it. What d'ya think I'm paying you for?"
He searched Ken's eyes, found his answer. Immediately and abjectly he dropped his head to her smooth breast, began to kiss and nibble the swollen berry there. While right beside him he heard and sensed Ken taking care of the other breast in similar manner. He knew now that he must follow his partner move for move. At least up to a point.
Above them they heard the woman's sucking gasps of pleasure, they felt her body surge and twist with mounting passion. As she gripped each of them behind the head, held them steadily to her nipples. But shortly she tired of the attention, her hands slid down, caught in her skirt, pulled it high. "Please, boys," she gulped. "Please undress me now."
Now deserting his station at her breast, sensing rather than seeing Ken's action, he brought one hand down to her silky girdle and explored there. An attention the profanity-spouting woman savored to the utmost, her legs rising, closing, opening in passionate, surrealistic ballet sequence, like tentacles floating underwater.
Ken began unfastening her garter clips, began working her nylons down her legs. A task that Rod joined. "Ooooh, yes," she sighed. "Undress Trudy, please. Oh, hurry. I need the first fuck so bad."
They removed her shoes, worked off her hose, returning to wrestle together with her girdle and panties. Then there was more caressing, more investigating. And when she couldn't endure another minute of it, she broke away, stood before them. 'The rest now," she cried. "Both of you. Take off this damned dress."
For a long time she stood naked before them, staggering, nearly falling twice, posing herself in drunken version of "tease" before them. Then she was running to the bed, flopping onto it, twisting herself onto her back.
"You first, Rod baby," she choked. "I wannna break you in right. You don't mind, do you, Ken? He's new prick, you c'n understand, can't you? You won' hold it against me?"
"No, doll, I won't hold it against you."
She squealed: "Oooh, Rod. Now, now. Come to your big tramp mama. Hurry, hurry!"
Her eyes never left him as he undressed, the sudden fire in them revealing her satisfaction. "You too, Ken," she called. "Come by me. You can watch while you wait y'r turn to fuck me."
Afterward, Rod couldn't tell whether it had been enjoyable or not. All he remembered was his tiredness, his amazement at the tenacious way she clung to him, the mounting desire for her pussy. And above that, the devastating, degrading encouragements she barked and moaned into his ears; the guttural whines as she achieved orgasm after orgasm. "Who... ee, that was good, baby. Real good screwing. Ken, you'd better watch out. This baby's gonna make you look like a piker."
But finally Rod did stop. Though he'd never believed it would happen, it did. And with a shattering internal collapse, he was suddenly so tired he could hardly move. He felt like someone had grabbed him by the ankles, had snapped him viciously, and turned him inside out.
Reluctantly Trudy relaxed, released Rod. "You were magnificent, baby," she muttered. "Hear that, Ken? You got a long ways to go to top that fuck performance. Well, don't just stand there."
She made Rod watch as Ken, more experienced in commercial love than he was, made the screw last for an eternity. And then it was Rod's turn again. As the insatiable woman demanded more and more prick, seemingly couldn't get enough.
Only a small candle burned in the bedroom now, as Ken rammed home his cock. It was obvious now, too, that Trudy was wearing down. But she had a last trick up her sleeve, as Rod was soon to learn.
When at last Ken shot his load, she dozed briefly, recouped her strength. When she awoke she demanded more liquor, insisted that the men drink with her. After their strenuous, back-breaking fucks-they each had light screws with her-the drinks cut in with a vengeance. Until, after a suitable interval, she said. "Ken, come back here now."
"No," he pleaded. "It's Rod's turn now."
"That isn't what I mean, lov'r. You know wha' I wan' now."
Dejectedly, slowly, his shoulders slumped, looking like a whipped dog, Holman approached the bed. Surrendered himself to her busy caresses. Until...
Then Rod was forced to witness an ass-fuck, which, up to now, he'd only heard mentioned about.
Trudy rolled over, rose on her knees. As Ken crowded behind her.
"Watch, Rod," she cackled, savoring his bewildered repugnance to the utmost. "It's your turn next." Then her voice was muffled in the pillows, as she brought up her hands to help Ken. "Oh, owoooh," she gritted. But she sighed thickly as his cock entered her asshole.
A short time later Rod was summoned to the bed. And though his stomach was tumbling, still he made himself carry through with the asshole fuck. He felt an all consuming streak of pleasure as she shrieked her joy.
"Here, Ken," she commanded as Rod continued screwing her bottom-hole, "come here. Hold my titties. Squeeze them, hurt them. Just like Rod's hurting me." Her body lurched and her face contoured into an evil, pagan grimace. "Go, go!"
Because he was, in truth, nothing more than a novice, it took Rod a long, long time. Or so it seemed. But Trudy Shaw didn't seem to mind. Not at all. She enjoyed every minute of it.
It was dawn before he finished and fell back on the bed.
"Thanks, baby," the totally satisfied woman said sitting on her haunches, looking down on him, the gray light in the room. The fact that she'd been pursuing the most carnal of fuck pleasures for almost three hours now seemingly, making her look like a haggard witch, like a derelict. She'd aged ten years since she'd entered this room. "Thanks a lot. I'll be okay for a week or so now." She turned to Ken. "Call down for a car for me."
Rod lay back on the bed in his room totally exhausted. Ken had been so right about having to liquor up before you could take what come of these babes dished out. Reviewing the night's happenings, he thought that customers like Mrs. Vivian Gabriel weren't bad. True, he had to put on an act-how could a young healthy man of his age have any real desire for one of these overaged babes? But Trudy Shaw was something else again. As he thought of her insatiable lust for three solid hours and her perverted demands on both himself and Ken, he wondered if he could go through anything like that again. He was strong and healthy, but how much of these lust drainings could even some one with his good physique take? Was it worth the three hundred dollars he had earned?
After many hours of tossing restlessly, Rod had finally fallen asleep as dawn's half-light began to seep through his window. He slept like someone who had been drugged, the dreamless sleep of total exhaustion.
When he awoke, he could tell by the daylight outside that it was early afternoon. He was amazed to find fresh underwear and a new expensive shirt exactly his size neatly laid out in the bureau for him. Apparently, Olga really did think of everything. He dressed, anxious to leave the sex-changed atmosphere.
As evidence that he'd been visited sometimes between dawn and noon was the plain envelope that rested on his bedside table. An envelope containing an all significant message. In the form of three one-hundred-dollars-bills. Without a word he pocketed it, pushed the proper warning buttons, and started downstairs. His look disdainful, his lip buttoned for once, Mack Calabrio let him out.
Back at his small, cramped apartment in the village, Rod found himself nagged by growing irritation at his tawdry surroundings. The bed, the scarred, rickety furniture. After his room in Riverdale, it was a brutal comedown. And suddenly all his lofty resolve, his vows to break with Olga Innstrom and her sin trap at the earliest possible opportunity, seemed to fade.
In the light of the fact that he'd be doomed to live in a decrepit, bug-nest apartment like this for God knows how long, that he'd have to skimp and starve merely to remain in New York, the serious promises were all at once hugely unattractive. When he thought that he had five hundred in his pocket, wages for one night's work, it seemed the most monstrous of follies to toss away a chance to go on coining it right and left. After all, had he compromised himself, had he flaunted his values to such a terrible degree? Except at the end he'd done nothing that was unnatural, nothing out of the ordinary.
He almost laughed out loud. And besides; what values? Since when have you any values, chump? Not since he was sixteen. When he and Ricky Janos had taken the fifteen year-old floozy Sally Simpson down under the Tenth Street bridge that afternoon, had torn off her panties, had taken turns holding her. Had taken turns fucking her.
Sally had wanted more cock when they were finished with her, had begged for more. They'd never had to ask her twice after that. But that wasn't the point. Had she wanted to make a stink, it was out and out rape, and no mistake. They could have just as easily been sent up.
Ever since Sally, it seemed, things had gone rotten every time he'd turned around.
But this was the rankest of over simplification, Rod raged inwardly, and you know it. It's foggy thinking. There were lots of things wound up in the decline and fall of Rod Bradley. And Sally Simpson didn't even begin to rate.
Things like the way his parents had treated him, like the fiasco when he'd tried to go to college, like the hijacking job he was conned into. Things like the way he'd found Mary Jennings in bed with two guys that afternoon in her Sullivan Street pad, drunker than the proverbial skunk, fucking like cock was going out of style. Maybe that's why memory of the event with Trudy Shaw gnawed at him so unmercifully.
And last, but not least, the way he'd met Kenneth Holman in a bar on Eighth Street one night. How they'd become, over a month or so of such infrequent meetings, close enough friends that Ken had trusted him sufficiently to tell him about the house in Riverdale. How Ken had painted vision of floods of money, payment for merely doing what comes naturally. Things like Olga's stunning examination, like the actuality of his installation into her cozy, if slightly unique bordello he hadn't mentioned.
There wasn't any one factor he could put his finger on. When he evaluated each influence singly-like the indifference and plebian stupidity of his parents, the betrayal by Mary, a girl he'd been halfway in love with, the blundering way he'd got involved with the booze heist-they didn't really amount to much. He could shrug each individual event off, discount its importance.
Abruptly Rod caught himself, dragged himself up from his self-pitying binge. Brother, you're flipping. And he recognized the fact that he was thinking in riddles. That it was only his excruciating weariness from all that fucking that was making him so despondent.
For after all, wasn't there hope of sorts? Wasn't he his own master? Couldn't he break with this degenerate life whenever he chose. Could he use these women to further his own ends? Wouldn't the money they so gladly paid to have their pussies satisfied buy him time and freedom? Time and independence with which to further his questionable acting career?
And he realized he'd been a cringing cry-baby. He was tired, that was all. If he could just sleep a little. It was foolish to think he was licked. Hell, he was still a young man; he had his whole life before him. Now, especially, he shouldn't despair. Not when he was, in reality, getting his first real break. If only he was strong enough, wise enough, o use his ill-gotten gains to good advantage.
If that's the way the world's made, he goaded himself, why in hell shouldn't I grab all I can with both hands? Pick and choose my own time to get out?
It was to these comforting if muddled thoughts that he undressed, and got into bed. Ten minutes later he was deep in a drugged, oblivious sleep. A sleep that wasn't to be shattered until seven o'clock the next morning. As the trash-can brigade charged down the street.
Rod felt a hundred percent improved when he rose this time. And after showering again, after getting a good breakfast inside him, he felt even better. He smiled to himself over his third cup of coffee to remember the despondency he'd felt yesterday. Sucker, he chided. No wonder you're always getting yourself so fouled up. You listen to that still, small voice too much. It's about time you got wise to yourself.
And getting wise to himself, he concluded, involved continuing, even strengthening his position with Olga Innstrom. It meant blunting his mind to the little uglies he might be asked to perform at her house for wayward girls. Eventually it meant a mounting pile of loot, a way of making doors open to him.
A brash smile cracked his lips. There you go, pally, he mused. Now you're getting with it. Number one, that's who you've got to look out for. He's the only one who really matters. Get hard-boiled for once, get someplace.
And he found he could review the corrupt events at Olga's with an almost good humor. As if they hadn't really happened. He'd dreamed them, he'd seen them in a movie somewhere. And that grinning, dark-haired louse there, the one piled up with that Shaw tramp, wasn't really Rod Bradley, it was some guy painted up to look like him. That guy with Vivian Gabriel; he was a fake too.
Rod took his coffee into the living room of the rundown apartment, sat in a chair, and stared into space. And was mildly amazed that even the memory of the fuck session he'd watched between Ed Johnson and the free-wheeling insurance exes, between Rose Henaberry and Vince Fletcher, didn't faze him overly much. All in a night's work, he concluded dourly. Take it in stride.
Then shortly the venal-eyed Olga Innstrom came into focus before his mind's eye. The lovely, lust-cat body bobbed and pirouetted before him, exuding a promise of dissolute, aboriginal sex, or raptures heretofore unknown, her eyes mockingly assessing him. And again Rod was stripped, standing naked before her, quailing inwardly at her deprecating stare, his ego bellowing that he should prove his masculinity to the superficial, condescending witch.
He trembled, broke from the momentary trance, wondered what had hit him. What's with you, jerk? he thought. Don't tell me you really want some of that cunt? What are you trying to prove, anyway? Didn't you get your fill, more than your fill, with the two twats you obliged the other night? Rocks, sonny. Great big rocks.
He shook his head, tried to orient his thoughts to more practical things. Things like getting dressed and clearing this dump, making the rounds of casting offices and artist's representatives. But still somewhat logy, he couldn't see it. It was a helpless cause. If, in the four months he'd been trying, he still hadn't made a dent anywhere, this particular Wednesday morning wasn't going to make any difference either. That T.V. screen could just damn well wait.
Something Olga had said to him, a thing he'd remembered yesterday, pricked the tissue of his brain like a sand burr, dug and irritated him. The one taunt he couldn't laugh off. The one truth he couldn't ignore. She'd spotted it immediately, had used that vulnerability as a deadly weapon. Was it that damned obvious? Even to people he'd only just met?
"You're a drifter, Rod, as far as I'm concerned, that's all you'll ever be."
And that, without a doubt, was the crux of things. It got down to the heart of the matter in nothing flat. It put Rod entirely on the defensive.
For it was the whole and unvarnished truth. Ever since, Sally Simpson, ever since he'd escaped high school, ever since he'd served his stretch in the Marines, he'd been on the lam, he'd been a drifter.
Never able to settle down, never able to face responsibility.
Whenever things got tough, when he'd had to cope-like with Mary, who'd pleaded for forgiveness, who'd vowed her truest love to him who'd been primarily instrumental in getting him interested in things theatrical in the first place-like the jam in St. Louis with Margie Melntire, when she'd needed an abortion, but fast; the jam that had precipitated the bootleg caper, that had involved him up to his stupid, green neck, that had realized him exactly zero, his buddy making off with the whole bundle-then there was only one answer. Get on your bicycle and go, man, go. Run and keep running.
There had been a blessed stability at the end there, during the New York interlude with Mary, he'd felt peaceful and secure with her, he sensed growing hope as she'd encouraged him in his attempts to be an actor.
There'd been other benefits also. That in the love, both spiritual and physical, he and Mary had shared. A love that for the first time in his life seemed meaningful and complete, that didn't leave him with that raw, animal dissatisfaction gnawing at his guts. When he was with Mary he was content, there was no need for other women. Which was, in itself, a radical departure, for every other girl he'd played house with-and there had been plenty of them before Mary-had left him with a jittery, vicious sense of loneliness and lack of identity.
A good, hot fuck. A fast shot of sperm. A kiss and a good-bye. Was that the only significance, the only puny gift the male-female relationship had to offer?
It had been different with Mary. And for a time he'd been happy, he'd felt he'd found home and anchor at last.
Anyway, until that cataclysmic afternoon he'd stumbled unannounced into Mary's apartment.
And again; run, Rod, run.
Remembering Mary's encouragement, the encouragement of various instructors at the Drama Workshop, he'd set out to crack Off-Broadway. One particular shop to his irresponsibility, a statement made by Ted Worth, a favorite teacher at the studio, still remained and rang clear in his head whenever he was plagued by self-doubts. The only consolation, seemingly, left him nowadays.
"A true artist's bound to be impatient with dull, ordinary pursuits, he's not concerned with such petty things as bills to be paid, dental appointments, a new suit or pair of shoes, or even the supposed responsibilities and obligations the world's constantly trying to foist off on him.
"He doesn't care whose feelings he hurts, he abhors close, clinging relationships with other people. His goals there, it blinds him to everything else, he doesn't care who he walks over to attain that goal. A true actor would knife him mother for a good part."
The statement had made a lasting impression; Rod had felt Mr. Worth had uttered it expressly for him. Whether or not it was so, Rod never took the time to figure it out. He was content to accept the words as a clarion call. As total and irrefutable excuse whenever his guilt feelings threatened to get the best of him.
There the manifesto was, for whatever it was worth.
And it was worth plenty to Rod Bradley.
Especially now, as he wrestled back his nagging doubts, determined to continue with his double life. Job-hunter by day, stud-at-fee by night.
He sighed, smiled lazily, feeling a transient well being. Tomorrow he'd make a point of going the rounds come more, futile though his attempts might be. He'd call on that independent producer, Nancy Willman, despite Olga's injunction to forget the whole thing and see if he couldn't nail something down. Something had to break someplace. And soon.
Now Rod's lips curved into an even more expansive grin. After all, he wasn't nobody any more. He was no frightened-eyed green-horn. He was now a man of substance. Employed in a going concern, possessed of a cold five hundred in cash. Nobody would dare look down his nose at him now. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was ten. The stores were open. And having had to scrimp for too long now, the money was suddenly burning a hole in his pocket. He would go shopping; he would buy himself a couple new suits, a half dozen shirts. Maybe even new shoes.
Hell, he thought, I can't go around looking like Skid Row, Class of '14 all my life. Time to live it up.
He whistled as he dressed, feeling immensely pleased with himself. Five minutes later he went sailing breezily out of the door.
When he returned at two, his arms full of bundles and boxes, the sense of well being had faded considerably. As had the size of his bankroll.
Nor was his state of mind much improved by the abrupt ringing of the telephone. And when he recognized Olga's voice on the other end of the line...
Her tone was harshly cold-blooded. "Save it up, Rod. I'll be needing you tomorrow night. And I meant rest your cock. You're going on the road. One of our special services for discriminating customers. A real orgy. There's at feast five hundred apiece in it. You can get the particulars from Ken; he'll be calling you. Got it? Any questions?"
"None that I can think of right now," Rod replied.
"Then I want you to remember just one thing," Olga continued, "this is just a job and you're the hired help as far as our clients are concerned. Don't ever forget that-and you'll stay out of trouble."
"Don't worry about it, Olga."
But as Rod hung up he couldn't help wondering what the evening held in store for him. Olga had said "orgy." What could possible be more of an orgy than had occurred last night? What would the next episode on Olga's sin circuit have in store for him?
CHAPTER FOUR
Ken Holman called Rod on schedule to fill him in on the details of the wild fuck affair that was scheduled for that evening.
"It's being thrown by Rita Vanoff-she's Martin Vanoff's wife, you know the big T.V. and movie producer. He commutes between Hollywood and New York. But little Rita just likes to stay in New York-especially when friend hubby is out on the coast."
"And he's in L.A. tonight?" Rod asked.
"But of course!" Ken replied.
"And she's picking up the whole tab?"
Yes, Rod conceded. The party was beginning to swing. Any minute now.
At the party, he forced down half a martini, refilled his glass to the brim again. He had to get in a party mood. Taking both glasses, he stared back toward Jean. And smiled to see Rita moving about the room, extinguishing still more lamps. Until now only the hanging gold lamps still burned, conferring the dimmest of light, making the room murky, a saffron cast masking everything. Then she was groping her way back to Merritt. With a wry grin Rod saw Marian Carter leaning to kiss Vince Fletcher, saw his hands sliding agitatedly on her trembling ass and legs.
He sat beside Jean, handed her the brandy. "Hope it's all right."
"What can you do to brandy and ice? Mmmm, you brought me lots. Here's to you."
"Here's to us."
"You are an operator, aren't you? Did they teach all that to you?"
"No, I knew it ever since I've been old enough to fuck a woman."
She laughed delightedly. "Oh, Rod, you are cute. That tastes yummy. Almost as yummy as I feel. I guess I've been drinking too much. But I was scared at first. Maybe I shouldn't tell you that. But I'm all right now."
"Have you been here before?"
"No," she said, sipping her drink. "My first visit. Only Daphne's been here before. But I knew about these parties. Rita's asked me other times. But I wasn't ready. This will be the first time I've ever been unfaithful to my husband."
"Yes, Jean?"
"Would-would you think me awfully forward if-if I asked you to kiss me?"
Rod felt his heart swell, flip-flop painfully. What had he been thinking of? That he hadn't made his move before now? In answer, he put his glass down, took the small, fragile body into his arms, held her closely for long, sweet moments. Then he brought his lips down.
And was amazed at the squirming, pushing, little whore she turned into. At the way she drilled her lips into his, the way she darted her tongue to his, clinging and sliding against him as if she hadn't been kissed or held in months.
"Rod, Rod," she sighed. "It's cheap, I know it's cheap, but I can't help it." Again her lips sought his. And as they kissed this time he brought his hand up, caught her tit, felt the hard point of her nipples in his palm. She shuddered convulsively, put her hand over his, held it to her breast. Her tongue went wild.
Daphne Rhodes had dropped the front of her dress, was busily coaxing her titties to Ken's mouth, squeezing them together, bringing both to him at once.
Marian Carter was lying in a half swoon as Fletcher caressed her nyloned legs, every sweep bringing him closer to her cunt.
While Rod, no innovator, he, was merely toying with Jean's sliding legs, the probing kiss going on non-stop in the meanwhile.
But all of this was stopped cold, everyone brought up staring as a shrill, ragged scream rent the drowsy, hissing air.
And they looked up to see Rita Vanoff in the center of the room, fighting with Bob Merritt, he slapping her across the face, trying to struggle her down onto a long, low, walnut cocktail table. Now as she shrilled her protests, he caught the throat of her expensive dress, tore at it savagely, ripped it right down the front.
"What the...?" Rod gasped, thinking Merritt had gone berserk. But immediately he saw Vince advancing on them, begin struggling for Rita's arms also. Almost simultaneously Ken was besides Rod, tapping his shoulder.
"C'mon, Rod," he shot. "This is it. Games now."
Woodenly Rod rose, followed Ken toward the room's center. "Hold her other foot," Ken commanded. "I'll get this one."
Still not knowing what was going on, Rod did as he was told. While above him Rita still screamed and cursed and struggled. As Merritt continued to tear her expensive dress to shreds.
"No, no..." she begged. "Don't, oh please don't fuck me." Her eyes rolled op into her head. "God, wont somebody help me?" Her cries were genuinely authentic, her terror real. But now Rod realized that her struggles weren't. Her wrenchings and twistings involved only token energy.
Now Merritt tore at the beautiful, lace-encrusted slip, threw it aside. Exposing the blonde woman dressed in evil black panties and brassiere.
"This is the gimmick," Ken muttered to Rod. "She digs it this way. She goes into this trance, really thinks she's being raped. Then she digs it the most."
Rod felt goose pimples marshal and march down his back. Never in his life had he heard of an aberration like this. And he held Rita's ankles tighter.
While Bob disdained clips and clasps, savagely wrenched away the exquisite, lacy lingerie, as he clawed at her stockings and garter-belt. Until at last the gorgeous blonde was naked, quivering before him, head hanging down, wracking, pleading sobs still breaking from her throat.
"On the table," Bob spat. "Hold her, you guys."
Brutally the three men threw her down, Ken and Rod pinning her ankles to the corners of the table. "Press down," Ken whispered. "Hurt her. She loves it best then."
While they held her, Ken and Rod on her feet. Vince Fletcher twisting her arms high above her head, Merritt was quickly undressing, Rod became conscious of the fact that Daphne Rhodes had herded the other girls close, that they were all watching gape-mouthed amazement, Jean especially. And yet-her dismay was tinged with revulsion.
There was a murmur, a ragged, terrified scream from Rita as Bob turned.
"Oh no!" Rita smiled anew. "Please don't. You'll hurt me, you'll kill me. Oh, don't, I beg you, don't!"
"Don't stop," Ken mimicked, whispering under his breath.
Then Bob was climbing the table, ignoring Rita's cries and sinking his erect prick in her cunt.
Until finally she wasn't screaming any more. Only hoarse gasps of delight broke from her.
"Okay," Ken smiled. "Let her go."
They returned to their separate women.
And Jean was revulsed no more. She watched in wide-eyed fascination as the two on the table savagely fucked, her own breath catching in her throat, welcoming Rod as he renewed playing with her nipples. Her kiss was abstracted and hurried, her eyes avid to see the entire fuck show. Merritt had one nipple in his mouth savagely sinking his prick into her cunthole. The table squeaked under the weight of the screwing couple. Her legs wound around his back as she moaned and writhed under the intense screwing. Once, Merritt's cock slid out intentionally, and Jean's eyes, bulged at the size of it. From a hoarse cry from Rita, he rammed it back into her pussy and began the intense fucking again.
Then it was over. A prolonged cacophony of ragged screams, an uncontrollable trembling of limbs. And at long last a satisfied Rita lay still.
"Stay with me, baby," she told Merritt. Her eyes were wide, amorous. "You were magnificent, darling. Just magnificent." Then she turned, glared at her audience. "Well, what the hell you waiting for? Get upstairs. You're on your own now. Scat!"
"This way," Jean sighed, tearing at Rod frenziedly. "Please hurry. I want to get fucked!"
Moments later only Rita and Bob remained in the living room. Rita purring contentedly to him.
Jean luxuriated in Rod's attentions, twisting on the satin sheets as Rod reverently undressed her. Small, quaking sobs erupted from her throat as he came to her, ran his hands over her warm, creamy body. It seemed she would jump out of her skin when he fastened his mouth to her titties, the sensation making her feel like the pulsing globes were soon to explode.
When her cunt could wait no longer, she brought her hands to his prick and drew him toward her. It was sweet and self effacing, a feeling like Rod hadn't known in a long, long time.
But at last it was different. Shatteringly different. As Jean sucked in her breath, convulsed by a harrowing terror, held it. But still she willed him to enter her cunthole.
And Rod felt an incredible fever consume him, rob him of all mentality. He was transformed. There was only Jean-this most essential and vital manifestation of Jean. And his answer to that offering and self-sacrifice as he rammed his ten inch prick into her moist hole, wet with the yearning juice for his cock. He didn't spare her. He wasn't brutish-but he wasn't gentle either. In and out-in and out-his huge tool worked into her cunt until she was screaming without stop, her words incoherent, words whose shadowy import was love and gratitude and for more of his dong.
He quickly grabbed one of her huge nipples into his mouth and again began to ram his prick into the love-juice filled hole. Their legs entwined and held fast as his other hand massaged her other nipple, the heat and passion of their fuck became so intense that she had two more orgasms in quick succession.
A frantic, insane stream of tremendous jets of sperm Rod was only too happy, even delirious to add to only moments later.
"It was wonderful," Jean said with that same moving wonder and humbleness, when at last they had caught then-breaths. "Simply wonderful. I never dreamed it could be like that."
"I don't understand," Rod murmured. "You acted so... I can't explain it. You were just different. Like it was your first time."
Her voice was distant. "No, Rod, it wasn't my first time. I... "
At that moment there was a hammering at the door. They heard Daphne Rhode's coarse chuckles. "You done in there yet, Jean? You know what Rita said. I get him next. You and Kenneth now. C'mon, hurry up."
And Rod understood why Olga had promised five hundred dollars. The night was, in all actually, only beginning. Still he felt a monumental anger, a fury of rebellion. "No," he whispered. "You don't have to go. Stay here. With me all night."
Her laughter was shattery, forced. "No," she said. "I'm going to try all of these lovely pricks. That's what I came for, that's what I'm going to get."
"You don't mean that," he shot. "You know you don't want to take all of the sperm like you did mine!"
"Don't kid yourself." Her voice was hard, firm now, an ugly resolve and stubbornness coming to the fore. "I know what I came here for." The words were bitter, as though she was extorting vengeance-more on herself than on anyone else-"and I'm not leaving without it."
Then she was slipping from the bed. The door opened; there were female giggles. And Jean was replaced. Now Daphne's hands ran tremblingly over his body.
As she made her overtures, he understood why Kenneth had promoted Daphne. For in a debasing rite, reflecting her hatred for her indifferent husband, she took care of things all by her lonesome, asking absolutely no release for herself. She would defile herself-she'd show him-as her hands jerked Rod's prick until he shot his load.
Marian came next. Heading that he emulate Vince's example. In the end promising that she would-if he would. But Rod was obdurate, and finally she had to capitulate.
Rita was more dominating. And in her maniac strength, in her evil cajolings and threatenings, she finally extorted more sadism from him. She made him tie her wrists to the bedposts with her stockings. Then she made him cover himself with a fur rug as if he were an animal. He crouched and then sprung on her, his cock immediately embedded in her cunt while he fucked her with an abandon he was surprised at. As they both came in each other she cried, "yes," she gasped, "that's it. Wowee... you devil, you."
Some time later, seemingly an eternity, Jean came back. A foul-mouthed, totally polluted Jean. A Jean who insisted he fuck her again. Who passed out in his arms before the event was barely begun.
It was an hour before dawn when Rita came into the bedroom, found them thus, and woke them. Rod tried to help Jean, but Rita interfered. "You take care of yourself, stud," she snarled. "You guys clear out while the clearing out's good. I'll see to this poor chick."
Rod was reluctant to leave, but finally went and joined the rest of Olga's boys in the car. He wondered if they were as completely drained and tired as he was. If they were, they certainly didn't show it. Instead, they laughed and joked about the evening's events and especially kidded Rod.
"Now that your getting a taste of being a real pro stud, how do you feel at the end of an honest night of screwing?" Vince Fletcher kidded.
But the teasing fell on deaf ears-Rod had fallen asleep like a man who's been slugged.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rod made an attempt to "go straight" the following week. He'd gotten a call to be an extra on a T.V. cigarette commercial that had a western locale. The production unit had taken over a dude ranch in upper Westchester for the filming and Rod welcomed the chance to don cowboy attire, ride a horse and do some "acting." Maybe it would be the beginning of something better for him in a legitimate way. It was a matter of furthering his acting career, at least making some move, small though it was, in a redemptive direction. And an "extra's" slot, minor though it was, was at least one faltering step away from the house in Riverdale.
Or so he thought. For on Thursday, as the "location" shots were finished, the cameras put away for another day, and his services were no longer needed, he realized that all he'd got out of the venture, besides the piddling "extra's" minimum, was a burn, a horse odor, and aching asscheeks. He had in no appreciable way furthered his career. No director had even give him a second look, much less run up to him with excited howls and "discovered" him.
He couldn't help but wonder what the point was. Here he'd spent a rugged, monotonous three days astride a cantankerous, balky horse, he'd raced up countless draws and rises, he'd skinned his legs in the ambush sequence, for what? Seventy dollars a day? He could more than equal his three days' movie earnings with one night's "application" at Olga's. It was easier than a smelly horse.
He tried to tell himself that this wasn't proper reasoning at all. But somehow all his temporizations fell flat on their faces. Facts were facts. And money is money. He'd hold out for a part breaking in Manny Willman's independent pilot production. But the "extra" bit. Never again.
In the meantime. While he waited?
There was always Riverdale.
Which was where, on that slow Thursday afternoon, tired of sitting in his apartment and thinking his depressing thoughts, Rod Bradley finally betook himself. Not so much, he told himself, in hope of turning a trick, as in desire for company. Ken had told him there was always someone "standing by" around the house. There was always a poker game going. There was always some interesting conversation.
Besides, Rod had a lame alibi, there was the matter of his fee for last Friday night's caper. And he'd best check in.
There was no sweat about the fee. For as he entered his room the plain white envelope on his dresser was one of the first things he saw. He smiled thinly as he saw the five G-notes there. Added to the hundred Rita Vanoff slipped to each of us as we left that night-Hell, you cant beat success.
He felt sudden pangs of disgust as the reminder of the orgy at the Westchester mansion, tried to blot out the thoughts. Was the money, attractive though it was, worth that self-vilification? Would money ever really recompense for a sell-out like that?
Now that it was the first time he'd thought about that night. There'd been plenty of time out in the lulls as they'd waited between takes, as they'd rode the bus back and forth between the city and the ranch. Times when he's been unable to fight his thoughts into submission, and the events of the entire debacle had paraded in leering, mocking file before his eyes all over again.
Needless to say, Rod had been glad when the riding and shooting had taken up again.
Especially needling had been the remembrance of Jean Schuyler. It seemed he couldn't quite relate the naivete of her expression and character to the fuck-goings on at Rita Vanoff s. The ringing, hissing vehemence with which she'd been determined to see the vile round robin of cocks through still boomed and echoed in his mind. How in hell could a kid like that lend herself to the sick games played in that sin-trap of Friday night?
Even more disconcerting: What reeking, foul secret lurked in her background? What humiliation had led her to embrace the debauch so greedily? If she was truly married as she claimed, what cruel affront had her husband inflicted to drive her to this?
Insofar as was possible Rod fought to still the disquieting thought, concluding that it didn't really matter what Jean Schuyler's reasons for being screwed by ten men were. Unless she was at Rita's, when and if he was summoned there once more, his and Jean's paths would never cross again anyway.
And why the big sorry over an empty-headed baby like Jean in the first place? I've got problems enough of my own. Let her stew in her own juice, no matter what private hell it steamed and bubbled from.
But the saying was much easier than the doing. And sitting in his quiet, sumptuous quarters, he found a vision of the exquisite, bewildered-eyed girl swimming faster and faster in his brain. Until he knew he had to get out of the room, find some distraction.
But he was wrong again. For he did not have to leave his room; distraction came to him. From the corner of his eye he saw the red lights on the control panel flash, signal that someone was at large in the halls. Moments later he heard his buzzer snarl.
He opened the door to find Olga Innstrom standing before him, a sarcastic smile on her lips. "Well, welcome back," she smirked. "Where you been?"
She was dressed in a slack outfit again, her daytime trademark apparently; an outfit of silver lame this time, an ensemble that had seemingly been sprayed on. And then deliberately shrunk two sizes after that. There wasn't a muscle or curve of her body that wasn't proudly and boldly displayed. The woman had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
Rod was immediately on guard. "I've been around."
"Have you?" she cut him down with a glance. "That's a lie and you know it. If you'd have been around, you'd know I tried to get in touch with you all day Tuesday. A real urgent call came up." Coldly she looked over his reddened face. "Looks like you been out with a fresh air cultist."
He decided on the truth. "I was out of town. On location. I got a little part in a TV commercial. We were shooting some exteriors up on a dude ranch."
"How little?"
"Just little."
"What you mean is that you were an extra. Right?"
Her voice was cutting. "Now listen to me, wise guy. You want to be a big T.V. star you go ahead. That's your affair. You can play all the kid games you want. But get one thing straight. You check in before you take off, see if there's anything on the fire. Then, and only then, when you get the all clear, you can go off and make like a star. I have to know where you are. I can't afford to turn down clients like Vivian Gabriel more than once."
Rod jerked. "Vivian Gabriel?"
"Yes, Vivian Gabriel. I don't know what you did to her, but she's really got it where you're concerned. I tried palming off someone else on her, but she wouldn't hear of it. It had to be Rod. I even volunteered Vince Fletcher or Doug Lyman, but she didn't want one of that either. Shell be in to see you next week. Unless she goes to Los Angeles with her husband. Then the week after."
Rod was adequately contrite. "I'm sorry, Olga. I just got a wild impulse. That thing on Friday at Rita's kind of got me down. And when they called me from the casting office, I..."
"Skip it," she squelched him. "It's done with now. But next time..." Her voice softened, her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Rough at Rita's huh?"
"I thought so. Maybe the other guys..."
"You'll get used to it. Don't let it bug you. The others complained too. That dame gets one of the nuttiest ideas. She's a tramp." Olga laughed. "But a well paying one. We can afford to humor her, can't we?"
Rod grinned wryly. "Yeah, I guess we can."
Olga's eyes dilated suddenly, she stared at Rod with a too intense look, a touch of yearning in her assessment. Then she winced. "Anyway, be here tonight. Nothing definite, but it'll be busy. I'll find something for you to do. Or somebody to screw."
She paused at the door, looked back. "One more thing. You've got an ironclad appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three. Be on time." And giving him no time to answer, Olga let herself swaggeringly out the door. The poker game was in Doug Lyman's room. It was Rod's first meeting with Doug-another specialist, Ken had once insinuated-but he knew all the others gathered around the table. Bob Merritt, Vince Fletcher, and of course, the omnipresent cynic, Ken Holman. All of them made a loud show of welcoming the patsy, all of them already feeling their drinks. Which was to the good, for if there was anything Rod couldn't stand this afternoon, it was a grim, moody session. He was here for laughs; the gloom stuff he had enough of on his own.
It was a sociable, low stakes game, and before the hour was up Rod had parlayed himself a nice pile of chips. Not to mention a glow that was creeping up on him.
"Hey," Bob joshed, "I thought we were getting a patsy here. Looks like we're the ones who were suckered in. Don't you ever drop a hand?"
"Only when I don't have the cards," Rod laughed.
"How's it doing, pal?" Vince Fletcher asked.
"What d'ya mean, how's it going? I' wining, ain't I?"
"I mean fucking the broads. How do you like the set up? You getting used to being one of the joy boys? You acted fed up the other night."
"You didn't sound so chipper either," Ken interjected. "Not as I recall it. You got one real workout that night."
Fletcher was very forthright about his predilections. "Hell, that Carter witch couldn't get enough prick." He turned on Rod again. "Well?"
"It's a living," Rod snapped. "I don't have to like it, do I?"
"God," Bob retorted. "You're getting paid for something that most guys would give their right arms to fall into."
"Fall into is right. It all depends on your outlook. Mine just happens to be a cut above the cunt philosophy most of you have settled for."
"An idealist," Doug Lyman chuckled. "Give him time, you guys. He's like the rest of us. We all thought this was a stopgap when we started here. Now look at us. Hell learn in time. Hell, it's only his second week."
"Deal," Ken snapped. "Cards, remember?"
"Yeah," Bob said. "Deal 'em."
But there was talk on the side. Very interesting and disconcerting talk. Talk which led Rod to believe that his education in Olga's sin den had only begun. He had lots to learn.
The conversation veered into an unavoidable track of women fucking. And the record went round and round. Came out girls, girls, girls. Rod Bradley learning plenty about what went on in those rooms in the house.
"Those suffering nuts," Bob was saying, "they're the ones that turn my stomach. Mix in a little fetish stuff, and you really got a mess." He went on to tell of an experience where the woman had lain on the bed, insisted he whip her bloody with a hardware-studded belt she brought along, had achieved a hurricane of a come from the act. Afterward, she'd brought out a tin box of half smoked cigarettes, obviously her husband's, had insisted he light up, and burn ugly souvenirs into her body as an encore.
It was like telling off-color jokes. One story recalled another, and soon each of the old hands at the house had an interesting account to relate.
"Remember that six day deal up in New Rochelle?" Vince reminded. "That big advertising and T.V. brawl?"
"Remember?" Ken said. "I ache every time I do."
"Well, let me tell Junior here about it."
It was a party that had taken place just after Christmas last year. A Christmas party to end all Christmas parties. A nonstop orgy during which the dozen guys and dozen gals had drunk everything but bowl cleaner, had fucked each other out in every way their drink-addled minds could evolve. Until finally, during the second day, the men had given out. Either that, or-much to the impassioned, insatiable women's frustration-had turned to still another improvisation-he'n and he'n. It was then that one of the women had remembered Olga, had given her a buzz, sent for reinforcements.
Six men had gone out, hadn't returned for four days, and then, more dead than alive. The reports they brought back were hair-raising. They'd been greeted with gratitude by the burned out males, with delirious joy by the panting prick-hungry dolls. The things that had transpired as the party had dragged to a heat-henish close, were indescribable, the women still avid for more cock, the men totally beat. Olga's tab of $2,000 had been met without a protest.
"And that's not mentioning the extras we got." Merritt, who'd also been there, added. "Them dolls were stripping off jewelry, pulling out hoarded greenbacks right and left. If only we'd fuck 'em this way and that."
"I didn't get out of bed for a week after," Ken laughed.
"That Rita and her rape bit," Ken reminisced now, "reminds me of that night Ottavia Rossi came in here, hired every stud in the house. She dug it suffering too."
Ottavia Rossi, a famous concert coloratura, had indeed had a quirk. For under explicit instructions relayed by Olga, she wanted to be fucked nonstop. Just as soon as one man finished, another was to cruelly rape her. She gave herself a three hour deadline, paid lavishly. With still another provision: That being that no matter how much she screamed and protested that she'd had enough, she was still to be screwed and screwed. According to Kenneth, she was out of her head by the end of the second hour. But still, heeding her strict orders, the men kept lining up outside her door to take their turns at fucking her.
And yet, come morning, after a few hours rest, the woman had walked out of the house under her own power composed and completely lucid.
"That was when Ricky Gennaro was still here," Vince said.
"What ever happened to him?" Merritt said. "If there was ever a prick, Rich was it. You just couldn't wear him out. I once saw him go eight straight fucks with one dame. She was yelling uncle, too, believe me."
"I don't know," Kenneth said. "He just disappeared after fucking fifteen women one after the other and the women still were crying for more cock. Maybe he took a deep six. He was acting kind of squirrelly at the end there."
"Maybe," Lyman said, "he found himself a doll on his own. Maybe she's keeping him some place."
"Not Rich," Ken scoffed. "He dug variety of cunt. He'd be the last to tie himself down to one broad mare. No, that wasn't it. There was some bad feeling with Olga if you remember."
"Hell," Vince spat, "that's just some of her propaganda. She'd like to have us believe he crossed her once too often and she erased him. She don't scare me."
Ken sent him a mocking sneer. "Oh, no? How come you run like you got electric shoes every time she calls you down for a visit?"
"Rats," Vincie said. And abruptly dropped the subject.
Whereupon Doug Lyman filled the gap. Told a story that partially revealed what variations he specialized in. For a good price, of course. As he related an account of a sadistic interlude with one of the city's most prominent society figures. During which she'd flailed him with a black leather whip she brought in her own handbag.
After which, only partially satisfied, she'd forced him to lie on the floor, had walked on his hands, his arms and legs wearing her spike-heeled shoes. And finally, bracing herself on the chair, had stood on his chest had achieved a terrifying orgasm as she hovered over him, the come running down her legs, calling her husband's name again and again.
Then, at the end, in a stunning act of contrition, had flung herself upon his naked body, had loved and kissed it, had sucked his prick and balls sobbing hysterically all the while.
The card session lasted perhaps an hour more, each hand taking more and more time to play. As the flow of stories went on and on. Until at the end, finding it increasingly hard to concentrate. Rod Bradley found that he was down twenty-five dollars.
But then, he mused, education-education of any conceivable kind-never does come cheap.
Olga had Rod booked for two fuck events that night. One at ten, the other at eleven-thirty. They were with gaunt, leather-faced married women who had a yen for pretty, young men; women of no special eminence except that of their husband's bank accounts. Who, if they were anyone special, weren't bothering to advertise. Women who wanted to be fucked in a good ramming session, if brash manner, who craved no side attractions. Each fuck was concluded in thirty minutes flat.
"I just stopped in for a pick-me-up after League meeting," Rod could imagine them telling their husbands upon returning home.
And thus, as he waited for his balls to refill, having no special yearning for more clients that night, but remaining on hand in case a desperate transient should ankle in, there was time to kill.
Part of which time, with Kenny was spent spying on the "preview room." Watching Ed Johnson and frenzied brunette work up to screwing in a very primitive manner. The woman, a lush-bodied amazon who stood at least six feet in her socks, had obviously picked Ed for one reason. He had a huge prick.
She'd been with Ed before, that much was clear. For he seemed to know his role perfectly, every move and submission meticulously ritualized. He stood before the woman in dumb passivity, let her have her way with him. He let her undress him, let her circle and admire him when he was nude, let her touch and caress his cock and balls.
Then charged with impatience, she began to rip off her own clothes. Until she got down to her brassiere and panties. These she let Ed remove. It provided quite a contrast to see his black hands going over that white body, gentry sliding off the white silk bra and panties.
It was a dumbshow that was driving the woman in the viewing stand almost out of her head. She was twisting and shaking uncontrollably, her own hands mauling her fully clothed escort. Who happened to be Doug Lyman. A very cooperative type of fellow. Except when the youngish matron, a brittle, but pretty little blonde, dressed to the teeth in an exotic, strapless gown, sexy shoes, iridescent stockings, got rough. Then he had to take her hands, restrain her.
"Oh, isn't that wonderful!" she seethed. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world. I've heard rumors about this, but I never believed it. I thought it was a folk myth. But it's true, isn't it?"
And suddenly, her passion crowning, unable to help herself, she caught Doug's hands and pushed them at her cunt. So with his index finger he entered her cunthole and proceeded to finger-fuck her. "Now dear. Oh, that feels so good. Ahh..." She came but was still unsatisfied, her expression of desire only partially gone she whipped down the front of her gown, let her ripe, ponderous tits roll out.
"Suck them, baby," she pleaded. "Suck them good. I can't just sit here and watch this and do nothing. Mmmm, mmm... You sweet lover. That's gorgeous. Keep it up, don't stop." The sucking noises Doug made convinced the men that he was giving those nipples the sucking of then-life.
Then her breath suddenly caught in her throat. As she saw the woman with Ed kiss him. As she saw her go limp, begin to slide down his eager body, his prick standing out ready for white cunt. The little housewife's hands twisted in Doug's hair, "No," she whispered, awestruck, "she won't, she wont suck his prick!"
But the brunette would. And she knelt before Ed, she groveled at his feet, kissed his legs, then his knees. Her hands clawed and slipped. And she pulled herself even higher, higher toward the huge cock that was waiting to be sucked.
Doug Lyman's blonde companion wriggled and writhed in sympathy as the brunette proceeded to suck the giant, black dong, a look of supreme ecstasy on her face. As she watched the brunette continue to suck both the huge cock and, now, his balls, the blonde's mouth, began to work convulsively. She kicked at Doug's trousers and frantically unzipped him. Still watching the "show" she fondled Doug's ass, his thighs and finally his prick. As passion gulfed his pole with her mouth, her lips working in a frantic hungry rhythm. A sudden spasm shot through Doug as he shot his load passionately in her mouth the blonde still sucking him with gurgling sounds of delight.
Rod watched with fascination at the sights which were unfolding before him. Finally he turned away as he saw both the black man and Doug sucking the cunts of their "partners" with complete abandon and lust, making them come again and again, and left with Ken Holman.
CHAPTER SIX
T.V. producer Manny Willman scrutinized Rod Bradley with keen blue eyes and said, "You look a little bent since you last tested for us. Had a virus?"
Rod looked around the walls of the office, lined with autographed photos of T.V. stars and other show business notables and said, "No, I've just been feeling a little below par lately. But it's nothing believe me, Mr. Willman."
Manny Willman continued, "I know your wondering what this is all about Bradley-and I don't believe in making a big production out of good propositions. As you recall, Rod, you tested for us about six weeks ago, and as I told you then, I was impressed with you and with your tests. I've brought you here today to tell you I'm willing to take a chance on you, despite your lack of credits, if you're willing to take a chance on me."
Rod's heart darted into his throat, seemed to lodge there. "You mean...?"
"I mean we've finally tracked down a top notch property, we're lining up an experimental cast, and we want you to take a supporting part. You know Michael Moss, don't you?"
"I've heard of him, Manny. Isn't he the one who...?"
"Don't finish, Rod. Yes, he's been on the skids for a while. But I think he's coming out of it. We've signed him to direct. He's willing to accept the financial arrangement well be forced to work under."
Olga's words, uttered upon their first meeting, leaped to life in his mind, caused Rod's heart to sink. "Notoriously no pay." Was that the kind of idea he was letting himself get suckered into?
"You've heard of Morton Blair, haven't you?" Manny said. "Surely you must have. He's big guns on the literary scene right now."
"Morton Blair? Who hasn't?"
"Well, we've got a Blair book under option. One of my scouts picked it up when Blair was still a nobody. It's called "Murder off Broadway" and it's a damn good book. It'll make a marvelous movie. With the right cast, the right directing; it can't miss." He tossed over a paperback book. "Here's a copy, take it home and read it. There's no script so far, but within three weeks well have a rough script, well be able to work from that."
The man's enthusiasm was infectious, and as Rod look the book, he saw his hands were trembling. "What have you got in mind for me, Manny?"
"If you're willing to agree to our terms. Rod, we'd like to have you try Zachary's part. He's the brother, a kind of faggot ne'r do well, who blunders into the murder. But I'm giving the plot away. Anyway, he's kind of a minor heavy. It's the kind of part you can get your teeth into, the kind of part stars like Paul Newman and Charlie Coburn are made from."
"What terms do you have in mind."
"Well, this is the part of it I don't like, Rod. Right away people think they're being roped on a deal like this. But I'm in this business on a shoestring too? I'm risking my savings just to lease the old Essanbee lot and studios. But if I'm willing to take a chance there should be somebody else in this town willing to do the same.
He looked earnestly into Rod's eyes. "A hundred a week Rod. For a minimum six weeks. We're gonna put it in the can in less if at all possible." He saw the disappointed look in Rod's face and hurried to add, "With this one provision: There'll be a percentage of profits for everybody in the picture. If we get a hit, everybody'll make a nice piece of change. Not to mention a little notoriety on the side. And that never hurt any actor living, so far as I know."
Still Rod sat in silence, fingering the paperback listlessly. While a hundred doubts tossed and clashed in his brain.
Willman smiled understandingly. "You don't have to decide now, Rod," he said. "Go home and think it over. Read the book. If you aren't crazy about the part, as crazy about it as I am, just call me, tell me no. I know damn well you'll want to come in with us."
Suddenly Rod shivered, tucked the book into his pocket. He recalled the impending three o'clock appointment at Olga's. And he remembered the rotten, degenerate thing he'd witnessed between Ed and the brunette only last night, as the little blonde's coarse pleas to have her pussy sucked by Doug Lyman echoed and reechoed in his brain.
Do I have a choice, he raged, his resolve suddenly hardening to the consistency of tempered steel. Any real choice?
He stood, extended his hand to Manny Willman. "I don't have to sleep on it," he said firmly. "I've already made up my mind, Manny." He faltered, the emotion he felt getting the best of him. "This is my only chance. I'll probably never get another chance. I don't care about money. I'm your boy. I'll take the part."
His eyes shining with sincere warmth, Manny Willman took Rod's hand and shook it vigorously.
Rod's head was still spinning, a myriad of conflicting thoughts at large in his brain when he reached the Riverdale address. To enter, to encounter some hungry tramp now, was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Instead he wanted to flee to his apartment, there to sift his thoughts, to gain some modicum of peace. And more than anything, to read the Blair novel.
But he realized it could not be. For now, more than ever, he was ruled by two masters. One expediency and practicality as represented by Olga Innstrom, the other hope and riches as offered by Manny Willman.
It meant only one thing. For now: Compromise.
And briskly, moving like a mindless automaton, committed to his ugly course for a while longer, stoic about it even, he entered the house. Went directly to his room to be ready for his client.
At three-ten he became impatient, was about to ring Olga to see if there'd been some slip up. But as he rose, started toward the phone, he heard the door buzzer sound. Changing course, he went to open it.
And was stunned into silence when he saw Olga, flanked by the scowling Mack Calabrio, standing before him. Only it was a transformed Olga, her blonde hair combed out, falling softly on her shoulders, haloing her face, giving it a child-like cast. An Olga dressed in a white, trim, nylon dress, figure hugging and chic. Wearing white, satin shoes, the toes sharp, the heels exaggeratedly high.
Transfigured, from the imperious, domineering madam into a lovely, vulnerable-and desirable-woman.
But still the significance of the change, the burning expectancy in her gave, didn't register. He blurted the words out; "Olga, I was just going to call you. I thought you said I had an ironclad three o'clock date with some bimbo?"
She smiled oddly, said. "Yes, Rod, you have. That bimbo happens to be me." She laughed lightly, beckoned to Calabrio. "Come in, Mack. Don't balk now. Remember what I said?"
While Rod stood in frozen silence, his mouth agape, moving with no words coming out. Then; "You, Olga? You aren't serious?"
"I'm very serious, Rod. Am I so repulsive?" Again she turned on Calabrio, speaking sharply. And yet taking a tone like that a mother might use with a recalcitrant son. "I said come in, Mack."
"No," Rod replied. "It's not that at all. I'm surprised, that's all. I..."
"I told you I might get around to you one of these days. Well, today's the day." The old aloofness returned. "Pull the blinds please, Rod."
When he turned she was standing in the center of the room posed provocatively, her smile sultry and seductive to the nth degree. "Will I do, Rod?" she teased.
"Yes," he stammered. "It's just that I-I don't understand."
"What's to understand? After all. I'm a woman, too. In my prime I need to be fucked-to stop my cunt from twitching. Where do you think I got the idea for this unique establishment in the first place? I figured there must be hundreds of women just like me, who needed to be screwed. Women with more money than I had."
A strange sound broke from Calabrio's throat. A sick sighing gasp, something akin to a sob. 'Don't do this, Miss Olga," he said stupidly. "Please, you don't have to do this." Rod couldn't help but see the psychotic light in his eyes, the idiotic twist to his lips.
Her voice rose, 'That will do!" The hulking man jerked, retreated, as though he'd been slapped. Olga turned on Rod. "Sit down, please, Rod. I'll be ready in a moment."
She looked severely at Calabrio. "Come now, Mack," She wheeled. "It's time now."
"Please, Miss Olga," he half blubbered. "Please don't do this. He isn't worthy of you. I... "
"I said it's time now, Mack! I won't speak again."
The brute shambled forward, his gaze clouded, looking for all the world like a small boy who'd been badly scolded by his mother. "Please, Miss Olga."
"Mack..."
Rod felt like someone had jabbed a stevedore's hook into his spine, was twisting and probing with it. He shuddered involuntarily, feeling a shriveling chill as he saw the huge man fall to his knees before her. Then reach out for her, gravely and studiously begin unbuttoning her chic gown.
"What's this all about?" Rod asked stupidly. "What kind of nut act is this anyway?"
"Don't fret, Rod," she winked, her voice placatingly hushed. "You cant understand this. Just take my word for it. It's what this ape really wants." She glanced down at Mack. "That's a good, good boy, Mack. Mummy's good little boy. Now Mummy's zippers."
The clumsy fingers came up, worked at the fine zippers in the waist of the dress. Now she shrugged out of it, turned to reveal the intricate lacework on her heavy, beige-colored slip. 'The skirt now, Mack."
Rod expected Mack to slobber at any moment. His mouth worked agitatedly, his sullen expression changed to a happy one now. As he held the skirt for Olga to step out of. He paused to run his hands along the silky length of her thighs.
"My slip, Mack," she commanded, again winking at Rod.
With painstaking care he brought up the elegant garment, lifted it over her head. For long moments he stroked her legs. "Mack, you're wasting time."
Now she brushed his hands away, stood with arms akimbo, her figure breath-taking, wearing only a sheer brassiere, a lightweight girdle, panties, stockings, and the white pumps. Rod saw the puckered darkness of her nipples through the brocaded lace effect that aureoled each bursting globe. With maddening slowness she turned, let his eyes feast on every curve and indentation of her body. "Like me?" she taunted. "You like Olga?"
Rod couldn't begin to understand this sick little pageant. Not at all. But one thing he did understand. And that was that it was taking its toll on him. He wanted to fuck this woman with all his heart and soul. Even though he knew that what she was doing to Calabrio was depraved, he was still wild to fill her cunt with his prick.
"My shoes, Mack," she purred next, willing the man to bend before her. And in a fetishist frenzy, he ran his face along her legs, began to kiss her ankles. And finally her shoes. Rod saw Olga tits rising and falling rapidly; he sensed the intensity of her savorance of this sick subservience.
"Take them off, Mack," she sighed, tiring of his cowering attention at last. "Kiss Mummy's pretty feet now."
"Pretty feet, pretty shoes," he was bubbling, his lips lingering at her instep. Now he raised her foot, kissed the sole. Olga balanced prettily on his shoulders, looked at Rod.
"He likes this, really he does," she said, talking about Calabrio as if he were not actually in the room with them. "He'd go out of his mind if I didn't let him carry on like this. It's all part of it. Even the end, when I go to bed with you. You explain I can't."
She slapped him sharply. "No, Mack! Be careful. You're hurting Mummy."
He was instantly contrite, put the foot down. "I'm sorry, Mummy, sorry."
"Take off my stockings now, Mack."
She posed regally, no trace of shame or embarrassment on her face as Mack continued his feeble-minded adoration, kissing her legs as he bared them, kissing the bare flesh of her tummy. Wallowing fervidly in his servile fantasies, until at last Olga stood nude before Rod, her magnificent body seemingly pulsing, shimmering, sending a siren call to come lose his prick in that sensual flesh.
Calabrio, in deep trance, huddled at her feet again, kissed and lapped at them with soft puppy noises, until Olga indolently pushed him away with her foot. "That's all now, dear. You go now. Leave us alone. I won't need you any more."
He howled as if in actual pain. "No! Please let me stay. I won't say anything. I'll just watch. Mummy please..."
"Outside, Mack. You wait outside the door. Just like always. You watch and guard for Mummy. Remember what I promised you? Later, when we go back downstairs?"
It was an utterly crestfallen, still blubbering man who finally relented, let himself out the door. Who, even as Rod closed and locked the door, was falling back against the door his face rapt.
I can't explain it," Olga said as Rod turned back. "I let him stay in the room once, and he got nasty, nearly killed the guy with me. Out there he dreams all sorts of wacky things. It's best that way. Later on downstairs, I'll let him indulge himself in a few other happy tricks. Then he's set for a while again. If he wasn't so valuable otherwise, I'd have got rid of the chick a long time ago."
"Why'd you bring him up here?"
"Bring him? I couldn't shake him. I don't know how he does it, but he seems to sniff it when I'm yearning for a cock.
"He's like an animal. He's violent. Hell kill somebody someday."
Her laughter was musical. "No, he won't. He's as easy as a baby if you know how to handle him. And if anybody can control him, I can." She put her hands under her breasts invitingly. "But I didn't come up here to talk about that slob all afternoon. I came up here for a good hot fuck-or two-or three." Her smile was of sultry, wanton abandonment ever used by woman through the vast reaches of time.
Her voice dropped, became husky. "Aren't you going to undress, Rod. You don't want to keep Olga waiting for her cocky, do you?"
Rod didn't need another prodding. Passionate beyond reason by the weird travesty he'd witnessed between Olga and her servile flunky, he was possessed of an overriding need to fuck this woman until he died, if necessary. And then-surveying the lush, body, the body conceived and dedicated to fuck pleasure-he was lost in the first real desire for female cunt since he started working at this pleasure-house.
Immediately he was hauling and tearing at his clothes, until, moments later, he stood trembling before the calculatingly appraising woman.
"Well, come on, baby," she purred. "I won't say no."
She whirled, reached the bed in four quick steps, fell upon it. Curled herself into a tight ball, waited for him, hellish fires burning in her gaze.
But when he came to her, she struggled free, slid away from him. "Uh, uh, doll. You don't rush things. Not with me. Boil the pot first. Like this."
And, her face twisting into a demonic grimace, she surged up, flung herself against him straddled his body. In the same fluid, sliding movement she kneed her way upward, settled there. Leaning over him, her hands sinking into the pillows beneath his head, her arms forming supporting pillars, beneath his head, she slurred. "Take those tits, baby. Suck 'em up, like you never sucked before."
A smile lit her features; her eyes narrowed. She sighed thickly as his hands drew her huge breasts down.
Now as the stinging desire spread its tentacles into every pore and cell of her body, she dropped her head, watched Rod with sloe-eyed fascination and delight. He pulled one huge nipple into his mouth stroking his tongue around the circle of the nipple until he felt her heat increase. Then he pulled the nipple itself deep into his mouth screwing and sucking the tit with his whole mouth. At the same time, his hand was gently massaging and pulling her other nipple until it was standing up practically the size of a small, little finger. Then he reversed nipples sucking the other, pulling the first. He continued sucking her tits in this fashion, until the woman was beside herself with desire. "There!" she hissed as she lowered herself with exact precision onto his huge prick.
She began to bounce in slow movements. "Oh, Rod, you're good. Man, man... Don't stop, keep it up. Don't stop." Her voice broke, emerged as a broken rasping cry.
Olga sucked in her breath, whimpered pleasurably as Rod rammed his cock deep into her cunt over and over again. Her hot, moist pussy sucking at his cock, greedily holding it as if to never let it go. "Oh, darling, oh!"
As Rod rammed his prick into her twat over and over again, as his arms locked and trapped, it seemed he was lost in time and space. That the afternoon light turned to midnight blue. But only momentarily. For suddenly it became a glaring, blinding white. Then silver and gold, a glittering screen of varicolored sequins that waved and fluttered before his eyes as he shot his hot load deep into her womb.
Olga sighed deeply when at last they were back upon the tumbled sheets, released Rod. "Don't go away, sweetheart," she husked. "More of that later."
And there was more. Twice more his cock was dipped into her cunt as far as it could go, at the same time pulling her lush nipples until they reached two more climaxes. And while they weren't as scorching hot as the first fuck, there wasn't the least bit of complaining from either participant when they were done. Only rave notices.
For perhaps twenty minutes they dozed.
When they awoke, the magic spell was totally shattered. For once more they assumed their old relationship, that of employee and employer. Rod opened his eyes to see Olga dressing, found the familiar lurching in his guts as he took in the symmetrical, sensuous curve of her back, the swell of her ass, the flare of leg and calf as she slipped into her panties.
"Well," he joked, "do I pass?"
She smiled tiredly. "Yes, Rod. You pass. With flying colors." She turned serious, suddenly all business. I came up here to find out about. Mischief flared in her eyes. "That and something else. I needed you today, Rod. Real bad."
"What're you talking about?"
"You feel up to another go tonight?"
"I suppose. If I have a few hours in between, I'm in good shape. What've you got in mind?"
"It's a special, Rod. Real special. That's why I had to find out about you, find out how sensitive a lover you were. This is going to call for a real artist in bedroom techniques."
"Clue me, huh?"
"Like I said, you passed. You love this dolly like you just loved me, they'll put you up for the Academy Award."
"You going to tell me or not?"
"No, Rod, I'm not. You might chicken out. And I need you bad tonight. It'll be worth five hundred to you if you bring it off with a bang. Interested?"
"When you say five-hundred bucks, I'd fuck an entire WAC platoon for that Olga. You know I need the money badly," Rod replied eagerly.
"This won't be a mass-production job at all, lover-boy. Just a single-but I must admit it's a weird-deal," Olga mused.
"O.K. I'll make believe it's a surprise party," Rod said, "and I'll be ready for whatever turns up. But where are you going, doll?"
"You need your rest for tonight's job," Olga said. "And I've got to go and throw Mack a bone in a manner of speaking. We can't have him going off his rocker completely!"
She left and Rod was left with his thoughts about what fuck fun and games would be on this evening.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rod felt that Olga had given him good advice, and after napping most of the afternoon, he awoke to find himself ravenously hungry. Since Olga prided herself on being the "hostess with the mostest," there was even a twenty-four hour kitchen on the premises which could turn out anything from ham and eggs to a fancy French dish.
"The thickest steak you've got," he ordered from Bella the cook and maid, "and make it rare!"
He ate the steak with relish, finished with three cups of coffee, ice cream for dessert, ignoring, for the most part Vince's and Ken's jocular conversation as they gave Bella their usual hard time trying to get her to let them fuck her. Then remembering the paperback novel that even at the moment lay up in his room, he became impatient to return.
Still, despite the gripping quality of the novel, the slam-bang, the early appearance of the meddling, stupid Zachary, Rod found it hard to concentrate. He couldn't get the image of Olga's sly grin out of his mind, as she'd brought up the subject of tonight's appointment. Nothing abnormal, she'd promised. Just "weird." That was the exact word she'd used. Weird? But what? God knew he'd run into weird things during the past few days. But even so, how weird can a thing be that it must be fore-warned? Certainly Olga, or anybody else for that matter, had never accorded him this courtesy before.
And torn between two desires, Rod finally put a Matter of Conscience aside. It wouldn't be right to read the book while his thoughts were so troubled. He had to give it full attention if he was to judge if fairly.
And he sat in his chair, sipped at a Scotch and water. Until Bella came to tidy up his room.
Again he drank and reflected, tried to quell the growing apprehension he felt. But the harder he fought to put the uncertainty and wonder aside, the more nagging it became. He glanced at his watch. Nine fifty. Time had never passed so slowly.
Then, at exactly ten o'clock, as Rod was giving himself a last-minute inspection at the bathroom mirror, his bell sounded, with alarming loudness. He moved hesitantly to answer its summons.
His surprise, as he opened the door to find the portly, medium-tall man standing there, left him totally speechless for at least thirty seconds. The doorknob seemingly froze in his fingers. This must be some kind of a joke. A man? Certainly Olga doesn't expect me to suck a prick. There's a damn limit, after all.
"Mr. Bradley?" the man said politely. "I have come to the right room, haven't I? May I come in?"
"Yes," Rod said. Regaining some small composure, "I'm Rod Bradley. Excuse me. Of course, come in."
Fastidiously the man entered, chose his chair carefully. Evaluating his bearing, the expensive, hand tailored suit, the imported shoes he wore, Rod saw wealth written in the visitor's very move.
Now the man waved his hand in a mildly imperious way, regarded Rod intensely. "Sit down, please, Mr. Bradley. I have a few things to say. And they'd best be said while we're both sitting in a civilized manner."
"I'm sorry," Rod apologized. It's just that I wasn't expecting..."
"A man? Never fear on that score, I'll only be here a few minutes." He colored slightly and averted his eyes. "Though, granted, they may be the toughest few minutes of my entire life. He paused again. "I hardly know where to start."
"Maybe you'd like a drink?" Rod offered.
"No, thank you. This had best be taken care of without liquor." Now he blocked his shoulders, faced Rod squarely.
"You've been recommended, Mr. Bradley, as an experienced and very sensitive-ah... fucker. And with that understanding, I've come to ask a very personal favor from you. A favor I intend to pay well for."
"Yes?" Rod said, his pulse drumming in his ears.
Then the man dropped his bombshell. "I'm asking you to make love to my daughter. She's seventeen, a virgin. I want you to break her cherry."
Rod sat transfixed, a tornado of disbelief whistling in his head. "You what?"
"You heard correctly, Bradley. I meant every word I said. And now, before you take me as a crackpot, or perhaps some sort of monster, let me explain my reasons for bringing my daughter here tonight."
"Your daughter? She's here? Now?"
"Correct. Downstairs, in Miss Innstrom's suite. Now, if I may continue..."
Some of Rod's astonishment faded, was replaced with skepticism, even cynicism. This must be a gag or something. It was beyond the bounds of belief, an unreal, hazy dream. Men don't just walk in and ask you to fuck their daughters.
"Yes, go ahead. By all means."
"Ina's become quite interested in boys. It seems to be all she can think of lately. And I'm afraid that one of these days, her curiosity's going to get the best of her, and she's going to let herself be screwed by one of them. It's the first order of business nowadays, I understand.
"And rather than have Ina get pregnant by some crud, I feel it would be best if she were indoctrinated correctly and safely, without any risk of unsavory entanglements. I feel that if she knows what real physical love is as practiced by a mature, experienced man, if she senses the exquisite joy of such a thing done right, she's not so apt to be sneaking around in the back seats of parked cars, fucking with every hound that comes along.
"That with proper guidance on my part-Ina's mother's dead-shell be content to wait until she's older, to wait for married love, as conferred by some mature, balanced, and proficient man."
"How do you know that a thing like this won't trigger her desire? That she wont experiment all the more?"
"That's a chance I have to take. As I've said, I'll try to guide her. She's very broad-minded, we talk quite frankly about things. She knows why she's here, we've discussed it at length. She's willing to go through with it. I've told her that her first encounter with the physical act of love should be a sublime, perfect thing, and adventure not to be taken lightly, not to be squandered on a blundering, clumsy juvenile. What you do to her, the way you screw her, will serve as criterion against which she can compare any future lovers."
"Thus, you see, it has to be done right."
Well, I'll be dipped... Rod thought, his mind boggling at the concept, not sure himself whether he agreed with the man's progressive philosophies on child rearing or not. And more than that, he felt a stomach churning uncertainty. Can I make myself really a cherry-breaker? With a scared little teen-age? With a kid?
"Are you sure?" Rod asked. "Positive you want me do this? With your daughter?"
"Quite sure, Mr. Bradley," he said peevishly. "I don't appreciate having my motives questioned. The only reason I'm bothering to explain the underlying philosophy of this deed is so you'll know what I'm expecting of you."
He stiffened. "Now the question is, will you do it?"
For a moment Rod was on the verge of refusing. Then he thought that if he refused, the man would certainly find someone else to impose his warped ideas on his daughter, some other man would be five hundred dollars richer. And why shouldn't I have the money? I can do the job, as well as anybody else. If this's the way the world's made, who am I to try changing it?
Still his hands shook, he was forced to clutch his knees as he replied. "Yes, I'll do it. I'll do my level best to indoctrinate your Ina, to teach her about things as you outlined. Send her up, please."
At the last the man hesitated pathetically in the doorway. "You'll be good to her, won't you?"
"Yes, I'll be good to her," Rod said.
It seemed the top of Rod's head would blow off, would be sent flying in a thousand shards of boy shrapnel, as he waited for Ina to appear. Then at last, his heart feeling like an abruptly swelling soccer ball in his chest, he heard the buzzer sounding.
He panicked as he looked at the reticent, shamefaced child who stood before him. Oh, God, he thought, I can't go through with this. I just can't. Not with this innocent kid. But if these were his thoughts, his actions belied them. For he said, "Come in, won't you, Ina?"
And the girl stepped across that invisible threshold. Entering a child, to leave a woman.
She was a pretty thing, perhaps five-three, her body mature and ripe already at seventeen, her hair sandy-colored, done in a bouffant mass about her ears. She was dressed in a chiffon print, a lovely, expensive gown which flattered her young figure. She wore nylons, her feet were encased in black, patent pumps, the heels medium height. More unsettling: The white gloves she wore, the tiny black purse she carried.
A little girl all decked out for an important date.
And Rod cringed inwardly at the task that lay before him. How would he ever see it through?
"Hi," She said softly, not daring to look him in the eyes, saving her attention for the room, visibly impressed with the modern decor. "This's real snazzy. My dad says your name's Rod. That right?"
"That's right, Ina. Rod it is."
She laughed timidly, her large, doe-eyes turning up to him. "Sure, Rod." She lapsed into silence. "Well, what's new? I mean; gee-I don't know what to say. I mean, knowing what's going to happen..."
"Don't say anything if you like. Ina. Well get to know each other in a bit. Why don't you sit over here?" He moved to the control panel. "You like music?" Instantly the room was invaded by silky strings.
"Hey, that's keen," she said. "Wow, they sure have things fixed up nice up here. A dump downstairs. This's the first time I've ever been in a place like this."
"I should hope so," Rod joked softly.
"Yeah, I guess."
Rod debated about giving Ina something to drink, finally decided her father would probably approve, and quickly mixed a medium-sized Manhattan for her, going heavy on the vermouth.
She smiled delightedly. "Gee, real grown up."
"My first real drink. Once in a while my dad gives me a sip, but never the whole glass.
"Drink hearty, dear. It'll help us to get over the rough edges. You'll feel more at ease after that."
"You don't have to baby me. I'm not afraid. I know what happens. I read about it in a book once. I won't be a drag about it, I mean."
Rod smiled, felt immeasurable pity at the dredged up bravado. The poor kid isn't fooling anybody, he thought. He took another Scotch himself, realizing he needed a nip as bad as she did. Then he went around the room, turning out lights, merely dimming others. Until the small parlor was even more cozy and intimate.
Now he returned to Ina, sat close, made small talk, tried to gain confidence. Which was no easy task, he discovered just how great a gap nine years can become. But there were movies, he knew some of the rock tunes. And little by little they found common ground.
He gave Ina a little more of the diluted Manhattan remaining in the shaker, turned out still another lamp. When he sat beside her this time, he put his arm around her, drew her close. She trembled a little, yet feigned flippancy. "Smooth, man," she said a shaky voice. "You really come on, don't you?" Her voice betrayed her.
"Drink up, Ina. You'll feel better in a little while."
"Better? Any better, and I'll be sailing around the room. That stuffs making me all sizzy and funny feeling inside."
It was then that Rod chose to kiss her, drawing the slight, complaint body up gently, letting his lips drift down to hers. She stiffened, but as their lips touched, she breathed deeply, went limp. And Rod was astonished the smallness of her mouth, at the passive softness. Lord, he thought, the kid doesn't even know how to kiss. And I'm supposed to teach her to fuck?
The Manhattan had done its work well. For as he continued the kiss, to embrace and whisper soft love words into her ears, she gradually became aroused, she answered his kisses more fervently, she shuddered and pushed her body tighter to his. "Oh, Rod," she said finally, "this is wonderful. I feel so good. I could do this all night. Again. Kiss me like that again."
Until cautiously he let his hand slide off her shoulder, let it settle and cup her. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to caress and squeeze the taut, firm swelling. Ina froze momentarily, then relaxed, fell back into his arms. "That's part of it too," she murmured. "Is it time already? I mean-
"Yes, Ina." he whispered. "Soon now."
"Yeah," she breathed. "I guess. I'm getting all wild. Is that what's supposed to happen?"
"Yes, baby," he said, letting his hand venture more boldly, feeling a rising anticipation inside him at her ingenuous description of her mounting passion. This was going to be so different, so vastly different.
"That's nice," she ventured timidly. "That feels real nice."
Moments later he'd carried her to the bed, laid her upon the sheets, again marveling at the smallness of her body. "Should I-get undressed?" she asked. He nodded and then he extinguished the remaining lights.
When he came to her in the darkness he was already naked. And despite all his efforts to control himself, to be blase about what should have been a routine screw, he still found himself trembling in wracking spurts of anticipation. Thank God Olga took care of some of my sperm this afternoon, he mused. Otherwise I'd be out of control.
The wonder of the first fuck became more stunning. Rod recalling now how magnificent the discovery of love was the first time around, awestruck at the momentousness of the act now at hand. He remembered another girl, a girl named Anne who'd shown him the reverent wonder of first fucking love.
He undressed Ina with painstaking care, fighting her instinctive modesty at every turn, peeling down her stockings, stroking her legs, removing her brassiere, amazed at the child's large breasts, at the surge of rapture that speared her as he kissed her.
The child was gasping and moaning and falling in wanton lust. Her hoarse sighs grew even louder. Until Rod knew that she was beyond pain and alien fear now, that no matter how great the pain, she would suffer it gladly, as she twisted and turned more uncontrollably. Quickly and almost effortlessly, his huge prick broke through the cherry. She moaned and shuttered but was too far in ecstasy to notice any pain.
"I feel all crazy inside," she wailed. "Please, Rod, fuck me now."
Now he held her in his arms, kissed her passionately, his tongue flicking into her mouth, hers instinctively gliding forth to meet it.
"Yes," she rasped. "Yes. Go ahead, Rod. Do what you want with me. I want you to screw me no matter what."
He rammed his cock all the way into her tight newly-opened cunt. Her cunt sheath was so tight and clinging around his ten-inch dong, he had to contain himself from shooting off his load. She screamed in ecstasy, but after a time she fell silent, her screams drowned out by the gasping, choking sighs of delight. The ecstasy blocked out everything else. And yet, Rod knew, it would be a failure for her, unless she learned how to fuck.
"You have to help, Ina," he said in muffled tones. "Or else my prick won't respond..."
"Yes, yes," she raged, understanding instantly what was needed. "I will, I will."
"Hurry, baby," he gasped. "Hurry, hurry..."
"I never dreamed it would be anything like this. It's wonderful, I don't ever want it to stop. I want you to keep fucking me... "She screamed, lurched. "Fuck me, fuck me...
It seemed Ina would never stop gasping as they both came simultaneously.
When she finally dozed off for a while, Rod though that he had earned his money a lot easier than he thought he would.
As Ina awoke she said, "Kiss me again, Rod," and boldly tongued him, fondling his ass at the same time. "More, more prick Rod! she urged, pressing her rounded belly and young breasts against his chest and thighs.
Desire stirred again in his prick and Ina saw the throbbing of his huge cock with a gleam in her eyes. Suddenly she whipped over him straddled his middle and boldly guided him between her moist engulfing asscheeks. Her enthusiastic fucking quickly made him join her in a common height of passionate "come" he didn't think he had in him.
He was really earning his money...
CHAPTER EIGHT
For the next week or so Rod just coasted. He no longer thought much about his "job" at the house in Riverdale. The queer demands and sick mentally and physically exhausting fucks seemed to slacken off a little. Now his "affairs" at the house were turning out to be more or less routine. There were a series of plain, unexciting middle-aged respectable "whores" whose small talk was boringly similar.
"I think you're the cutest, handsomest thing?"
"Do you find me fuckable even though I'm paying...?"
"Is screwing the same for you with every woman, or am I different?"
He divided his time between his apartment and the house, spending much of his spare time reading and re-reading the Blair book, thinking deeply, trying to project himself into the character of Zachary, attempting to ascertain the author's truest intentions in regard to the man. Besides this there was the matter of recuperation and exercise. He slept a lot, took long walks through the Village streets.
It gave him a turn at times to see luscious, parading dolls, along Washington Square; co-eds ripe to bursting, just waiting to be fucked, gals who often looked at him with frank yearning, and to feel little or no desire for them. It seemed something was missing out of his life. A month ago the pursuit and conquest of cunt like that would have been his major preoccupation and recreation.
But now...
There'd been one more meeting with Manny Willman during which they'd discussed the Blair property, the upcoming plans for the picture's starting date. A preliminary contract had been signed. But beyond that there was nothing to do but wait and forget, for the shooting script was still forthcoming.
Meanwhile back at the ranch...
There were frequent afternoon poker games. If not that, then long, sometimes interrupted bull sessions. The house was still abuzz over Rod's seventeen-year-old virgin, the concept something entirely new to them. And though they pumped Rod about if often, kidded him about the prick ruptique he possessed that they didn't, Rod kept the session's details to himself. Despite its strangeness it was an event he never wanted to forget, a treasure he wanted to share with no one.
It was something akin to the feeling he still retained in regard to the love episode with Jean Schuyler.
For no matter how hard he tried, Rod could never become as hard-boiled and unfeeling about his curious role as a male hooker as Ken Holman, Vince Fletcher, Bob Merritt, and the rest Some of the things he'd forced himself to do still bothered him. No matter how he temporized, he still could never become overly fond of himself. He wanted out, and someday, financial conditions permitting, he'd achieve that escape. Perhaps life could come to have some meaning to him again.
In the meantime he could walk, perform calisthenics in the privacy of his apartment, he could read and watch television. He could sleep, drink, play poker, shoot the breeze with the guys. Then of course, there were the fucks in the percales in his Riverdale playroom.
And when he'd exhausted all these outlets there was nothing left but to brood, to think the most damning of thoughts. All centering about one weak-willed Rod Bradley.
If these aggravating self-condemnations weren't bad enough, on Wednesday afternoon, two days later, Jean Schuyler showed up at Riverdale, came knocking at Rod's door for her share of his prick.
He was aware of the fact that he had an appointment that afternoon, but as had become his habit lately, he hadn't made any inquiries at to who his fuck-mate would be. It was all part of the casual, off-hand attitude of the house. An attitude which more than anything personified Rod's state of mind.
Thus; Wham! Surprise, surprise!
And Happy Halloween to you, too.
"Jean!" he exclaimed. "I'll be demaned. What're you doing here?"
She flushed furiously. "What do you think I'm doing here? I want to get screwed. Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Flustered, his heart suddenly jamming itself up in his throat, he steeped back, ushered her inside. He purposely took his time locking the door, pushing the proper signal buttons. "Jean?" he said turning.
It was the most awkward of moments. For the lovely woman, straining to be defiant and sarcastic, couldn't quite bring it off. "This is the right place, isn't it? Where a gal comes to get cunt-release? Why the surprise? Isn't my money as good as anybody else's?"
Then her voice caught, she seemingly swayed and shrunk before him. Her hands shook and she couldn't look at Rod any longer. He was struck by the strongest impulse to step up to her, shelter her in his arms.
This is crazy, he thought. You ass! Why're you letting this doll shake you like this? She's business. A fuck. That and nothing more.
Her back stiffened, she looked at him with shame-laden eyes, "it was a mistake," she said. "I can see it now. I shouldn't have come."
"What do women come here for?" she flared. "I-I've been thinking about you, about how good it was at Rita's that night. That first time... before I screwed the other men."
"You remember that too?" he blurted.
Her eyes brightened with the wildest of hope. "Oh, Rod, it's true. You do remember? It wasn't just...?"
He moved now, put his arms around her, and held her close.
Doubt filled her, and she stiffened. "Or is this just an act? All part of the service?"
"Don't, Jean," he breathed, leaning his head, burying his lips in her shiny, coppery curls. "What're you trying to prove?"
"I'm sorry, Rod. I shouldn't have come, really, but I just couldn't help myself. I've been thinking, for weeks now, about how the fucking was. And I couldn't wait anymore. I had to have your prick again, even if it was cash and carry. I had to know if it had really happened. To see if I was really a woman...."
"What are you talking about?" Rod queried.
She whirled away from him, strode toward the bed, stopped, stood looking down at it. 'This is what I'm talking about. Some cock, on that pretty bed. She forced a hard smile. "C'mon, Rod. I paid the lady downstairs. I'll even leave you a nice tip. I've got money, lots of it." Her voice turned wistful. "That I've got. Go ahead, Rod. Start it. You're supposed to make love to me. That's what I'm here for."
Rod stood in dazed confusion. Why the hesitation? he goaded himself, why the doubts? This is a pay-for-play. So play, damn you!
Still he waited, looking at her with a gaping expression, taking in her sylph-like beauty, the sexy inspired get-up she wore today. His eyes swept over the agitated, swollen cones of her massive breasts, the opulent lips, the exciting shiny flow of her legs, the witchy, rapler-toed pumps she wore. She was a dazzling vision. And he wanted her cunt with heart-breaking urgency.
Yes he hesitated, a baffling confusion chaining him. He didn't want her this way, if he took her now, under these mercenary terms, it would be profanity of the rankest sort.
Jerk, jerk! he lashed himself. You have dumped your marble bag, haven't you?
The defiance had returned, full blown now; Jean's body arched provocatively, a lovely pedestal. "What are you waiting for? Am I so repulsive you can't fuck me at all."
"Well, then, come on. Just like that other night You did a beautiful job then. What's the matter? Can't you raise that prick for me a second time? And I thought you were a professional." She began tugging at her dress. "Or do I have to take care of the preliminaries all by myself?"
Angered finally, his masculinity and virility challenged, Rod strode toward her, palled her hands roughly away. "You don't have to take care of anything. If that's the way you want it, that's the way you'll get it'"
He pushed her down on the bed, went to flip the blinds. "No," she called. "Don't. Leave them open. I want to see your big prick, balls and ass." Her voice took on an eerie sibilance. "After Charles, it will be so wonderful to see you."
A puzzled frown on his face, Rod wheeled, returned to the bed. Fell beside the trembling woman, kissed her savagely, holding her in a suffocating embrace. Then he pulled away, sat on the bed beside her. Began to run his hands up and down her clothed body. She shuddered as his fingers glided on her nylons, as they toyed with her knees, just beneath the hem of her skirt.
"Please, dear," she called. "Undress me now. Get me ready to be fucked."
Rod needed to further urging. All doubts blitzed, only surging, mind-effacing desire at large with him, he set out to inflame the woman with all the finesse at his command.
Further evidence of her need was the lingerie she wore this afternoon. For beneath the demure, peach-colored slip was a brassiere and panties-he couldn't guess where she'd gotten them-that were designed with but one purpose in mind. That purpose was to tease and inflame a man to rape her, to drive a man out of his mind.
They were made of red, sheer silk, trimmed with black bee, a purposeful flurry of buds and flowers climbing their way up to the crest of Jean's sharp-peaked nipples. The panties had a heavily encrusted lacework motif on the hips, along the elastic band. One twisted vine pointed down to a giant rose which was nothing but lace covering her cunt.
For long moments he sat frozen above her, looking down on the pulsing, agitated body, admiring the tossing titties, the taut, yet voluptuous flesh, the shimmering, slim legs. An attention which Jean savored to the utmost, flexing and posing her body in even more inflaming manner.
"It's good, darling," she intoned, to have a man look at you like that. You don't know what it does to me. It makes me feel like I'm starting to be alive, wanted... fuckable. You do think I'm beautiful don't you?"
"Beautiful isn't the word. You're absolutely ravishing." He tugged at the wispy panties. "Here, let's see some more of that."
"No," she said, brushing his hands away. "You now. Then come back and finish undressing me."
Rod pulled away, and standing beside the bed, began to undress before her, until he was in his undershirt and shorts. Looking up, he saw the fiery yearning in her eyes. Teasingly he prolonged taking off his shorts. Then he stood boldly before Jean, revealing his massive prick and balls in the way that made her eyes crazy in her head.
"Oh, Rod," she wailed softly. "You're a man. Such a man!" She forestalled him with her hands when he moved towards her. "No, baby. Not yet. Just stand there for a minute. Like that. Let me look at you that lovely cockie."
A monster hand delved into his entrails, twisted them cruelly, and he was suffused with the strangest sensation as he stood there, saw the torrid adoration in her expression. That he could do this to a woman so lovely as Jean. He was filled with an incredible, aching pride.
Finally she was satisfied. 'Wow, darling," she said her eyes smoky. "Come to me. Take these rags off me." She giggled. "I wore them just for you. Did you know that?"
"I'd gathered as much." Then his hands were undoing the clasps to the brassiere, his lips devouring her breasts sucking her nipples, as soon as it was flung away. In an absolute frenzy of passion, he was pulling off the exotic panties. He felt her raise her legs, twist and curl them so he could remove them without giving up, for even a second, his mouth at her tits.
Then, swamped with an uncontrollable urge to be dose to her, he lay there, his hands sliding up and down her velvety waist and thighs. Instantly, Jean, caught up in similar frenzy, snaked her hands between their bodies, guided his prick toward her twat.
"No," he mumbled, trying to pull his mouth from her breasts. "Your stocking..."
"To hell with them," she spat. "Leave them. I can't wait any more for your prick. I've been waiting too long as it is. About four years too long." Her hands tightened on his head. "Oh, don't. Stay. Just a little longer. If feels so magnificent having my nipples sucked and being fucked at the same tune."
More stunned at the ferocity of Jean's need, as though she were trying to live a lifetime's worth of screwing in one afternoon, Rod did as she said. He sucked and fucked slowly and gently. The woman's lust fueled his own. Until he felt like the blood in his veins was bubbling and boiling.
Then finally she was begging him to ram her cunt as hard as he could. "Please, oh, please... fuck me harder... harder. I have to have more-faster-harder." Rod tightened his thighs about her and took incisive, dominant charge of things, his lips locking on hers at the same time he drove his prick and rammed her pussy like a stallion without mercy, touching her uterus each time. Her ecstatic moans and unseeing eyes became an insane spur and compliment. Again he marveled at the ecstasy she conferred to him. As her legs drifted up they harassed and herded his cock to greater fuck effort.
Abruptly her lips broke from his with a wet smack, and she was panting hoarsely, compelled him to renewed, more frenzied screwing. "It's better," she puffed, "much better than last time. Without that brandy I can sense everything. Every dee-li-cious thing. Ooooh, Rod, honey, I'm coming God, I'm coming!"
Her body froze, a moan exploded in her throat, her legs became steel pincers. "You lover, you gorgeous lover you have such a magnificent prick..." she choked.
As suddenly, as she had released her love-juke her hips were moving anew, the happy sighs were building about them again. "More, more fuck," she urged. "Please, some more of that cock!"
Rod knew there wouldn't be many more "comes" for him. The woman was all but tearing his dong out by the roots. He couldn't hold off much longer. And he began ramming faster, faster, bringing himself to her with tremendous force. His urgency brought forth joyous screams from her.
A ragged cry grew in his throat, and he wanted to spit it out, to proclaim his rapture loud enough for the whole world to hear. "You're good, Jean. Good, good. Lice all the women in the world rolled into one. Like I was making love to every woman in the world all at once. Lord, Lord... You wonderful little witch! You're the best, the very best fuck in the world!"
He bellowed as he shot forth the most tremendous load of hot sperm.
His bellows were answered; the sound coming from Jean, her face contorted in sublime release, as she shrilled her pleasure and release of cunt-juke.
He repeated his compliment: "You are the greatest, darling, the greatest."
"I'm glad, I'm glad," she sighed over and over.
"I'm sorry," Jean apologized after, as they lay beside each other on the bed, recovering, "that I screamed like that. I just couldn't help it. You're such a good fucker, I had to let you know."
"What's to be ashamed of? I yelled a little, too, didn't I? What's wrong with letting yourself go at a time like that? When you're screwing why shouldn't you let your fucker know about your pleasure? The days of the Puritans are gone. For some people, anyway."
"For me," she agreed. "I'm glad I didn't shock you."
"Nothing you could do would shock me."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How about that look you gave me when I first came in?"
"Yeah. I guess I was surprised at that. I don't understand, even now. Why a woman as lovely and beautiful, married to a wealthy man, should come looking to be fucked by me."
She smiled gently, stoked his face. "You are naive, Rod. Didn't you know, didn't you notice that first time. At Rita's place? Something different about me? After all the women you've screwed."
"Well, to tell the truth..."
"It's so, you wonderful dope. My cunt's hardly been fucked. I'm almost a virgin. Only once removed. By my husband. But only once."
Rod's scalp prickled. "What are you talking about?"
"You wanted an explanation. Well, there it is. I can't make it much plainer."
"Wen, try."
"My husband loved me once, on our wedding night. He broke my cherry. He was the first man, the only man. Until that night at Rita's."
"And that makes you a virgin?"
She smiled timidly. "After a fashion. Especially when you consider that he only balled me once. My husband, Charles, hasn't screwed me since then, not once in the past fourteen months."
"I don't dig." Rod said stupidly. "You trying to con me or something?"
"Is it any wonder," she chuckled, I came on like a minor volcano? How would you act if you'd had a taste and then you hadn't been fucked since?"
"You mean..."
"I mean the man I married, the illustrious Mr. Charles Schuyler, just happens to be nothing more than an out and out fake. A homosexual. How many other ways can I say it?" Her eyes blazed. "I mean that he fucked me on our wedding night because he had to. He wasn't ready to tell me the truth about his real preferences. He hasn't touched me since."
"It's incredible."
"Yes, it is. He told me later that it was his first and last screw with a woman. He put it on the line, told me he preferred boys, that he'd married me for a front, to squelch some nasty rumors that had been making the rounds of the town's inner circle. And did I want the whole ball of wax, the mansion, the cars and furs, the unlimited charge accounts or not? Or did I want to try for the divorce proceedings he dared me to institute?"
She gulped, fought back welling tears. "I don't know why it still shakes me. Vanity, I guess. It kills a woman to know her husband would rather "love" a man than her. Anyway, I compromised. I had the name, the position, all the goodies that went with it. And since I'd been a nothing when Charles zeroed in on me, going no place as a secretary, what did J have to lose?"
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. "So it was my lucky day when Rita sent me the invite to her little party. Any wonder I tried to take you apart like I did? That night and today?"
"So, that's why," he murmured.
Her reply was too quick, too flip. "Sure, Why else? Don't tell me you read something else into it? Like..."
"Skip it," Rod cut her off. He sighed heavily. "At last I know, I understand. I've been wondering. Ever since the hot fucking we had at Rita's."
She avoided his eyes. "Yes, Rod. Now you know."
Still his disappointment couldn't entirely dispel the feeling of mounting compassion that filled him. It was a dirty, rotten trick to play on a woman-a total woman-as beautiful and eager to live and fuck as Jean. And he wondered if there wasn't something he could do-something more than he'd already done-to help her escape from the ugly trap she'd blundered into.
The words spilled from his mouth even before he'd had time to clearly think out the plan. "One thing, Jean, you won't ever have to come here again. I mean if you want me to screw you."
"You know I need and must have your prick," she said in simple sincerity. "What do you mean? Why shouldn't I come here?"
"It's not necessary. I'll come to you, I'll meet you any place you say. I'll give you my number. You can call me whenever you need to be fucked. It won't cost you a cent."
"I wouldn't dream of an agreement like that. Not paying, I mean. I've got money, I can pay. In a way it's added revenge on Charles. Spending his money like this. No, I insist on paying your fee. It's sweet of you to suggest, though."
Rod went sullen. "Maybe I don't want to be paid. Maybe I still have some shred of pride left. Can't I just do this for you, without a whole lot of analyzing?"
"But why? I don't figure it. If you're in this business."
His voice hardened. "Do you think I'm in this business because I want to be?"
"I'm sorry, Rod. I didn't mean it like that."
"Never mind. The point is, do you want my number or not?"
"Don't you get into trouble here? After all, in a way, you're undercutting Miss Olga Innstrom and whoever it is she's fronting for."
"Let me worry about that, huh?" He kissed Jean again. "Is it all set? You'll let me meet you, come right to your house if you want."
"Yes, Rod," she breathed, a tremor sweeping down her spine. "You'll be sorry. I'll call you all the time."
His heart pounded more rapidly, and for some zany, unexplainable reason he felt suddenly very happy and relieved.
"Rod?" she murmured sultrily.
"Yes?"
"Do you think we could fuck one more time? Is it all included in the price?"
"As far as you're concerned, there's no price tag on it darling," Rod said.
Jean sighed happily and began to kiss his lips and luxuriously worked her mouth over his entire body, flicking with her tongue, sucking and licking his navel flicked her tongue down his stomach until she was sucking the huge purple prick head. With her hand, she began to massage his balls-then seeing the stirrings of desire beginning to show she quickly straddled him.
"It'll be better this way darling," she said working her lovely hips in a slow passionate rhythm until again his cock filled her completely with its throbbing urgency. Her cunt was hot and tight-tighter than when he had fucked her before. Her cunt-juke bathed his rigid dong-it was heaven. Rod threshed beneath her and suddenly they seemed to be wracked with a convulsive spasm as Rod arched and Jean screamed "Darling I'm coming again... don't ever let it stop!"
CHAPTER NINE
What if Jean Schuyler should take up his rash offer to screw her for nothing anytime, any place? Rod wondered why he had broken the unwritten code of the male stud: "Never for pleasure-only." Jean was the most attractive girl he'd ever met, but how could he possibly keep working at Olga's house and satisfy her normal feminine fuck demands? He was rapidly getting himself into an impossible situation, physically he was beginning to feel like a wreck. Yet he missed Jean and wanted to see her and ball her again.
There was worry on another score, in the fact that Olga had been very distant with him lately. Several times he'd caught her looking at him with a suspicious glint in her eyes. Had she, in fact, had his room bugged? Did she know about his secret deal with Jean? Rod had heard it rumored about the house of her boys, although a hidden mike was yet to be uncovered in any of the upstairs rooms. Maybe he was just jumpy. Too much cunt lately as all the female customers seemed to demand his prick these days.
Another worry dogged him. He saw that he was daily and nightly becoming more reconciled to his easy existence. The guilt pangs were lessening with time and every appointment, no matter what "extras" he was called upon to perform. He was able to take almost anything in his stride now. There were limits, of course, but "almost" included practically everything from the "dog" fucking position to ass-fucking and a few beatings thrown in.
If I'm ever going to break out of this snakepit, Rod thought to himself lazily, I'm going to have to do its soon, before I get so use to fucking a variety of women and getting paid for it that I'll never break out of the cunts. And what's holding me back?
Insecurity was what was deterring him. For even though he now had almost 4,000 tucked away in a cozy, neighborhood bank, he still wasn't ready to call it quits. One more time, he kept telling himself. I'll wait until I get 350 more socked away. Then I'll quit.
One more time came and went, $500 became $1,000. And still he couldn't sever his connections with the house. Rod was often to recall Olga's remark when she first interviewed him and could add one of his own. For he was not only a drifter, but a lazy bum in the bargain.
Kenny laughed outright when Rod even hinted at leaving the house. "You'll never break. The one time you'll ditch this place is when you can't raise up the old cock any more. You're nuts to even think of leaving a soft touch like this. Besides, what you gonna leave to? If you think you're gonna make the big time in T.V., even for that penny ante deal with that Willman jerk, you're out of your ever lovin'.
"Take it from one who knows. I tried. There ain't no pot of gold at the end of that rainbow. You've found your gold mine right here. Why don't you just relax and enjoy it? And one more thing. What makes you think Olga's ever going to let you go?"
"She's got no hold on me," Rod had retorted.
"Hasn't she?" Ken had leered. And Rod had felt a bar of lead settle in the pit of his stomach.
So there were reasons. Good ones. But the most realistic one was the fact that there was no shooting schedule on the Willman film. They were still lacking a script. Why should I go off on a wild goose chase? Rod argued. Quit this deal for a "maybe" venture that hasn't netted me one red cent so far? A deal which, even if and when it jells, guarantees me only a measly $600?
Small wonder his enthusiasm for a bold break from the cunt house became more faint. And he realized it was going to take something more violent than a guilty conscience to jolt him from this soft berth.
Which devastating development wasn't long in coming, the whore-madam of the house in Riverside being all-too-obliging in this respect. For on Wednesday and Saturday of that next week, Rod was destined to meet with two disgusting women, who would sicken him, turn even his case hardened guts.
The first in the person of Mrs. Vivian Gabriel, who, having recently returned from the Coast was starved for some of the exotic fucking she'd experienced in Rod's playpen. She hot-footed if for Riverdale as fast as her trembly legs could carry her, planked down her $250 and scooted for Rod.
"Baby boy," she simpered, in what passes for coy mischief and pique among the over-the-hill set, "you've been a naughty Rod. Where've you been? I've missed you."
"I missed you too, Vivian," he lied. "It just seemed we couldn't make connections." He put his arm about her in a comradely way, and she flushed, leaned heavily upon him. "At any rate, I'm glad you're back."
"You didn't answer my question, dear."
"Well, if you must know, dear," he grinned, "I was off trying to get into T.V."
"Oh? How exciting. Any luck?"
"They were full up. No room. So I had to come back home with my cocky between my legs."
"That's a shame," she clucked. "I mean that you didn't get a chance. You're so handsome, I'd think they'd be falling over themselves to sign you up." She slid her hand inside his jacket, caressed his back. "But in another way it's good. I'd never have been screwed by you again had you been successful."
"And you wouldn't have liked that, would you, dear?"
A betraying shudder went through her. Talk about passion, Rod marveled. "No, Rod, I wouldn't have. Not at all."
"Here, Vivian. Sit down, Let's have a drink. To sort of blur the edge a little. You follow me?"
Her eyes were evil, darting coals. "Of course, dear. We can be as naughty as we please then."
"That's right, honey."
"Oh, Rod, you get me all stirred up inside. I forget what I'm doing, I don't know how to act."
"From thinking about that big prick that's going to plow you, huh, doll?" Keep it up, he mocked inwardly warming to the parodied passion, getting a tremendous jolt out of baiting the love-starved woman, you'll have her shooting her juice before she ever hits that bed.
"Please Rod, don't poke fun. I can't help it if I'm like this. I'm not used to men like you. Men, period. Men who are so cocksure and arrogant, who fuck you any time they want and who use their women like cattle."
"Who take the pussy you're dying to give, don't you mean?"
"Please, Rod, don't be vulgar."
"Vulgar?" he faked irritation. "Maybe I'm too vulgar for your elite tastes. Maybe you'd just as soon not let me screw you tonight. Maybe I could call down get you another cock."
Her face paled, she reacted as if she'd just been scolded. Rod felt a surge of power go through him. "No, darling," she quailed. "Don't be angry. I didn't mean that, not at all. It's just that I'm not used to having a man talk to me, anger me, like you do. Please, Rod, don't be angry."
"All right then," he pretended hurt, "but be careful what you say to me. I've got feelings, too."
She was abject. "I'm sorry, darling, truly I am."
"Drink up, Vivian. Let's both get a happy glow before I give you the ole horn."
"You devil," she giggled, throwing herself at him, holding her face to his. "I'm getting hot already. Oh, I feel all silly and quirmy inside."
"Already?"
Yes, already. After all, I've been looking forward to being rammed by your prick for weeks."
"You like that dong old Rod's got for you, huh?"
"Yes, baby," she quaked. "Yes, yes... "
"Yes, what?"
She stiffened, then relaxed. "You devil, you. Yes, I like that dong that old Rod's got for me. "Too much."
He laughed, pulled her close, poured a kiss to her wet, questing mouth. Give the old doll a thrill, he exulted, feeling total mastery over the lust-driven female. And feeling the wanton impatience coursing through her, he held the kiss, at the same time sliding his hand under her skirt, letting his fingers roam under the surprisingly brief panties on up to her cuntlips.
He parted her twat lips and found that already her pussy was wet and hot ready for his cock. He found her clitoris and began the circular massaging he knew she liked. He did it gently, teasingly, so that she wouldn't come. She wouldn't pay if she didn't have his prick up her cunt-and so he teased.
After another drink had been downed, there was no more teasing. Only an eagerly offered cunt. The woman was prone on the davenport, her arms at angles above her head, a crooked, lewdly-joyful smile on her face. She gave herself to cunt-massaging nipple pulling and finger-in-ass or whatever Rod wanted to offer.
"Ooooh," she sighed, her voice catching glutinously, "I can't wait much more, baby. It's wonderful, and I want you to keep doing those things to me forever, but still I know I can't. The rest of it, lover I want to be fucked and soon, before I go stark raving mad."
"Stark raving mad," he chuckled. "Honey, that's the nicest thing you've said to me all evening."
"You demon," she sighed, capturing his hand, "you twist everything I say."
"Just the things you say?"
"There you go again. Oh, please, Rod. Okay. My pussy, my asshole and my titties. In bed now."
It was the same as the first night Mrs. Gabriel had visited his room. Again she insisted, pleaded for Rod to bear witness to her improvised strip show, her underwear even more exotic than last time, wild creations made of lavender nylon, trimmed with black. And afterward, the light above the bed still burning, she watched Rod undress, her eyes, once more, almost bugging out of her head as she looked at the big prick and balls. Until at last the pleading within them was irresistible. And he was walking toward her, step by step.
"Turn out the light," she commanded in an eerie tone.
They were on the bed, lying in mad tangle of arms and legs. Vivian moaning and panting like a mindless animal, her hands pulling his cock and balls, sticking her finger up his asshole, without any embarrassment whatsoever.
"You're so handsome, so beautiful Rod," she was sighing. "I love you so much. I love you for being a man, an aggressive, greedy man. For fucking me the way you do." She pinched his balls, causing him to jerk with pain.
"Watch it!" he warned.
"I love your prick. It's all I've ever really wanted. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you to screw me. If, at time like this, when I need a dong so badly... I'd die, I'd cut my wrists. I adore you, worship you." She paused, let her fingers clutch at his body. "Rod?"
"Yes, Vivian?"
"Please, will you let me show you how much I worship you? I've always wanted to even with John, but I never dared. Would you mind terribly?"
Rod's stomach turned convulsively. God, he rebelled does she mean what I think she means? Suck my prick? "Vivian-"
"Please, darling let me. Don't think badly of me. It's something I need. To. show you how much I love you, and your gorgeous cock. The cock that does so many gorgeous things to my cunt. I'll be careful, I won't hurt you, I promise. Rod, please..."
The sick hunger in her voice was almost too much to bear. And Rod remembered the other time he'd allowed his prick to be sucked from that Daphne woman at Rita Vanoff's party. But he was polluted that night, he didn't know what he was doing. He wasn't polluted tonight.
But, God, what am I going to do? When this sex-crazed woman wants to suck me as bad as she does?
As it was, the decision was pulled from Rod's hands. For Vivian, taking his silence as approval, was already turning her body on the bed, was letting her wet, eager lips sear a trail down his chest. No man living could have denied her mission at that moment. Rod grabbed two handfuls of bedding, waited in paralyzed expectancy.
Then, finally her hot lips perched on the cock-head as she sucked slowly and with relish. Then her mouth was covering as much of his prick as possible as she began the sucking and tonguing motions of a cunt. He raised his hips in the fucking movement until she was taking it deep into her throat. With her fingers she massaged his balls-but that mouth sucking his huge cock was too much. Finally he arched his back and shot his hot sperm into her mouth and she gulped as she swallowed all of it.
She kept sucking his prick and Rod was in agony when she finally stopped, slid upward on his body, and brought her breasts to his lips. "Suck them," she whispered. "You cool off a little, dolly. Then you can fuck my cunt. Oh, it's going to be magnificent tonight. Something I'll remember forever. Was I good to you, baby? Real good? I wanted your cock so badly in my mouth."
Rod paused sucking her nipples. "You were good, Vivian. Really good."
Mrs. John Gabriel was not one bit disappointed. She stayed until after one that night. She got up his prick and had two fantastic fucks from him before she finally left, more dead than alive. But nevertheless, jubilantly and exultantly beat.
But if Rod thought less of himself after letting Mrs. Gabriel suck his cock and swallow his sperm, it was a Sunday School picnic, compared to the lewd sex-play he lent himself to three night later with Trudy Shaw.
She was drunk as usual, possessed of animal urges, insisting that each of her playmates get almost as drunk as she. Ken was not included in their sport that night. Instead she'd ordered Ed Johnson and Vince Fletcher, in what was, apparently, to be a three-ring fucking session.
They were in a different room, a more spacious layout, the bed a miniature basketball court, made for group participation. A room done in a heavy, suffocating red, a color serving to arouse pricks. A room which, upon Trudy's strict orders, was left fully illuminated throughout the entire fuck session.
Rod's premonition of depraved sex became more pronounced as the night wore on, and as a defense mechanism, he poured down Scotch recklessly. He didn't want to remember any of this tomorrow.
But remember he did. It would have taken a whole quart of the bonded booze to erase the pictures from his mind.
As Trudy, finally deeming herself drunk enough to proceed with the night's fucking, ordered the three men to take her to bed, undress her. And then, as her voluptuous body was enhanced by the ruby reflections in the room, she dictated just what attentions she craved by way of preliminary to screwing.
"Suck my cunt, Vince!"
"God," Vince protested. "I ain't going to work with these guys standing here watching. I got some pride, after all."
Trudy's eyes narrowed, her smile became a painted smear. "Have you? Would a hun'rd dollars help you forget your pride? I want these guys to watch my cunt being sucked by YOU! I get more kicks that way."
"No. Trudy, for God's sake, I'm human too."
"Ha!"
"It's true..."
"Two hun'rd?" she sneered.
"No."
"Two hun'rd-fifty. Think it over. That's far as I go. Is your pride worth that?"
Vince's face was strained, a battle going on inside him. Then he smiled, feigning cockiness. "Okay, doll. You got a deal. Two-fifty, remember. If that's what you want, okay. I'll suck pussy. Watch, you guys. Get yourselves a cheap charge."
And Rod and Ed watched, their eyes glued on the sight of Vince sucking the cunt while Trudy held open her cunt lips. As Trudy shrieked with ecstasy, her legs locking, waving, opening in mad sequence, her hands holding, stroking, forcing Vince's head closer to her twat. It was eerie hearing her ecstatic screams softened by the sound of flesh being sucked. After three screaming comes, her cunt juice sliding down Vince's mouth and lips, she tired of that method of fucking and called for still more drink.
Then, refreshed, ready for new ways of being screwed, she summoned Ed Johnson to the bed. 'This's gonna be a team effort, you guys," she cackled. "Stay with it, and you get a nice bonus. Trudy feels real generous tonight.
They stayed with it, too drunk to care, hardened by countless nights of just such fuck sessions. Rod and Vince stood by as Ed screwed her asshole which tore anguished screams from Trudy. Screams which finally changed to moans of pleasure.
"Ahhh, ahh," she gasped. "Ed, baby. You're great. The greatest ass-fucker ever. Go ahead, damn you! Don' hold back. I c'n take it. Go, Go, Go! Fuck ass more!"
"More!"
Rod could never quite be sure how the evening's finale came about. Sometime toward the end, Trudy had made Ed stop momentarily from screwing her asshole and beckoned Rod toward the bed. Had made him sit, twist his body. "Use that pillow, lover boy. Tha's it. Closer now." Her hands had reached for him. 'There, tha's better." She'd turned on Ed. "Give him room, damn you."
She laughed coarsely. "Go, you paid fuckers. All of you. Everybody start fucking!"
There was a wild melee of arms, legs, squirming bodies and smothered animal sounds coming from the bed as Ed fucked her asshole, Vince fucked her cunt, and Rod fucked her mouth. "There must be an easier way to make a living," he kept saying to himself until the wild, heaving foursome on the bed exploded with the muffled, continuing cries of the twitching woman having a tremendous orgasm signalled the end of Trudy's Shaw's fuck spree.
CHAPTER TEN
The next day Rod was really sick. He was wondering if he had the D.T.'s. He seemed to be in the throes of a waking nightmare-dozens of nude women surrounded him, mauling him, pulling at his limbs, fucking him in the most obscene ways... He tossed in his bed and prayed for unconsciousness, and then mercifully, sleep finally came and the nightmare left.
Three days more passed. Three days during which Rod didn't move from his apartment except for his meals. Three days spent in the depths of self-evaluation.
He couldn't read, he had no stomach for his regime of calisthenics. The television blared, but he saw none of it. But despite the torments he suffered, it was time well spent. For each hour stayed away from the Riverdale address served to strengthen his resolve, to consolidate what small gains he'd made.
For he was determined, no matter what, never to return to that house again. At least not to indulge in any fuck games Olga might have lined up for him. There must be a showdown, he must confront Olga, beg or buy his freedom from her. Somehow he must see to it that she was never able to use the damming evidence in her file against him.
But to return to fuck one of Olga's prize cows-Never.
He was uncertain what his future might be, bleak and entirely without hope. But it would never again seem so dismal that bed willingly return to that house of fuck-hungry women. The two episodes-with Vivian Gabriel-the corker with Trudy Shaw-had been a turning point. He couldn't go back. There could be no backsliding now.
He had his money from Olga, the plain envelope had awaited his awakening that Sunday, he had grubstake of sorts. Even if the Manny Willman deal fizzled, he'd still find a way out of this filthy existence. He'd forget his boyish dreams of glory, look for some other kind of work, pick and shovel if it had to be.
Brave words, but inwardly he was paralyzed with fear every time he thought of the time when his vow would be put to the test.
For since that fateful Saturday night Olga hadn't called. And the big question still remained: when she did call, would he be man enough to tell her to go to hell? Or were his bold dreams just dreams and merely that? Nothing more?
On Wednesday afternoon, as he sat in his room, staring unseeing at the pages of "Murder Off Broadway", he was given the big scare. He jerked upright, froze as the telephone rang.
He stood, blocked his shoulders, screwed up his determination. This is it, he thought, am I up to it? Then he took the receiver. "Yes, Rod Bradley here."
And felt a swamping wave of relief as he heard not Olga's, but Jean Schuyler's voice. "Rod?" she said wistfully, "it's me, Jean. Can you come this afternoon? I'm alone; Charles won't be home until after nine. We'll have the house all to ourselves."
Rod found the Sand Point address easily, drove past the conservative yet expensive mansion, parked two blocks away, walked back. Wondering, as he walked, about the jittery excitement that filled him. Like a teenager on his first date, he thought. Reaching the house, he had only a brief time to appraise the structure. It was much less pretentious than Rita Vanoff's house. But then, Charles Schuyler was just climbing. Give him time; with luck, with no breath of scandal to stop him, he'd one day be a top man.
As Jean had instructed, he made a sharp right, approached by the front door, the maneuver getting him out of sight behind a long line of bushes should there be any snoopy neighbors at large.
Jean had been watching for him, and he'd barely started across the flagstone terrace when the door mysteriously slipped open.
Then he was inside, he was holding the lovely woman in his arms, hugging her as though he hadn't seen her in a long, long time. Then they kissed, their bodies fighting to snuggle closer, and he was sure an eternity had passed since he'd last held her. That they'd both crossed an invisible bridge of love and that their lives would never be the same again.
"Rod," she sighed when finally he allowed their lips to unlock. "I've missed you. I can't tell you..."
"I've missed you, baby. It seems like I'm coming home after being away for years."
"That's very pretty, Rod," she said softly. "But it's all part of the routine, isn't it?"
His voice was grave, the sincerity in his tones surprising even him. "I wouldn't be too sure of that, dear."
She fell silent, submissively let him pull her into his arms. They kissed again, and beneath his hands Rod felt her body start to tremble. He felt something else, too. Pure, unadulterated Jean. She was naked underneath her negligee. His hands caressed more frantically, nylon sliding nylon, nylon sliding on bare, creamy flesh.
For the first time he had eyes for something else beside Jean's lovely face. And he saw that she wore a very pink, very transparent nylon nightie and negligee. A gown that complimented her red hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. A gown also splendidly transparent, that gave hazy silhouette of her naked body beneath.
"You look just like a little girl on Christmas morning. All gift-wrapped, coming down to see what Santa brought you."
She smiled impishly. "And what did Santa bring me?"
"You'll have to wait and see. But I'd give you a hint. It's something for your pussy-cat."
She laughed. "I'll just bet."
"You are lovely," he said. "One of the most beautiful women in New York. I love that get-up."
"I thought you would. I thought since I was entertaining in my own house, I'd give things a real domestic flavor."
"Any more domestic and we won't make it up to that bedroom."
"That's entirely up to you," she grinned. "But I'm no woman to be trifled with. Once pussy starts acting up!"
Rod was filled with a mounting warmth as he thought how much fun it was to be with Jean, to be indulging in this nervous, cover-up banter. It seemed, despite the fact that they were both "cheating", wholesome and normal; almost as if they were in reality, married. And here was Jean dressed in an intimate ensemble, greeting her husband at the door, brazenly inviting him upstairs to try a little "home cooking". After the things that had happened to him lately, after the misgivings he'd had about his future, it was not a bad feeling at all.
"You're sure it's safe?" he double-checked.
"Positive. Charles is in conference all afternoon. He promised me it'd be nine before he'd be home." She wrinkled her nose at Rod. "He's never disappointed me yet."
"You mean he only disappointed you once, don't you?"
"Let's not talk about that, Rod. Why spoil things?" She whirled, posed in a saucy caricature of seductiveness. "Shall we go up, darling?"
"Just like that?"
"Yes, Rod," she gave him a yearning stare. "Just like that. Unless you want a drink first."
"No, nothing, thanks. I want to fuck just like the other day. When we both knew what was going on every minute."
"Mmmm. I was hoping you'd say that."
"Well? Lead on, Jean."
As he followed her, Rod was struck further by her sensual beauty. They climbed a long, curving staircase, and from time to time glints of light struck her, subtly illuminated her body beneath the pale pink nylon, made her nipples, her shadowed ass glow with a golden sheen. It was all he could do to keep from reaching for her, squeezing and fondling her asscheeks and tits.
"In here, Rod," she said at last, a strange, frozen cast making itself known on her features. 'This is my room. Ever since our wedding night. No man but you has ever been in here. I mean, to fuck me... "
"It's all right, darling. I understand." A stab of pride went through him; his ego was nourished. "I'm glad. Corny as it sounds, I'm honored."
"Not half as honored as I am." She turned solemnly as they entered the room, fitted herself into his arms. "Dearest, if you only knew how I've dreamed of having you here. You've been in my thoughts night and day."
The sudden warmth was there again, gathering into a tight ball in his throat, threatening to choke him. Rod held Jean very tightly.
"It's a gorgeous room," he said, looking over her head, taking in the period furniture, the fluffy curtains at the window, the pink coverlet on her bed, the pink carpeting on the floor. It was a fussy, silly room and complimented Jean's femininity to a tee. There was a fresh, clean perfume in the air. "Smells nice too."
She giggled musically. "You silly, that's me." She turned her head and held her ear toward him. "Sniff here."
Rod did. "Mmm, wonderful." And then, as suddenly as that, the brittle, superficial mood was shattered. All hesitance and uncertainty was suddenly put behind them. For now Rod buried his lips into the soft whiteness of her throat just beneath her tiny ear.
"Oh, Rod," she breathed. "Let's not act like this. Let's be honest. Darling, I want you so. Come... take me to bed and let's fuck." Her body arched, she strained passionately against him. "Rod," her voice broke. "I-I love you."
"No, Jean," he said. "You don't know what you're saying. You're all mixed up letting gratitude substitute for love. You haven't had a man fuck you before, a real man that is. Then I come along and screw you and you're willing to trust me completely, to get your feelings mixed up with love."
"No, Rod. It's not that at all. I've known. Ever since last week, when I came to that place to see you. I thought it was just so much animal need at first, too. But afterward, when I couldn't forget you, I knew there was more to it. I love you. I don't care what you say, I do love you."
"You can't," Rod said, his voice snagging, giving out beneath the weight of his own emotions. "I won't let you. I'm not worthy. I'm available at a fee in one of the rottenest houses in town. No Jean. Forget it. Find someone else. Someone worthy of your beautiful love."
Now Jean pulled his head up, looked at him, her eyes glazed with tears, her lips trembling. "If my love is beautiful at all, sweetheart, it's because you taught me what love is. You transformed me, taught me what it means to be a woman. A whole woman."
She held him closer. "Let me love you, Rod. On any terms whatsoever. Stay at that house, anything. Only let me love you. I'll be your mistress, anything you ask. And if you would ever want me to marry you..."
"Marry me? But that's impossible. You told me yourself your husband would make your life hell on Earth if you even tried such a thing."
She smiled wryly. "That was before I met you, Rod. Before I got some purpose breathed back into my life. I've been doing a little something about that too." She pulled away. "Come here, look at this."
Jean led him toward a closet, opened the door, slid aside a layer of clothing. Underneath was an expensive tape recorder, feeder lines going out in every direction, a fresh reel of tape lying at ready on its sprockets. "Sometimes Charles even brings these men here. Into his own bedroom. Or into the guest room."
"What are you getting at?"
"Charles thinks he's got me buffaloed, that I can't do anything about the situation. Well he did. At least until I met you. Don't you see, dearest? I've got those rooms bugged, I've already got a couple of juicy tapes made. I monitor from right here."
"Tapes won't stand up in court. You know that."
"I know, Rod. But here's something else. Charles is up for a big promotion soon. He's counting on it like mad. Suppose this tape made the rounds of certain offices at his company? Where would my perverted husband be then?"
She laughed, exhibiting another, more vicious side of her character. "Hell give me a healthy settlement. When he hears this tape. Would you like to take a listen?"
"No, thanks. I know what it would be like. I don't need any guided tours." He stared into space. "I think you've overlooked one thing."
"Have I? What's that?"
"What is Charles going to do to you when you play him that tape. You're in for a rough time."
"I know, Rod. That's held me back until now. But now that I've found you. If you'll help me... "
"Is that the only reason you're promoting this love bit? Just so you'll have a muscle boy behind you?" He could have cut off his tongue the minute the words were out.
"Rod!" she gasped, the hurt in her eyes a heartbreaking thing. "Please, you can't mean that. No. I couldn't-you couldn't be that low and mean..."
"I'm sorry, baby," he soothed, gathering her trembling body into his arms. "I didn't mean it. It just slipped out. Damn me and my suspicious mind. Blame it on the rotten company I've been keeping."
"Oh, please, darling," she sniffled, "believe in me. If I didn't have you I'd never try to break out of this living death. I merely exist. Like a vegetable."
"I do, baby, I believe in you." Hatred for Charles swirled, merged with self-hatred in his brain.
It became a fiery ball of flame. "And I will help you. No matter what. I swear."
"You'll never regret it, Rod. Anything you want from me. I'll live with you if you want; you won't have to marry me. I'll walk the streets and become a prostitute for you. That's how much I love you."
A spear of pain sliced Rod's heart. "Don't, darling. Don't talk like that. If I have you in any way, shape or form, it'll be as my wife, you can bank on that."
"Rod, you don't mean that you really..."
"I don't know what I mean," he said, his eyes anguished. 'This is all coming so fast. I never dreamed when I came here today that before the afternoon was out I'd be telling some girl I loved her."
"And are you telling me, Rod?" She clung to him. "Dearest, even if you're not certain..."
It seemed the answer had been there all along. If only he hadn't been such a fool, he'd have seen it long before now. For what else could have triggered the anticipation he'd felt on his way here today? Why else the soul stunning release that other afternoon with Jean? It was so; he knew it now.
He'd been cut off too long; he'd needed to involve his life-really involve it-in someone else's for too long. He'd needed to walk among the living again, to borrow and to lend strength, to share honest, pure love. And now-
"Yes," he whispered, kissing her wet eyes, letting his lips slide to her hot, moist mouth. "I'm telling you. I love you, Jean. I truly do."
It seemed their bodies fused as they stood there, a totally new rapture enveloping Rod. It seemed a miraculous strength was passed between them, a courage that would allow them to face the world totally unafraid. With Jean beside him... God, nobody could stand in his way!
He never quite knew how he got undressed, how he got into the bed. But there he was, naked, on the fresh, satin sheets, the warm sun was beating down on his body. And there Jean was, lying blissful as he undid the ties of her negligee, then of her nightgown. She smiled a total surrender as he pulled her arms from the wispy nylon, let it flower about her in gossamer folds. His breath caught in his throat as he saw how lovely her body was when it was unmarked by the red welts from her underthings.
And reverently he slid his hand over the silky yet firm flesh, he stroked and caressed her from head to toe, his hands playing upon her with practiced expertness, causing her to tingle to the depths of her being. Then he was letting his lips suck her, on her breasts, her waist, her legs, and finally her cunt.
It was proof that love did make a terrifying difference. For the act of twat-sucking, which he had found so vile a few days ago, was suddenly transformed into a testament of adoration and undying love. It was a beautiful, humbling, dedicatory symbol... to suck Jean's cunt!
Jean protested at first, but finally, realizing the significance of the love her lover meant to communicate, she gave herself to the love rite, savored it to the limits of her passion and endurance as he heartily and fully tasted her beautiful twat.
But finally, as it seemed knives were ripping the linings of her cunt as her desire to be fucked increased, she could tolerate it no more. She moaned in ecstasy, bore a last final cunt suck, then pulled her lover up.
"Rod, precious, fuck me now. Don't make me wait any longer. I'm dying to have you fuck me. Come to me, quick. Oh, God, please."
They showed each other the gentle face of love that afternoon. There was none of the greedy impatience of those other times, for as they made love, as they both sighed their delight, at presence and containment, a change came over them. It was as though, they had been screwing each other all their lives, their every movement precise and perfect, the ecstatic sensations they had more beautiful than anything each had ever known.
On and on they went, fuck after fuck each driving the other to the brink of delirium and back, Rod calling on every ounce of technique he knew to withhold his sperm, to bring his beloved to orgasm. And still their rhythm was slow and studied, a miraculous gliding that was a symphony of motion.
Until at the end, Jean began to sob again, her delight so sublime and glorious. Then Rod could wait no longer.
Gently and rhythmically he moved with practiced skill between her willing, undulating thighs. Hands beneath her asscheeks, he brought her as close to him as possible.
Small moans began to escape Jean as the sensation of his steady prick lunges filled her with unbearably joyous sensations. Suddenly she stiffened, and her legs threshing wildly, she half-screamed, "I love you, Rod-fuck me like a man!"
Then he let loose ramming his hard prick deep into her cunt, harder and harder-in and out-like a piston. Until she screamed with an ecstasy of come he had never heard in all his experiences at Olga's cunt farm.
He stiffened as her final come triggered a sweet, fiery sensation from his loins and he shot his sperm into her in love's mindless bliss.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rod Bradley was faced with only one alternative-he had to leave the house in Riverdale, Olga and everything she stood for as soon as possible. He was on the border-line between Heaven and Hell and if he had a spark of manhood left now was the time to act.
Olga had called him only last night.
"There's a big one tonight, prize lover," she had cooed into the phone. He still remembered how quickly her tone had turned to a frustrated snarl, when he begged off sick... and said vaguely, that he might feel better the next night... What would her reaction be when he told her he wanted to quit cold?
Actually Rod had nothing but hearsay to go on. That and remembrance of his interview with Olga Innstrom, that afternoon in what seemed ages ago now. He didn't really know what to expect when he faced her with the truth. Perhaps she'd smile in that calculating way of hers, shrug and wish him luck. Or, on the other hand, she might fly into a towering rage, bring up the incriminating evidence she had on him, threaten to expose him if he didn't get back into line. Then, he thought grimly, Lord knows what I'll do to the cockmaster.
It was a frustrating situation all around. For if she let him go, wished him Godspeed in the bargain, nothing would really be solved. The photostats and originals of the damning documents would still lie in that filing cabinet in her office, she could blackmail him, snatch him back as a hired lover at any moment she chose. And, trying to keep his new found happiness with Jean, would he be brave enough to call her bluff?
There was still another possibility. Perhaps, should he dare her to expose him, her menace would collapse like a house of cards. For in reality, didn't she have more to lose than he? Wouldn't she anticipate the face that he'd sing loud and long about the unusual house in Riverdale? All her bribes and police payoffs would do her little good against a very publicized outcry like that!
What was to keep him from stomping into her suite, demanding his dossier? Tearing it up before her very eyes?
One thing: the remembrance of her syndicate connections. That and a not-too-long-ago reference to another inmate of Olga's house. A man who had bucked Olga, who had never been seen again from that day to this. Rod definitely wasn't up to a showdown like that.
And round and round his troubled brain slowly spun.
Coming to only one clean-out conclusion. That he needed, somehow, to win Olga's graceful consent that he leave her employ, leave with her blessing. For she, and only she, could gloss things over, make his move away from her, smooth.
And one more thing besides: Get those papers.
Thus it was, on Saturday morning, finally working up his courage, that Rod called Olga requested an interview with her at three that afternoon.
"Something important, Rod?" she fished sarcastically. "I wonder what that could be? You got gripes about your cut or something?"
"No. Olga. Nothing like that. Something else entirely different."
"Oh? Give me a hint."
"This afternoon, Olga."
"I've got my ideas," she purred. "You been getting kind of restless lately, Rod. Haven't you? Well, if it's what I think, you're wasting your breath." She giggled tauntingly. "Three o'clock, Rod?" Then hung up.
She left Rod in an even more indecisive, dread-swamped condition. What if I can't convince her? But I have to. She had to let me go. So that Jean and I...
And as added insurance, he made a hurry-up trip to the bank, withdrew all his savings. If she wouldn't listen to reason, then perhaps the money would talk louder. Granted, it would leave him on his ass, but then, what other out did he have? He had to take his chances.
Such were his thoughts that afternoon as he slammed his car into the near empty garage behind the house, as he screeched to a halt, killed the engine, and walked purposefully toward the house.
But all his apprehensions, all his carefully laid arguments and plans were for nothing. He didn't need them. A merciful, though grisly, fate intervened in Rod's behalf.
He thought it strange that Mack Calabrio, didn't answer the door. Instead the puffy-eyed Jose Cruz admitted him.
"Where's Mack?" Rod challenged. "Don't tell me I caught the eternal watchdog napping."
"Search me, boss," Cruz said in his syrupy, lipped accent. "I ain't seen him all afternoon."
"Anybody around?"
"Ken and Doug are upstairs. Olga's in her suite. No trade though. No telling where Mack's gone to."
"Muchas gracias, senor," Rod baited him.
"Nuts, senor," Cruz retorted good-humoredly.
Rod waited for perhaps two minutes outside Olga's door for someone to answer his ring before he thought to try the door. He was vastly surprised to find it open. Olga's sanctuary was always locked, kept strictly off limits to the "boys".
Glancing up and down the hallway, finding it empty, Rod opened the door, entered quietly into the apartment. Quickly he checked the outer cubicle, saw everything in good order. Then he furtively advanced on the inner door, raised his hand to rap a curt signal.
At that moment his attention was arrested by a foreign, unidentifiable sound within, and his hand froze in mid-air. It was a sound that was a cross between an animal whine and bubbling soup. Again, throwing caution to the winds, Rod turned the knob, pushed the door open a mere crack.
There, in the room's center, sprawled on the luxurious, white carpeting, were two bodies. The two bodies belonged to Mack Calabrio and Olga Innstrom.
One living, one dead.
Rod wanted to retreat, to conceal himself completely. But he could not. The astonishing, unexpected scene froze him where he stood.
"Mummy, Mummy..." Mack Calabrio was blubbering, his face tear-streaked, his eyes glazed, an expression of sheer idiocy on it. "Wake up, please wake up. I didn't mean to hurt you. Mummy..."
While in his arms, the rag doll figure flopped and quivered, the once proud and erect head lolled and rolled aimlessly, proof positive that Olga's neck had been snapped by those same powerful hands that now sought to console and revive her.
But Olga wasn't to be revived. She was as dead as dead could be. She had been a final victim to her own lustful ventures, she had paid the ultimate price for providing cock for cunt-starved females-of any age. Even for herself.
They were both entirely naked, Calabrio's body still sweat-drenched, and there was no doubt left in Rod's mind they'd been fucking only minutes ago.
Looking at Olga's body, still beautiful, despite the marked pallor now invading it, Rod could not help but wonder at the discolored, red blotches, each the size of a large plum, that were scattered at random on her flesh. What kind of rotten rite had they been conducting when something had set the unpredictable Calabrio off?
Now Calabrio gathered the limp body in his arms, began to rock it, crooning to it in a monotone, the words a steady stream of gibberish. Rod's stomach reeled as he saw the head bounce and jiggle so grotesquely, as Olga seemed to fix him with a last contemptuous glare. But it was only imagination, for there was nothing in those wide, staring eyes but utter blankness.
It seemed that Rod would scream if he had to watch the macabre, sickening performance a second longer. Calabrio's lullaby abruptly turned into a dirge, and his sobs faster. He held the body closer, began to kiss and slobber over the dead lips. "Please, Mummy, wake up!" he howled. "You have to wake up now."
Rod clung to the door knob for support. Then, suddenly, he lost his balance, fell halfway into the room. God, he raged. Mack mustn't see me now. He'll kill me, he'll tear me limb from limb.
Calabrio stared directly at Rod. But shock had done its work on that shriveled brain. He looked through Rod, not really seeing him at all. Then returned to the limp doll in his arms. It was sure evidence of the lunatic horizon Calabrio had now passed over. It was explanation as to why he hadn't heard Rod buzzing at the door.
And finally, his trance broken, Rod staggered back, closed the door on the nightmarish scene. He fell against the wall, breathing raggedly, trying to focus his thoughts. Then his eyes fell on the modern file cabinet against the opposite wall.
His purpose in coming back today was recalled, the too-pat solution to his problem slamming at his brain like a sledge hammer. The file. The papers are in there!
Once more he changed into a decisive, sure automation, leaped for the outer door, locked it. Then he turned on the file, yanked at the drawers, found them sealed. He was looking around the office for some jimmying tool, when he recalled something one of his unsavory New York friends, a second-story man by happy avocation, had once told him.
"People will spend all kinds of jack to buy safes and vaults and stuff, and then they'll do some damn fool thing like writing the combination on the underside of a desk blotter, they'll hide a key behind the drapes. Talk about stupes."
Instantly Rod was prowling the office, praying that Olga had been just such a stupe, scouring every corner and drawer and ledge in the room. Minutes later he was successful. The key wasn't behind the drapes. But it was beneath one corner of the rug.
It took him only seconds to find his folder in the file. It was jammed in among the most awful collection of junk Rod had ever seen. Canisters of film, booklets, books, imitation rubber pricks and balls, pictures of nude men in all positions whose purpose he could only guess at. Quickly riffling through it, determining that everything was there, he took the entire folder, shoved it inside his shirt.
As he let himself carefully out of the office, his heart beating a maddening tattoo, he paused, listened.
In the other room Mack Calabrio was still blubbering for Olga to wake up.
Without a moment's hesitation Rod raced up the stairs, went to the room with the blue door for the last time. Inside, he methodically stripped it, removing any personal belongings that might serve to incriminate him, should the murder bring the law charging down on the house.
As he came downstairs again, he heard a female giggle break from one of the anterooms. Then a male voice, pleading and coaxing to be allowed to fuck. Bella and Cruz working up to a matinee.
Thus it was nobody saw him as he quietly let himself out of the house and ran for his car.
It was only as he roared out of the driveway that Rod first had time to think of anything beyond self preservation. And he wondered what would happen to the house now with Olga gone. Would Calabrio blunder onto the street, howl up a storm? Or would someone find him first, get him under control, inform certain higher echelon parties as to what tragedy transpired.
What would happen to the whorehouse in Riverdale? Was there a syndicate behind the whole operation who had merely used Olga as a front? If this were so then the loss of the hard-boiled, beautiful figurehead would mean nothing. After the excitement of discovery died down, a similar establishment with a new Olga would quietly reopen in an exclusive section of town. Rod knew there would always be male cocks and balls as long as there were prick-starved women, or those who wanted their kicks off the beaten path, women who were well-fixed and willing to shell out liberally for a few fucks or more of an evening.
Rod dismissed all these thoughts from his mind and concentrated on getting as far away from Riverdale as fast as he could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Time passed and it was if the sea had swallowed the house in Riverdale and all in it. At any rate, there were no repercussions as far as Rod was concerned. It was a miracle, but he was in the clear.
During this time much had occurred. Jean's husband had finally seen the logic of giving her a divorce and she would soon be legally free. Rod had filmed the T.V. special "Murder Off Broadway". It had received only average reviews, but it was proving the springboard to a career for Rod. Another producer had given him a call and he was busily at. work on a pilot film for a weekly T.V. series. It was a science fiction drama and if it clicked he'd really be in the T.V. big time.
But of all these good things, the most important was that, as he returned to his new apartment this particular evening after a seemingly endless day on the lot, Jean had preceded him; she was waiting for him with big, round eyes, her smile welcoming, openly betraying her reasons for coming. She wanted his prick to fuck her.
They weren't married as yet, but it was only a matter of months before the waiting period was over. And in place of good, old, rockbound, respectable American marriage at the moment, there was the charming and perfectly acceptable stopgap known as "sleeping together" or fucking one's wife to be. It seemed to Rod that Jean was at his apartment more than at her own.
Especially since, every time they fucked each other, it seemed better, their love for each other feeding on mutual self-sacrifice, growing great and respectable. It was a giant no one would ever dare even to take a tiny potshot at.
"Not you again?" he joked. "Didn't I catch you hanging around here just last night?"
She accepted the mood gaily, played the game. "Yes. And tomorrow night, too."
"But I had a rising young starlet invited over here tonight. We were going to read some lines together and screw."
She kissed him, darting her cunning little mouth against his, pressing her pointing titties to his chest at the same time. "Oh, no," she smiled. "No starlets. I'm all the starlet you'll ever need. That's why I keep your sperm at such low level, baby. So you'll never even look at another woman."
- She nuzzled him with her nose. "Ummm, I've missed you, darling. Seems I miss you more now than I ever did. I'll be so happy when everything's all legal and nice. When I can take you to some ranch and have your prick branded all my very own. 'Property of Jean Bradley' it'll say."
"You sadistic wench," he chuckled, clenching her ass, driving her body against his.
A motion she answered with a twisting and bunting characteristically her own. "A fucking wench, too."
"You're right to the point tonight, aren't you?"
"Not yet," she quipped. "But hold cocky out and I will be."
"Even before dinner?"
"Even before dinner. Do you want to come help me get ready for my lover's prick? Or do you want to relax out here with a nice martini? I've mixed some already."
"You go ahead," he sighed, settling in a chair. 'That martini sounds fine."
"Party pooper," she spouted prettily. Then she ran toward the bedroom, her gorgeous legs twinkling seductively as she went. "I'll call you when I'm ready. Bring the martini along. We'll finish our cocktail hour in there."
Rod sat back, sighed again, thought for the thousandth time, how fortunate a man he was. Thought how far removed from his former apartment his present, lavish digs were. How far his whole life, in fact, was removed from a past that went back only six months.
Had that house ever existed? Had it played a major role in transfiguring his life?
There was no doubt that it had existed-still existed. He'd driven in Riverdale only a month ago, had seen one of the Cadillacs, bearing a trio of women, sweeping up that drive. There'd been no flap at all. The murder at the house had never reached the newspaper's front pages. The syndicate took care of its own. The house's existence had never become public knowledge. In fact he'd recently heard a rumor that it was currently being run by a "Mr. Kenneth", which tickled Rod. Imagine Kenny affecting a title like that.
He sipped his martini reflectively. The days following his escape had been hectic. He'd moved immediately, had gone underground for three weeks. Again there'd been no rumble of trouble, no thugs had come calling on him in the middle of the night. His past, assured when he'd personally burned the papers in his file, one by one, was dead and buried. He'd been given a new lease-second chance.
Discreetly Kenny had never attempted to contact him since that fateful day. It was an act of true friendship Rod would never forget. Especially since his name and face had been so prominently displayed on certain marquees for a while now.
But now his reverie was interrupted. And he heard Jean calling from the bedroom. He rose and started toward her. Then he retraced his steps, brought the cocktail things.
"You're beautiful," he breathed, surveying the muted, alabaster figure, his eyes taking in the symmetrical beauty of her huge, pointed breasts, the smooth, luscious line of her waist and legs, her beautiful pussy. "It seems you get more beautiful every day."
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," Jean smiled and then clung to him, her lips searching his as her breasts flattened against his chest and her thighs did a grind against his legs.
Rod's hands began to explore her ass and thighs and then crept up to each titty in turn. Holding and playing delicately with the nipples, he alternately sucked them into hardness. Quivering with pleasure, Jean broke away from him and flung herself on the bed, flinging off in a moment her panties.
"Come on star prick boy, give me the three hundred dollar super-special," she gasped.
"Anything to oblige a customer," Rod laughed as he seized her on the bed and lunged into her yearning cunt with a ramming she soon matched.
"There's nothing like a professional," she breathed into his ear a moment before they both moaned and half-screamed together in love's mutual come.
