Often the sadist, unable to find the proper equilibrium and emotional balance that normal male aggressiveness and dominance provide, strikes out against a society that ignores him by a violent show of force against its women. These sins and violence, the sadist believes, assert his masculinity and give him both purpose and a goal in life. Sick beyond his own understanding he may stalk his prey like the animal he has become, with each terrible lust seizure only a prelude to the next ... Such a beast was Sharkawi, who used many other names in his orgy search. Fat, despicable, and seething with lust-sickness, he rode the Night Express stalking his next victim ...
CHAPTER ONE
Madame Jeanne Polanche looked up coldly as the gross, dark man sidled his way into the compartment. And though she'd been brought up better, an involuntary wince of distaste fled across her face. If she was obliged to have company on the long trip to Carcassonne, she'd much rather have had a female traveling companion. Men-especially middle-aged men like the one settling into the seat opposite her were such bores.
A stronger irritation stabbed her. If this obese clown was anything like her Andres-she wouldn't have a moment's peace all night long.
And she had looked forward so much to a restful, solitary trip.
She chided herself at not having reserved a private compartment. Then had self-satisfied second thoughts. A Frenchwoman, even so obviously well-off a Frenchwoman as Madame Polanche appeared, is always close with a sou. The saving a second-class compartment offered was irresistible to her stingy breed.
She would just have to suffer this bore. Perhaps if she simply ignored him-
The woman who sat on the upholstered, high-backed seat pretending to read Le Figaro was in her early thirties, was fashionably dressed, wore a mink coat over her dark, wool traveling suit. The compartment warming now, she opened her coat, and her youthful (if slightly plump) figure was revealed. Her hair was dark, her face thin and beautiful despite the shrewish cast to her eyes, the snappish lines at her thin, red mouth. She had very prominent breasts they were sensual attributes of which she was justly proud.
Mme. Polanche's waist was trim enough, her hips gave hint of an earthy sensuality beneath that severe exterior. Her legs were long, slim, were gauzed in black nylon, her hosiery patterned with charming fleurs-de-lis. Her shoes were practical, chisel-toed with cute, baby heels.
If the newcomer hadn't stared, Mme. Polanche would have been vaguely disappointed. For she was much woman. And though she wanted nothing to do with any man, she still expected at least a cursory, eye-flickering acknowledgement of her beauty and desirability.
Which homage her fellow passenger promptly conferred. His glance was discreet, quick. His eyes lingered on her charcoal-shadowed legs perhaps a moment too long. His appraisal unnerved Mme. Polanche. There was something sick, piggish almost, in the man's eyes. She attended her newspaper again.
"Carcassonne?" the man smiled. "Or do you have another destination?" His French was very good, the falsetto emphasis in the wrong places on certain words notwithstanding. Her eyes incisive, Mme. Polanche decided he was of middle-eastern derivation. Morocco, Egypt, Lebanon. She shrugged inwardly. One of les negres was just like another to her.
"Carcassonne," she replied tartly.
"Is this your first visit? You will find the city absolutely charming. I come every fall. As soon as the summer tourist rush is over." His eyes glittered, continued to rove over Mme. Polanche's breasts and legs. "I am a Paris storekeeper. A gift shop. One can't leave during the most profitable season. The Americans ... such lambs."
A subtle feeling of kinship sprang up in Mme. Polanche. "Oh? Is that so? My husband is in business also." She didn't bother to elaborate.
"Permit me," the dusky-skinned man said, executing a ridiculous little bow where he sat, "I am Gamal Mansura. At your service, Madame ... " His voice hung.
"Polanche," she said. "Madame Polanche. So pleased, I'm sure. Forgive me if I chatter. I am gregarious by nature. If I offend, do not hesitate to tell me." He smiled deprecatingly, his teeth glistening whitely against his dark skin. "Perhaps you wish privacy...."
Mme. Polanche was surprised at how quickly she warmed to the man. He was a harmless old fool, there would be no harm in talking with him. If she tired of him she could easily retreat to her newspapers and magazines once more.
But after all, it was eight hours to Carcassonne. Conversation would help pass the time. She forced a smile. "Please. I am a woman. And women are notorious for loving to talk."
"Bien, bien," he chuckled. "I will tell you about Carcassonne then. If you have not been there before, I...."
"I have been," she interrupted. "Twice."
"Voila! We can exchange notes then. Perhaps you know better restaurants. But I can certainly advise you as to which hotels to avoid. Thieves, gougers, all of them. And they throw mud at us Parisians...."
And not more than ten minutes later the initial coldness had completely thawed. But strangely enough, neither of them made even fleeting reference to the historical significance of the walled city; they were much too engrossed in practical matters, in talk of prices, of bargains, of the endless and intricate tipping procedures in southern France.
At exactly 6:10 p.m. on that crisp October night, the night express to Carcassonne left Gare de I' Est station, began threading its way south.
At exactly 6:20 p.m. the conductor knocked discreetly at the door to compartment 223, checked the tickets of the two passengers chatting so amiably therein.
Of course, seeing the comical fat man, the aristocratic female sitting across from him, he never suspected anything could be awry here. With a droll wink at the man, he left them, even double-checked to make sure their door was firmly locked.
By 7:00 formalities between the two had been dropped; they were on first name basis. He was Gamal, she Jeanne. And Mme. Polanche wondered how she could ever have felt antagonistic to the droll buffoon. There was absolutely nothing to fear from M. Mansura. She might as well have been home, talking to Marie Voisson, that fat gossipmonger who ran the shop adjoining Andres'.
"Tell me if I'm being overly inquisitive," she said now, "but I can't help wondering ... Gamal Mansura ... What nationality is that?"
His eyes flickered, a curtain descended over them for the briefest moment. Then they cleared, became lively again. "Algerian, my dear Jeanne. I came over during the first wave, back in fifty...."
"Oh, I see." She forced a grin. "You were saying, about your gift business.. ? "
The talk went on, and Mme Polanche tried to visualize this obese man behind the counter in a gift shop. Talk about the proverbial bull amidst the crockery. And she thought her companion the more comical.
The man named Mansura was perhaps five-seven, weighed at least 250 pounds. Which was extremely disproportionate. His hair was thinning, his scalp gleamed beneath the random plaits of oily, black hair. He sported a thin, waxed mustache above an overly moist, sensuous mouth. Rolls of fat cascaded from beneath his chin, gave him little or no neck at all. His skin seemed puffy and shiny; Mme. Polanche imagined he would perspire even in arctic climes.
Mansura wore a light colored suit, tightly stretched at the midsection. Dark stains glazed his trouser crease where he constantly brushed his hands in that annoying mannerism of his. His trouser legs were loose, baggy at the knee. Again cutting folds strained the worsted fabric, dug into his upper legs, made his pot stand out that much more noticeably. His trouser cuffs climbed to reveal black socks, white, hairy legs. His black shoes were scuffed and run-down.
From one of your pretty men, one of your arrogants, she mused, a woman expects trouble. But this-clown? He'd burst into tears the moment a strong-minded woman tongue-lashed him. And after seven years with the weak-knead Andres, Mme. Polanche was a strong-minded woman indeed.
But not strong-minded enough, as things developed. For like most women, avid for chatter, susceptible to flattery, a pushover for forbidden sweets, Jeanne Polanche had her weak spots also. Which spot the cunning Mansura gauged well. As he now reached up onto the storage rack above him, brought down a two-pound box of chocolates.
Opening the box, he fastidiously folded back the protective liner, revealed the virginal rows of bonbons. Gallantly he offered same to his lovely companion.
"Non, mere, " Mme. Polanche said. "I am on a diet. Please do not tempt me."
"A diet?" he said in mock disbelief. "A lovely, svelte creature like you? I cannot believe that. Please, just a little piece? Surely one won't hurt you."
Jeanne blushed at the compliment. "No, thank you. I assure you ... a girl has to look after her figure."
The man didn't insist. Instead he took back the box, took a chocolate himself, nibbled at it with relish. "I honor your fortitude," he sighed. "I only wish I was as strong." He patted his ample girth ruefully. "But, sad to say, I am not. And since things have come to this sorry state...."
Mansura popped another chocolate into his mouth.
They went on talking, the man consuming chocolates at an alarming (and noisy) rate. And the more he ate, the more Mme. Polanche regretted her initial refusal. Chocolates were her particular Waterloo; candy was all but impossible for her to resist.
Thus it was, as Mansura had almost finished the top layer in the box, picking among the sweets in haphazard fashion, that she suffered a change of heart. "Please," she smiled, "I've reconsidered. I think I will have some candy after all. They look so tasty...."
"By all means, Jeanne. Help yourself. The cremes are especially good." He offered the box again. Only the most suspicious person would have noticed that he held the container a special way, as if willing her to choose certain pieces of candy.
Jeanne Polanche took three chocolates, smiled gratefully. And as she bit into the first one: "I feel so guilty. If Andres ... my husband ... should see me now, he'd have a fit."
"Good that Andres isn't here then. Enjoy yourself, my dear. Shut out conscience."
"Delicious," she said, consuming two candies quickly. Then, as she bit into the third, her face drew into a swift grimace.
"What is it?" Mansura asked solicitously. "Did you bite into something."
"Bitter," she said.
He immediately whisked out his handkerchief. "Give it to me, Jeanne. I'll dispose of it for you. Sometimes they get their bittersweet chocolates mixed up. Here, I'll take it."
She smiled. "No, it's all right. It's not that bad. I'll finish. Just me. After eating the sweeter kinds ... " Instantly the box was re-offered "Another?"
"Please." And the greedy woman took three more bonbons.
Five minutes later, as she finished these pieces, the conversation continuing apace, Mme. Polanche suddenly found herself very sleepy. A dizzy buzzing had begun in her head, and it was almost impossible for her to focus her eyes. "You'll ... you'll have to excuse me," she stammered. "I don't feel so good all at once. I...."
"I'm so sorry to hear that Jeanne," the man said, his smile smug, triumphant now, his tone mocking. Even worse, the woman couldn't quite distinguish what he was saying. She saw Mansura rise, check the paneled doors a second time, she saw him pull the opaque shades on the compartment's outer windows.
Suddenly it seemed unbearably warm in the tiny cubicle.
Everything spun more wildly before her eyes, blurred, became a garish wash of color. Now the colors dimmed, became muddy brown. Then black.
And Mme. Jeanne Polanche, staid and stuffy member of Paris' petite bourgeoisie, sank into a senseless stupor. Inherently suspicious as she was, she couldn't know now that she'd been drugged with effortless ease.
How long she floated in that dark, mindless limbo, the woman would never know. She was oblivious to thought, to sound, to sensation.
And, as she floated up, as her eyes fluttered open, pierced that cottony dullness only temporarily, found that she was now lying full length on the seat, stripped down to just her lingerie-she realized she'd been unconscious to touch as well.
She shivered, fought to summon up outrage, surprise even. But her mind heeled over hard, temporary blackness returned. She felt his hands now as they coursed over her breasts, as his fingers clenched into her soft flesh, as his palms gyrated on her hard nipples. She struggled to break the bonds of this trance, to bring up her hands, claw his degenerate touch away from her.
But there was no strength in her arms, no strength anywhere. Totally deprived of will, she found even thinking was an incredibly difficult process. What--? she wailed inwardly. She couldn't even finish that question.
What, what, what--?
The torpor passed slightly, and she found strength to move her arms. She fluttered her hands at his. But there was no strength in her arms, she felt like she was pushing against a wall made of marshmallows.
The man's giggle came through more clearly now, jittered and seared in the cave of her mind. She wanted to sob, to scream at the same time. But she could do neither.
"Be a good girl, Jeanne," he taunted in a pinched, oily voice. "Be good to Gamal. Just like all girls should be good to him. Relax now, relax ... Do what Gamal tells you."
Jeanne Polanche couldn't, of course, know what kind of drug the madman had used on her. In fact her mind was so dulled that most of the things that happened from then failed to register. It was only later, when total recall returned, when her subconscious regurgitated those depraved memories, that she sobbed and writhed in stunning shame.
Seemingly Mansura wanted nothing more than to have a woman at his command, to subjugate her endlessly. The drug gave him this power, it rendered his victim helpless, she had no choice-no qualms actually-about the things she would indulge him in.
And where the hands wouldn't fight, they would, nevertheless, answer to his commands, commit more passive chores.
Chores like these they did now. As Mansura hissed: "That pretty black brassiere, my dear. Take it off for me. Offer those juicy breasts of yours. On a silver platter."
She shivered on the bench, adjusted her body, tried to reach her bra snaps. But the dizziness continued, made her clumsy. Angered, the man tore the brassiere away himself. At his repeated command her hands swept up, gathered her breasts, held them captive for his hurting fingers.
Now his lips, his nipping teeth. So anesthetized did the drug make her that she barely felt his painful attentions.
The desecration went on and on.
There were moments, as his commands became more and more vile, that she remembered absolutely nothing, when the suffocating blackness closed over her mind anew. And when she reopened her eyes, refocused her vision-
This time she was dressed in just her black garter belt, in her novelty stockings, in the black kid slippers. She was sprawled on her back, allowing the man to handle and investigate her in the most outrageous fashion.
The tide of blackness moved in once more.
Now she found herself hovering over the man-an errant thought came and she wondered why she didn't fall slowly, hypnotically removing his shoes. Now his socks. She reached for his belt, began to unbuckle it. But he forestalled her.
She wondered what she was doing on the floor, at his feet, kissing his toes, his instep. She wondered at the way he put his bare foot on her face, seemingly intended to push her head right into the floor.
The next time her vision focused the bloated, obscene body was totally naked before her, the pervert was proudly displaying himself to her. Now as he beckoned to her, she fell toward him. His voice hissed. All will gone, she found herself fondling, admiring him there.
The world spun more crazily now.
She sat on the edge of the seat now, her head reversed, she was caught up in a fit of revulsion, some of the drug's effects wearing off now, she tried to fight his cruel hands. But he was too strong for her.
She found herself kissing his feet again. This seemed to be a special fixation with the man. His voice cut the void sibilantly, ordered her to further excess. She gagged when he forced his feet, first one, then the other, into her mouth as far as each would go. He held her to the vile task for what seemed an eternity.
"Good, isn't that?" he hissed continually, his voice an aberrated chant. "You like doing that for Gamal, don't you? All women like that, don't they? To crawl before a man, before their natural-born masters?"
Jeanne felt her head rocked, she felt her brain reel. But she didn't feel the pain that accompanied the slap.
"Tell me!" the voice drifted in. "Tell me you like doing this!"
She returned to her task, attended him more slavishly. "Yes," she muttered, "I like this. I do...."
"You're wild about being a slave...."
"I'm wild about being a slave."
"You can't get enough of this...."
"I can't get enough of...."
The stygian darkness thundered down again.
When she recovered this time she found herself kneeling before the man. She found herself honoring him in a monstrous way. She found herself crooning over the forced subservience, praising him, almost as if, in reality, she enjoyed the sick task.
"With us again, eh, Jeanne?" he grunted. "You'll have to stop that sort of thing. You're missing some of the best parts. Wonderful, isn't this? You like this just as well as the other, don't you?"
She felt faint tendrils of pain in her scalp as he yanked at her hair, forced her even harder. She choked, couldn't get her breath. Still he held her. And when she thought she'd die-
He released her, sighed. "Tell me, slut. This is good, n'est-ce pas?"
And before the blow could fall again: "Yes, yes," she gasped. "Good, so good."
He snickered. "Then why do you stop, pig? Words are superfluous at a time like this. Back to work, my high-class tramp. Show yourself for what you really are beneath those furs and silks. Gueuse, gueuse ... Harlot."
He slapped her just the same. "Work, damn you, work!"
The ultra-respectable Madame Polance worked. As if her life depended upon how well she performed.
Which, perhaps, in the long run, it did. For the psycho got more wild by the moment, more sadistic. He seemingly couldn't defile, couldn't torment her enough.
Somewhere during those abominations the blessed torpor closed down again; there was a mental vacuum to ease her agony.
She had vague impressions of that suffocating weight on her, of pain and breathless struggles. She recalled his howls, the fact that she'd been forced to her knees before him again.
And when he'd been rejuvenated another time: She couldn't be sure. But hadn't she felt her breasts being squashed into that gritty upholstery, hadn't her face been rubbed raw as she'd fought to stifle her screams by driving it into those unyielding cushions?
Hadn't she almost died at that horrendous pain?
Jeanne Polanche heard the rattling on the door, came up from a deep, terrifying sleep, stared about her wildly. Her head clearer now, she instantly saw that she was naked; she was amazed that she was alone, that her obese Torquemada was gone. Her eyes darted, she was appalled to find herself naked, she wondered at the red blotches on her skin, advance messengers of long-lasting bruises.
"Madame!" the conductor's voice came. "Monsieur! You asked to be called at Narbonne. We are there. The end of the line. Sil vous plait, madame, monsieur!"
The conductor couldn't know there was no monsieur, that he'd escaped back to Carcassonne, had left these confusing orders. The conductor couldn't even begin to guess what grisly tragedy had transpired in this compartment.
Rage ballooned within Mme. Polanche. The police! she thought. She'd summon them, spill every ugly detail. The fiend wouldn't get away with this! She'd catch him, track him down, see him rot in prison. She'd-
She fell back wearily onto the seat, struggled to make her head stop spinning. Abruptly all will, all fight drained out of her. Listlessly she reached for the tangled snarl of lingerie on the floor. She groaned at the searing pain that went through her at every moment.
"Madame! Monsieur!" the conductor repeated.
"Yes," she snapped. "L ... we hear you. We'll be out in a moment."
She knew overpowering shame and outrage as she fought with her clothes. She realized that she couldn't go to the police, that she could never reveal her degradation to anyone. She wanted to scream with frustration to realize that the man named Mansura would never be brought to justice if things were left to her; he'd undoubtedly vilify legions of women before he was ever apprehended.
For there was one small, but priceless matter. Her reputation. Once the news got out-
She could never hold her head up again. Her husband, her friends-the very world-would turn on her.
Great hawking sobs escaped her, her tears blinded her as she fumbled with her clothing. The details of this abomination would remain her secret the longest day she lived, she would carry them to the grave with her.
She would die before she would willingly tell the world what had happened to her in compartment 223 aboard the night express to Carcassonne. Wild horses couldn't drag that information from her.
Now Mme. Polanche worked more desperately to untangle her hosiery.
The conductor was banging at the door once more.
CHAPTER TWO
MILLIONS OF WORDS, DOZENS OF SONGS, COUNTless paintings have been executed to honor Paris in the Spring. Too little, however, has been said about another exceptional season: Paris in the Autumn. Paris in October and November, Paris in the waning months of another year. Paris gloomy, mist-drenched, melancholy, virtually deserted by the armies of tourists that inundate it during those spring and summer months. The real Paris.
The Montmarte, topped by Sacre Coeur, gray and dank in those days of November, its cobblestones glistening with the shining reminder of a recent rain. The trees of Tuileries Gardens sere and bare against a leaden sky. The brilliance of a sunny October day in Place de la Concorde, its monuments glistening against a crystalline blue sky, the columns of Church de la Madeleine stark white against the backdrop of a million rust-colored rooftops and chimney pots.
The grounds of Palais de Chaillot, a perfect walk, the littered walks along the Seine, Notre Dame, dour and glowering against a threatening sky. The first snow of winter as viewed from atop the Butte, melting almost as fast as it falls, giving the city stretched out below all the majesty and sweep of a vast ocean.
Walk these foggy streets at night, resist the constant whimper of the cruising harlots, desert the crisp air for the redolent warmth of one of Paris' neighborhood cafes. This is the aficionado's Paris, the Paris of unknown moods, scents, encounters and insights.
This is Paris in the Fall.
This is the Paris to which Joanna and Mayo Kinsolving came this October 10, the Paris which they were, at that same moment that Mme. Jeanne Polanche was wallowing in appalling grief and shame aboard the Carcassonne express, acclimatizing themselves to.
In an elegant hotel called Palais Royale, located just off Champs Elysee. Which hotel they'd checked into just this evening, returning from dinner now, both weary from the day's exertions and excitements, preparing to retire early. At noon that day they'd been in New York, having flown in from Peoria, Illinois, a matter of another few hours. To Joanna, overseas for the first time in her life, the rapidity with which they'd moved from plateau to plateau of worldly sophistication had been too much; she was plainly dazzled.
Now, undoing her bolero jacket, loosening her hair, she slumped onto the bed, smiled sleepily. "I just can't believe it," she sighed. "To think, that less than twelve hours ago we were back home in Peoria."
At which Mayo scowled, flung his jacket at a chair more viciously than he should have. "You say that once more," he growled, "and I'm gonna give you one behind the ear."
Joanna smiled in a cowed manner. "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't know I was irritating you. It's just so new, so exciting for me. After all, this is the first time you've ever brought me along on one of your business trips."
"It may be the last time, too, if you keep this kind of dumb chatter up. Grow up, will you? Modern times, honey."
Joanna looked up, mild apprehension in her eyes. Why did he get so heated up about such a little thing? All I said was. She shivered. But then it was nothing new; lately he'd jumped on her for almost anything. "Although why you brought me along this time I'll never know. You don't act like you're happy about your decision."
"I'm happy," he gritted, fighting for patience. "And you damned well know why I brought you along. You've been a wonderful wife these past four years. This is our vacation from monotony, a sort of second honeymoon. I owe you that much and more."
The way her husband avoided her eyes told Joanna reams more about his reasons for bringing her along on this three-week business trip than his words did. There was desperation in his tone, a last-ditch finality. If things didn't work out right between them this time-
Joanna didn't finish the thought. Instead she shivered lightly, evidence of a deeper fear living within her. "You don't owe me anything, dear," she said. "I'd hoped that there was more than that to this trip."
"There you go again," he glowered. "Twisting things. Damn, honey, you know what I mean. I'm not one of your poets, I'm a plain-talking businessman." He turned his back on her. "Lord, you've got me thinking in circles now. Let's sack in. Big day tomorrow. We meet the French nabobs, start doing the spadework for this big deal."
"I know, darling."
He turned, regarded her sternly. "Do you, Joanna? Really understand, I mean? If we sell this plant to this Frenchman, we're in, we'll be on easy street. You think we've got things good now ? You've got no idea of what we'll have when this foreign branch is established. Two-hundred grand a year at least. With stock options. That'll sure make my present fifty look like peanuts."
The beautiful, petite blonde, a female of some 28 years, sighed heavily, looked down at her finely formed and manicured hands. "Is that the only basis you can equate life on? On a mere dollars and cents basis? Isn't anything else important to you, Mayo?"
"There you go again. Don't knock it, baby. Money makes the world go round. You wouldn't have silk on your duff at this moment if it wasn't for the money I earn. You wouldn't have your own car, minks, jewels, the whole bit...."
Joanna shrugged. They'd traveled this road so many times before. And always-the same old dead end. "Skip it, Mayo. But when you start talking like that I feel almost negotiable, like something you brought along to make an impression, not because...."
"Not because what?"
"I said forget it. I thought you said something about going to bed early." She rose, ran the zippers at the waist of her exclusive nylon print, reached for the zipper down the back. Then, with a quick flip, the dress was going over her head. She walked to her closet to hang it up, aware that Mayo's eyes were on her body every step she took.
Talk, she raged inwardly. Why can't we ever talk? Why do we always run up against this same brick wall? There wouldn't be any need for this trip, for these halfhearted reconciliation attempts, if we could just discuss things on a sane, reasonable adult level. God, if he just didn't treat me like some kid, like a China doll!
She flung her slip over her head, dropped it on the closet floor. She took a deep breath, jacked her shoulders back, brought her breasts to full, piquant thrust. She collapsed one knee, stood in hoyden pose. Slowly she turned, gave him a head-on view of her large, high breasts, of her lightly girdled hips, an incendiary vision all in red nylon, dark hosiery, black pumps.
Lust flared in his eyes. "Baby," he choked as if in actual pain, "you are a sight. Satan in high heels. Wow, but you make the coffee perc!"
"Mayo," she chided half-heartedly, "is that any way to talk? After all, I'm not one of your street girls." While inwardly she wished Mayo would say even more inflaming things to her, actually treat her like a tart. She wished he'd give her that supreme gift, that knowledge that she held him in the palm of her hand, that she could make him wild and mindlessly brutal with need for her.
She amended the thought. I wish I could make him howl with desire. The way all those other women do. If just once he'd let me down off this damned pedestal of mine. I wish I could play devil instead of saint for a while. I'd tease and taunt him, I'd make him beg for me. And when I finally gave in-I'd give him a workout that would make him forget his after hours floozies once and for all.
I'd show him I'm a flesh-and-blood woman too. A steaming package of female merchandise.
"Forgive me, baby," Mayo said now, his six-foot bulk seemingly shrinking before the mild criticism. "It's just that sometimes, when you walk around like that ... I get all wild and crazy inside. I want to act bad. You've got an exciting body. Your legs, those big boobs-breasts, I mean. On such a little girl as you are...."
Say boobs, darling, Joanna pleaded silently, call them anything you want. Treat me like your other girls, lay me, go over me like the real man I know you are. Please, please-I want you that way, what ever made you think I didn't?
"It's all right, Mayo," she said. "I ... I guess I shouldn't display myself like this. like some sort of cheap hussy." She turned away slowly, her pert, beautifully proportioned buttocks gleaming captivatingly in their red nylon bindings, her legs a rhapsody of exciting symmetry. "A woman gets what she deserves."
"I ... think I'll get cleaned up. You feel ... ah ... up to things tonight? You aren't too tired or anything?"
Joanna purposely forced her eyes downward. "If ... if that's what you want, darling. You only have to tell me ... make your wants known...."
"You make it sound like some sort of duty or something."
"I don't mean to. You know I enjoy you, angel. When you ... really ... want me."
"I feel like some sort of animal For wanting you."
"Never feel like that, Mayo. After all, I'm your wife. If you need me ... Just let me know."
He turned suddenly, his face harsh. "I just wish once ... you'd let me know." With that he charged into the bathroom, left the challenge hanging
And suddenly Joanna wanted to scream at he top of her lungs. Let you know? she wailed. What happened that time I did let you know? That time I crawled all over you? How did you react?
She cringed to remember the disgusted look that had formed on Mayo's face, his terse words of disapproval. His wife wouldn't act like that-like a seasoned call girl. That had been the only time he'd ever mentioned his distaste, that he'd indicated his-likes and dislikes in bed. She'd conformed from that day on, had been the modest, demure wife ever since. If that was the image he chose to preserve-
The mirthless smile froze in place as Joanna undressed. She surveyed herself in the closet door mirror, inspected her trim, taut body, raised her breasts with her own hands, delighted in the golden down at the slope of her lower body. Angel? Hardly. She was a frustrated wanton, a woman who needed her man as badly as he needed her.
Here was the most tragic irony of all. Here was explanation-total and unarguable-for her being in Paris with Mayo. For while Mayo denied her her female birthright, that right to be a total, sensual being-a woman-he chased everything in skirts at the office, at his golf club. Invariably he chose girls Joanna knew were asbestos-pants items from the word go. It was torment for her to lie waiting for Mayo to come home those nights when he was with his chippies, for her to envision them receiving the all-out love she-his wife-was denied.
Now Joanna chose a frilly, almost transparent nightie, let it drift down over her body. Her hands caressed her thighs through the filmy material and she shivered. Talk about sexed-up cases! Talk about mixed-up couples!
She knew full well that this trip to Paris was her last chance. The final shakedown cruise. If something didn't happen to change them during these upcoming weeks. She knew Mayo would eventually want out, she'd lose him for good. And if that happened what was there left to live for?
For, despite all Mayo's inadequacies, his warped Puritan streak, his preoccupation with money and its accompanying success, his inability to communicate in the tender yet passionate way she desperately yearned after, Joanna still loved her husband, she forgave his wanderings, she lived for the day when he'd tire of his hot-pants chippies, return to her, be a real husband to her again.
Now she drifted to the already opened bed. Grateful for the pill, she lay on the crisp sheets, arranged her body in a sultry, tempting pose. Bringing up one knee, she assessed the provocative business in the mirror, knew grudging pleasure at the siren vision in pink nylon reflected there.
But what, her thoughts ran as she waited for Mayo to finish in the bathroom, did she expect from Paris? How did she think that being here, alone with her husband for an extended period, would help? Surely he'd find Parisian girls those hours when they were apart, he supposedly engaged in "business". Perhaps even the reportedly beautiful wife of M. De Fonseca, the woman she was expected to make up to, become a second "sister" to during their stay.
There'd be plenty of opportunity for casual pickups in
Paris. Secretaries, receptionists-the same operating procedure most likely existed here as it did in the U.S. Failing here, there were always the Paris whores. God knew she'd recognized enough of them, leaning in inviting poses in practically every dark doorway on every Paris street they'd driven through on their way in from the airport. She knew Mayo wasn't above such in an emergency.
And yet, knowing this, she fought to summon up anger. How can I go on loving Mayo ? How can I go on hoping against hope? Fool, she lashed. Simpering, addled fool!
How could Paris cure an already malignant situation? What could she hope to find here to save her sinking marriage? Except, perhaps, a lover for herself. That she didn't want; it was a prospect she didn't even remotely entertain. Besides, how would an eye-for-an-eye help reunite her and Mayo as real husband and wife?
She sighed resignedly, decided to adopt a wait-and-see policy. Maybe something-Lord knows what-would happen. Some unexpected rebirth, some crisis, some undreamed-of adventure. Which was, after all, the only thing she had left. That minute glimmer of hope. Perhaps a catalyst would be overturned in Paris, perhaps a regenerative-
Her thoughts were abruptly shattered. As Mayo strode back from the bathroom, wearing only his pajama bottoms. "Wow," he said in a choked tone, "talk about tempting pictures! Baby, that item is the most. You might as well be draped in cellophane. I can see every muscle, every beautiful curve."
"Please, darling," Joanna lapsed into the saintly role he expected. Even while she ached to be otherwise, while she yearned to leap up, strip away the gown, go to Mayo, peel his pajama trousers, inaugurate a slow, wanton tease right in the middle of that room. "You're embarrassing me. Don't spoil things."
Her flesh screamed. Why? she wailed. Why can't I have some of that claw-the-walls love he gives to his fly-by-night tramps? Why must I, his wife, be denied?
"Sorry, honey," he smiled sheepishly. "I'm just a man. And you know how men are...."
No, she wanted to retort, I don't know how men are It's been so long since I had a real man. But she said no such thing. Instead she fell back, whispered, "I understand, Mayo. Turn out the lights, come to bed now."
Still he stood, his face strained, a feral glow of lust in his eyes. He gazed down on her body with an expression of awe, like a small boy approaching the untouchable object of his long-suppressed dreams. It was a look that made Joanna want to scream.
That same minimizing process occurred with Mayo--. And she wondered how a powerful brute of a man like him, a handsome, virile man who'd tumbled more than his share of women in his lifetime, could cower, hesitate like that. Her eyes swept to his craggy, hard face, to his tawny mane of hair. She knew how he could be when he was closing a business deal-tough, aggressive, ruthless. His features were gaunt, irresistible in a Kirk Douglas sort of way; she could well understand why doxies melted, lay down without a whimper when he stared hard at them.
Why be different with me, darling? She raged anew. I don't want to be revered, I don't want to be sanctified. I want to be loved, I want to be made to scream and growl and moan with passion. I want to be treated like a woman, not a delicate toy.
But their love was like always. He came to her in the darkness, his pajama trousers already stripped away. He kissed her in that perfunctory way, whispered a few hurried "I love you's," rattled off some self-conscious "You're so beautiful's, you're so desirable's". Then almost as if he was performing an obligatory chore, as if he might be caught defiling the temple before he finished, he was raising her nightgown, fumbling with her body in that unmanly, timid way of his.
And where Joanna wished that some French ideas might invade him, ignite a sensual contagion, where she wished he'd torment her nipples, that he'd become bold and naughty with her lower body, there was, instead, only that swift passage of his fingers and lips, that respectful kissing and caressing.
She burned inside, her body tingled maddeningly as his lips closed on her nipples, as his tongue darted and swirled. She longed to raise her hands, hold his head to that delectable beachhead, to prolong these fantastic sensations. But no. Joanna remembered her most recent lapses, how a steel door had seemingly slammed down between them when she'd forgotten herself. Mayo Kinsolving's wife must be above such voluptuary weaknesses, she must be aloof, pure, chaste. Above all she mustn't act like those other women-those instant lays-he used on the side.
Had there ever been a more sick philosophy of married love? Joanna whimpered now, the fires of lust licking at her entrails, making her want to squirm and writhe, go more than halfway to welcome his touch, his hot, stinging lips.
Why, why, why-she called silently as Mayo became restless at her breasts. Coming as close to invitation as she dared, she let her legs slowly slide open as his free hand careened on her velvety, flat tummy. She adjusted her shoulders, shyly offered her other breast. The longer she could coax him to remain-
The better were her chances of achieving that final victory herself. And even though she had to choke back her moans of passion, even though she had to force her body into abnormal quiescence-
Half a loaf-she thought, the erotic pain almost intolerable by now.
But Mayo's drive, even at 35, was still strong, he could be forestalled only so long. And as his need quickened, made him breathe raspingly, he tired of even these transient adorations. "I'm sorry, darling," he muttered, "but I need you now. I can't wait. I want you so badly. It's seemed such a long time since...."
It had seemed a long time. Over a week now. As gently as possible Joanna moved her body, tried to coax him to play a little longer. But he was determined. And as he forced her legs she feigned the reluctance she knew he liked. "Already ... darling ... ? "
She said no more. Only sighed softly as he moved to her, took her quickly yet gently. She fought to conceal her delight at his presence, her everlasting amazement at his monumental endowments. Lightly she let her hands skitter over his hard, smooth back. And where she wanted to dig her nails into his flesh, where she wanted to erupt beneath him, twine her legs, groan and sigh-
She remained passive, became a mere plaything, mere foil of his lust. "I'm sorry, sorry ... '" his voice husked once. "I wish I didn't have to be like this...."
"It's all right, honey," she breathed, "it's all right. We're married, we love each other."
"But just because we're married ... that doesn't give me the right to defile you, to...."
"You're not defiling me. This is the married state. If you need me, want me ... I'm grateful that you turn to me...."
But Mayo didn't hear. Adrift now in the insensate throes of his passion, he rocked his body in wordless, savage frenzy. And despite herself Joanna's hands became firmer on his back, she couldn't help but squeeze her arms tighter on his back. She felt the slow trajectory of sensation climb, she began to breathe more rapidly.
Please, please-she thought. Wait for me this time, darling. Wait, waitI need you so badly tonight. Darling, my darling-
She wanted to scream, she wanted to push and strike Mayo, she wanted to revile him, call him every filthy name under the sun when that unmistakable lurch and throb happened, and she knew that she'd been cheated again. Yet even through that anger she still wanted to swivel and rock her body, seize that last ember of passion, fan it back to roaring flame.
She did neither. Calling upon an unbelievable forbearance, she made her limbs freeze, she subjugated her tremors of desire, she made her breathing even out.
"I'm sorry," Mayo breathed a last time. Then moved away from her quickly, almost as if she was contaminated.
Within minutes he was asleep.
And Joanna lay staring into the darkness, cursing this wretched impasse that existed between them.
While at that same moment, in the exclusive Faubourg-St. Germaine district of Paris, in the bedroom of their elite town house, M. and Mme. Roul De Fonseca, were concluding an equally enlightening conversation. M. De Fonseca sitting naked on the edge of the bed, Mme. De Fonseca-equally naked-standing before him, her back to him, purring and arching herself as he kneaded and stroked her ebullient derriere.
"Chert," the lithe-bodied, 45-ish female squealed. "Oh, you're driving me wild. Mmmmm ... more, much more. Touch me like that again. Oh! That's like electric needles going through me."
"Really?" he chuckled. "And this, pet?"
"Oh!" Aimee De Fonseca shrilled, jerking away suddenly. "Roul, you naughty boy! Such a thing to do."
His hands reattached themselves to those gleaming, pink mounds, fondled them softly. "I notice you came right back, angel. Or are you a little devil? Roul's little devil?"
"Devil tonight, darling. Mmmmm, mmm ... Your touch is magnificent. Oooh! Yes, yes...."
Gradually he pulled her closer. And when he began to kiss her spine halfway up her back, when he pressured her with his lips, the dark-haired woman, her hair hanging free, her nipples crinkled and hard, alert sentries atop luscious, firm conoids of desire, lent herself eagerly to this new variation. She leaned forward slightly, waggled her buttocks at him, murmured more ecstatically to herself.
His lips progressed downward. And when they reached that so sensitive area of her lower back, when they meandered between those delectable dimples, swirled in that shallow concavity, she all but jumped out of her skin. "Darling, darling," she choked, "that's glorious, simply glorious. Don't stop, never stop."
But eventually Roul De Fonseca did stop. An expert at inflaming a woman, he knew that his wife was ripe, she would soon be at fever pitch. And any hesitation thereafter-
That would be like cooking a souffle a second too long.
Now he turned her, admired her trim, if somewhat opulent figure from the front. His fingers drifted over that creamy body with precise skill, dove and slid and captured and manhandled her erogenous accessories unashamedly. All of which Aimee De Fonseca wantonly, openly enjoyed. Then, when he pulled her even closer between his knees, when he raised his lips to those pouting, crinkled nipples:
"These people, darling," Aimee hissed and squirmed, "these Americans we're meeting tomorrow. The Kinsolvings, you said? How are they? I mean, are they liberal or are they stuffy?" She made a wry face despite her obvious enjoyment of her husband's attentions. "If they're anything like those last we entertained ... the Cor-wins ... the saints deliver us."
Roul paused here and there in his labors, answered in halting sequence. "I have no idea, love. They are younger . . .that I do know ... in their thirties if I remember correctly. He is very important in the concrete line ... he can make millionaires of us ... we must be very careful with him ... court him and his insipid wife ... with all the skill at our disposal."
Aimee giggled bawdily. "Skill? If you court the ingenue ninny like this, the contract is signed, sealed and delivered already. Oh, Roul, baby. Good, good ... " She brought up her hands, gathered her breasts, arranged the nipples so they were tight together. "Like this now, tnon amoureux," she hissed. "You know how much I love this."
Roul complied eagerly. Which made Aimee arch her back, quiver with delight. "Perhaps," he mumbled, "I'll get to that too. You know what a pushover-these American women-are-for the continental approach. It's like they've never had a man before. Those American husbands. Barbarians, all of them-they have no idea of the needs of-their women...."
Aimee's hands came behind her husband's head, they cradled and pressured it to that exquisite double torment.
"The men?" she sniffed. "The women are just as bad. They are all prissy and proper, afraid to live. They have ice in their veins instead of blood. Thirty, you say?"
"I'm not sure. He's thirty-five. I think the wife ... Joanna ... is in her late twenties."
"Better and better. Train her while she's still young."
"Aren't you infringing on my territory? I thought you were going to concentrate on Monsieur Kinsolving. Madame is mine."
"I think we can work from both ends, darling." She stiffened. "Oooh, you are getting anxious, aren't you? But we will convert the American couple, won't we?"
"I-accept them-as a personal--challenge. If we can't reform them-they are beyond help." He snickered thickly. "But discreet, mon chert, non? There is the matter of the concrete plant installations. That comes first, our pleasures second."
"I'll be the soul of discretion, darling. We'll have such fun with those two innocents. They'll remember Paris as long as they live." A quick, rasping sigh escaped her. "Oh, soon, Roul. You're driving me wild."
But Roul wasn't finished with his love overtures as yet. His hands went around his wife, they fondled and caressed her luxuriant bottom with determined purpose. While his lips and tongue continued to tantalize her nipples. And when Aimee was quivering like a tightly drawn bow. He deserted the voluptuous cones of her breasts, he half turned her, let his head slide downward. To the cunning bowl of her belly.
An attention Mme. De Fonseca savored rapturously. Her body drew into further arc, her legs adjusted to accommodate him. And when his back was bent into almost a taut arch-
"Lover, lover ... " she sighed viscously, "that's marvelous, simply marvelous. Soon, soon, I can't stand any more ... Please, Roul, please...."
In the darkness they groped for each other, came famishedly together. Aimee's breasts bored and seared her husband's chest. While he, possessed of a unique forerunner of his own, ground himself to her, conferred mutual excitement.
But then, as Roul finally attempted to move over his wife, she forestalled him. "No, darling. My treat tonight. At least to start. You know how much I love that."
He chuckled. "Of course, my little vixen. Any way you like. You are all worked up tonight, aren't you?"
"I think the prospect of the Americans has got to me. I am looking forward to meeting them."
Roul fondled his wife in a particularly sensitive zone, made her squirm with delight. "I think you're looking forward to more than meeting them."
"Perhaps I am at that. Oooh, Roul. Stop that now. Let me have you...."
With a practiced motion she flung a knee over her husband's abdomen, straddled him. Breathing sibilantly, she slid down, inch by inch. Then when she felt that obstruction-
Her legs flexed, she rose. Her hands went in reconnaissance. Now they piloted. A thick, long sigh sounded as she slowly relaxed her legs.
Her sigh was matched by Roul's. "Cherri, cherri," he groaned. "The things you can do with that...."
"Years of practice," she slurred. "Beneath the tutelage of an expert teacher."
"Tutelage," he repeated. "A imagine term indeed."
"Don't be vulgar, baby."
There was more vulgar talk then. As Aimee's passion peaked, as she squirmed and plunged herself above her husband, adjusted pitch and angle, made her sensations fantastic beyond belief. And even as she extorted her initial deliverance: "Can you wait, precious?" she choked. "While I take one more? That one was so wonderful. Oh, you monster, you miraculous monster...."
"Perhaps there are other things we can try. Later. When you've finished. Before I...."
"Never mind those things. Later perhaps. But for now, be still. Let me concentrate."
Her body moved faster. And still faster. Her pagan chant, her praise of his maleness became even more frenzied. Her cries of deliverance choked, cracked, seared her throat.
And afterward-
"You now, Roul. Take your pleasure."
"By all means, my pet." He returned to Aimee, was excited almost beyond endurance by her wanton welcome, by the things her fingers did to him before she admitted him to her torrid embrace. He was made proud by the way she sighed when he took her, by the way she squirmed for total sensation, by the way her arms locked around his back, the way her heels drummed, spurred him on.
But the real pride came as he labored over her, in that so enjoyable work of love-as she performed miracles with her most secret self, made him almost howl with agony. And in the process managed to seize at least four more glories for herself.
Then, when his own release finally slammed him. Aimee went wild, moved her precision-machined body like a virago gone amok, she achieved still another stunning victory, one that ran abreast of his, demolished her at the same time his demolished him.
They screamed and embraced and encouraged and locked in that eternal knot simultaneously. They rocketed to the moon together, plummeted back to earth together.
Somewhere along the line Roul dozed-he was 48, after all-was awakened by some very unique attentions on the part of his wife. He was surprised to find that he was still pinning her to the bed, that she was squirming beneath him, manually regenerating him. But not really manually.
"Quel sauvage," he groaned, "are you never satisfied?"
"Please, beloved. I need you again. I was thinking about the Americans. I got all excited. Again, please?"
"Perhaps you have ways to revitalize an old man?"
She giggled. "I have ways. Many ways. Shall I begin ? "
"By all means, my dear, by all means." Shortly muffled groans broke from him as the little primitive began to work in true earnest.
CHAPTER THREE
Mayo had been with M. roul De fonseca the whole day. Closeted in the De Fonseca Enterprises offices, nerve-center of a far-reaching financial empire (said offices located near the Bourse), they'd discussed the intricacies of establishing a subsidiary plant to Midland Pre-Cast in France. The use of precast, prestressed beams, channels, uprights and cross members had only recently come into its own in America; it was only inevitable that this new use of concrete should spread world wide.
The man who financed and built the first such plant in France, as well as the man who sold him on the idea, would reap a fantastic profit. Small wonder the discussions held that day were secret, small wonder each man seized on the other's every word as if were a gold nugget.
And tonight, the sketchiest of agreements drawn up between the two men, figures, possible sites, franchise agreements still spinning in their heads, they were anxious to put business aside, to enjoy the social delights Paris had to offer.
Thus, at the Tour de 'Argent, one of Paris' most famous restaurants-the four of them-Roul and Aimee De Fonseca, Mayo and Joanna Kinsolving, were having dinner.
With Joanna, despite her solitary day of sightseeing and shopping, despite her exposure to the landmarks of Paris, staring goggle-eyed out of the great, draped, bay windows the restaurant .boasted, taking in the sweeping panorama of the Seine by night, the spotlighted towers, roofs and buttresses of Notre Dame Cathedral in the distance.
"Beautiful," she sighed once more, braving Mayo's scowl, "simply beautiful. I can't remember when I've seen anything more impressive. The church, the river, those lights ... It's all so exciting."
Aimee De Fonseca's smile camouflaged the disdain she really felt. What was the American word she'd heard somewhere? Hick? Yes, that was it. Denoting a person who comes from an insular, small, rural community. Mrs. Kinsolving was a hick.
"May I order for all of us?" M. De Fonseca asked. "Please trust me. I know the specialties here very well. I wouldn't want one thing out of the way." Smiling ingratiatingly at Joanna, he beckoned the waiter, began a rapid-fire conversation with him, gestured expansively, gave the world to understand that this meal had better be a gastronomical delight or else.
"Tell me, Joanna," Mme. De Fonseca, exquisitely put out in a black silk dinner gown, the d�colletage an extreme V, said, "just what did you do with your day? I'm so sorry not to have been with you. But I had so many previous commitments. Roul didn't tell me until two days ago that you were accompanying your husband to Paris."
Aimee's English was lilting, musical, her accent extremely charming, and despite her shyness in these new surroundings, Joanna liked her almost from the start. "Typical for a man, n'est-ce pas?" she finished.
"Typical," Joanna smiled. "Mayo kept things secret from me too, almost up to the last minute. If you think I didn't have to rush around, buying clothes like mad...."
"You said you were shopping today. Did you find anything?"
"Just a few little things. No clothes though."
"Wonderful," Aimee clapped with childish glee. "I am not too late after all. I can take you around if you like, I can show you some of the better shops."
"I'd love that." Joanna appraised the stunning dinner dress Aimee wore, felt dowdy by comparison. Even though her own gown, purchased in Chicago, had cost $200. "I don't have much clothes sense, I'm afraid. I don't like to spend the money. I still remember the times when Mayo and I didn't have one dime to rub against the other...."
She paused, caught Mayo staring angrily at her. Seeking to hurry over her provincial faux pas, she said, "I took one of the bus tours this afternoon. I saw the Eiffel Tower, Place de la Concorde, Les Invalides, Les Halles...."
"Wonderful," Mme. De Fonseca repeated, cutting off the tiresome rundown. "We must do some sightseeing together. I'll show you the inside of Paris. The Paris few tourists know exists." Her eyes became veiled, she sent a guarded look at her husband.
Joanna saw the expression, thought there was something unsavory in the way Aimee had said that last. "I'm afraid I'm just a country girl at heart. I'd be satisfied with the touristy things. I'm not up to anything real daring."
Aimee winced quickly, forced a fresh smile. Patting Joanna's hand reassuringly, she said, "I didn't mean to frighten you, my dear. I meant nothing like that. But there are places in the artist's quarter ... that would amaze you." She turned on her husband. "Roul, dear, how about those drinks ? "
He regarded her amusedly. "They're on the way."
Aimee smiled archly, tossed her beautifully coiffed head. "Bien. I am not myself until I have a cocktail."
"I ordered martinis all around," Roul smiled suavely. "I hope that's all right. I understand martinis are an American favorite."
"Really," Joanna protested, "I never drink anything that strong. Usually I have a little glass of wine. I ... " She looked up, caught Mayo glaring at her. "Uh ... a martini would be just fine."
Again the De Fonseca's exchanged acerbic glances.
They agreed that the Kinsolving woman would be easy; she was a virtual babe-in-the-woods.
The first few sips of martini were rather difficult for Joanna, she had a hard time disguising the distaste she felt. But shortly, as the gin did its deadly work, she found the taste more agreeable, she sipped her drink more rapidly. Not too much later she decided that she liked martinis just fine.
Still she couldn't refrain from staring about the room, appraising the other diners. Looking back to the De Fonsecas she was forced to admit that even though they were past their prime, they were one of the most distinguished, sophisticated couples in the elegant room. Mme. De Fonseca's gown was the smartest, her hairdo the most striking. Her makeup was perfect, and though there were fine wrinkles about her mouth and eyes, they were barely noticeable. Her figure was still extremely handsome, her hands and feet were small.
Her main attention was devoted to M. De Fonseca. Who, at possibly 48 or 49, was still a very attractive man. He was thin, of medium height, his carriage was erect, his stomach flat. There was a somewhat jaded expression in his eyes, an ennui that added to the picture of old-world roue he proudly affected. His eyes were steely blue, penetrated hers unnervingly, his smile was confiding, as if they shared an unknown intimacy.
And though his dark hair was thinning at the temples, was heavily shot with gray, this was a distingue touch that complimented his aristocratic, mocking face. The several times Joanna looked up, caught him smiling at her, she couldn't help wondering what experience, what secrets lay behind those weary eyes. She felt a delicious shiver go through her, blamed the tremors on her martini.
Dumbly she looked at her glass, found it empty. And though she knew it would be dangerous, she still wished she could have a second martini. Roul De Fonseca must have intercepted her thoughts. For at that moment the waiter arrived with another round, began distributing fresh drinks.
"No, really," Joanna protested, "I shouldn't. The one drink has already gone to my head. I feel so dizzy."
"Please," Aimee insisted. "Have another. Relax, enjoy yourself. You'll only be in Paris for a short time." And staring squarely at Joanna: "You'll only be young once, my dear. Enjoy it while you can."
Which Joanna thought was an extremely pretty thing to say. "Thank you, Aimee. You're very kind."
Aimee raised her glass. "To a wonderful stay in Paris. To a wonderful vacation." She winked. "Perhaps to a second honeymoon with your handsome husband...."
Joanna ignored Mayo's warning look, sipped heavily at the drink. "I'll drink to that," she laughed, her voice louder than necessary.
The effects of the two martinis lingered all through dinner, and good as the food was, as delicious as the accompanying wines were, Joanna was conscious of a dullness in her head, a sense of things passing her by. Breaking their vow not to talk business during dinner, the men were soon engrossed in the fantastic future of precast concrete plants in Europe.
Joanna and Aimee were thrown upon each other. Their talk centered on Paris mostly, on landmarks, on shops, on local customs and regulations. Aimee's mind raced ahead, already she was planning excursions a week in advance, trips to Chartres, to Versailles, to Rouen, things they could do by themselves while their husbands were involved in business.
"Later perhaps we'll go to Carcassonne. That will involve a weekend though, we'll drag our husbands along."
"Carcassonne? What's that?"
"You haven't heard of our famous walled city? Oh, it's a fabulous place. You simply must see Carcassonne."
"This is all coming too fast for me," Joanna smiled muzzily. "I'm afraid the wine has got to me. Those martinis, they must be made with jet fuel...."
Again Aimee patted Joanna's hand. "You'll be all right. Don't worry. By the time the meal's over you'll never know you had a drink. Relax, now. You don't have to stand on formality with me."
Now Joanna was sure she liked this woman very much, she counted herself extremely lucky to have someone like Mme. De Fonseca to take her under her wing. The Paris holiday would be all the more successful for her intervention.
The meal seemed to last forever. It was all Joanna could do to put down the flaming dessert that closed the repast. The gin, the wine she'd drunk still stuck with her, made her feel very logy indeed. And if that wasn't bad enough, there was a rare cognac to finish. A drink their hosts insisted would clear her head, a drink Mayo's eyes warned her to get down or disgrace him before their hosts.
By the time they left the Tour d'Argent, Joanna was very tipsy indeed. She hung heavily on Mayo's arm, was grateful for the cool air as they came into the night. She was surprised to see it was already 10:30. And where she'd hoped to return to their hotel, go directly to bed, sleep off this wooziness-
The De Fonsecas had other plans.
"We know of a fantastic little club on the left bank," Roul said. "A little risque, but in a refined sort of way. I think you'd like it. Let's go there for a nightcap."
Joanna tried to beg off, but they wouldn't hear of it. She saw that they didn't intend to end the evening quite so early. Even Mayo talked with a deliberateness that betrayed his mild inebriation.
"Please," she said. "I'm so tired. I think I should go to bed. And if this club is what you say it is, I'm not up to that. I wouldn't know how to act. I'd probably embarrass you all."
"Aha," Roul twitted her, "we have a bluenose in our midst. There's only one way to cure one of those." And with that he took Joanna's arm, propelled her along the walk. He lurched to the edge of the walk. "Taxi!" he called.
And whether Joanna wanted to or not, two minutes later she was crowded into the back seat of the tiny cab, she was on her way to the disreputable night club. What had Aimee called the place? She fought to unscramble her thoughts.
Le Frenetique? Frantic? Yes, things were certainly developing in that direction.
She made a last-ditch stand at the door of the sleazy club on Rue Bossard, was repelled by the brassy music emanating from within, by the posters of nude and semi-nude chorines that graced the outside of Le Frenetique. "Please," she pleaded, "I'd rather not. I've never been in a place like this."
Aimee was gentle with her, joshed her. "There's always a first time. After all, you'll never have another chance. Paris specializes in this sort of thing. Why not sample everything our city has to offer? You wouldn't want to offend a couple of native-born Parisians, would you?"
"Come on," Mayo said gruffly, his grip hard. "Quit acting like a little kid."
Which command convinced Joanna. She let herself be escorted into the noisy, crowded joint without another word. She was hardly prepared for the wild scene she encountered. Strippers, burlesque, were things she'd heard of in her time, had a preconceived notion of. But that was something that took place on a stage, on a remote bar top; she'd never heard of stripping in-the-round as featured by Le Frenetique.
The club was low-ceilinged, smoke-fogged, its fartherst corners deep in blue gloom. A four-piece combo produced a blaring racket off to one side. While in the center of the club, the tables arranged about it in concentric circles, was a raised, round dais-hub of activity, of all attention.
For here, upon this stage, at that very moment, a totally nude female, a voluptuous, honey-brown Moroccan, was performing some very erotic convolutions, dancing with a living, breathing, writhing, four-foot-long python no less.
Joanna stifled a scream. "Is that snake real?" she gasped. "Won't it bite her, kill her?"
"No, silly," Aimee said as they took an empty, littered table. "Its fangs are gone. It's a pet. Stunning animal, isn't she? Le negre, I mean." In the confusion of being seated Joanna couldn't be sure, but it seemed that Roul allowed his hands to linger on her shoulders for an inordinately long time.
Shock number two came almost immediately. As a waitress materialized from the gloom, wordlessly awaited their order. Again Joanna was taken aback, her jaw dropped. As she saw that the beautiful girl wore only black heels, opera hose, a skimpy G-string. That otherwise she was mother naked from navel to eyes.
"My God," Joanna gasped. "I never thought I'd ... " The words died, and impolite as it might be, she stared. The waitress was a stunning creature, her body was youthful, ripe, her waist was slim, her breasts were like baby melons, the nipples turgid from constant exposure to drafts. Her face was heavily painted, her eyelids an iridescent blue, she literally reeked of evil.
If she noticed Joanna's shock she didn't let on. Taking
Roul's order she jiggled one knee, made her breasts bob and sway rhythmically. Joanna felt very hot all of a sudden, knew she was blushing furiously.
Then, as their waitress insolently swayed away, doing seductive business with her rear, Joanna's eyes flitted elsewhere in the dub, she saw that all the dozen or so girls serving tables were dressed in identical costumes. Even more astonishing she noted that some of them had even applied make-up, pasted spangles on the pouty tips. One waitress had her nipples painted a flourescent blue.
"Surprised?" Roul smiled mockingly. "Is this a novelty or not? Sorry you came?"
"I ... I don't know...."
Now her eyes shifted stage-ward. Where the dark-skinned stripper was arching her body very erotically, let the snake slither along her legs, side-wind its way over her belly. As the serpent moved its tail slipped, did a very teasing slide between her thighs. A thing that made some of the men at ringside groan with pain. The Negress' expression was blissful, she made great show of savoring the sensations her pet induced.
As their waitress groped her way through the milling mob, Joanna saw that the males took bold liberties with her. They stroked her legs, pinched and caressed her bouncy buttocks, they clutched at the G-string, even took quick swipes at her bouncing boobs. All of which the girl smilingly tolerated, let none of the stolen clutches faze her.
Small wonder that Joanna tied into her gin drink, a fizzy, pink thing, as soon as it was placed before her. She drank out of self-defense more than anything else. If she was supposed to assimilate this orgy scene, roll with this psyche-spinning punch-
A thing Aimee and Roul De Fonseca noticed, smiled in sly, conspiratorial approval. Almost immediately Roul ordered another round.
And Joanna got dizzier and dizzier. The Moroccan girl left the stage amidst a flurry of whistles and shouts, sauntered her way through the hot-handed crowd. Almost immediately another female slithered onto the stage. A blonde this time, her skin pink and glowing, dressed in a black, nylon body-stocking. An inflaming, glistening creation that showed everything the stripper owned, barely mantled her attributes in titillating, shadowy haze.
Joanna had never seen a body like this one. The blonde was short, just missed being stocky. And yet her shouldders, waist, legs and thighs were thin, her ribs plainly showed in washboard shadowings beneath the nylon. But this didn't mean she was a rail. For where being a woman really counted she was fabulously endowed.
Her belly was a saucy, gold-downed bowl. Her backside flared out tauntingly, resembled nothing so much as two pneumatic pillows, blown up to maximum size. And her breasts! They were perfect, symmetrical, firm and peaked. The rested on her chest, came away from that rib cage as if they'd been jammed in place there, were independent of that sassy body. Joanna was reminded of two enormous scoops of ice cream, each cherry-tipped, resting on a flat saucer.
She muzzily thought how the men in the audience must be wild for dessert all at once.
And when the blonde began to gyrate that sex-bomb body of hers, even Joanna was aroused. She could well imagine what the exertions were doing to the men watching.
She performed a dance where she was seemingly wallowing in a fit of self love. She writhed and flitted across the stage, she hugged herself, touched her body-her breasts, her tummy, her buttocks, even more erogenous nerve centers-without stop, drove herself into a sexual frenzy. She performed perfect pantomime of a woman sexually incensed, a woman without a man, a woman left to her own resources.
Some of the stripper's act-especially when she teasingly peeled away that nylon film-came very close to inciting a riot. It was one of the most lewd, indecent things Joanna had ever seen.
And by that time she was through another drink; a fresh one stood in waiting. And though Mayo frowned, warned her against drinking more, she ignored him. After all, she argued, who wanted me to drink in the first place? And wasn't she having a ball? Wasn't this Paris night life the blast of the century?
Time fled swiftly. The strippers came and went, it took more and more to shock Joanna. She hardly flickered an eye when one of the waitresses was pulled down into a customer's lap at the table adjoining, when three sets of male hands began pawing her piquant, small breasts, invaded the nether regions of her body, bypassed the blockade of that silk G-string.
Another drink then.
But there was a topper. Something that Joanna was to wonder about for days to come. The scene was unmistakable, and yet. She didn't actually see that happen.
In a very dark corner to their right a lone man sat at a table, his hands clutching the edges, his face tense and strained, his eyes rolling almost up into his head. Momentarily Joanna thought he must be having a convulsion or something, she wanted to call Mayo's attention to the man. The table at which he sat was covered (like all the tables) with a cloth that fell almost to the floor. Small motions behind that linen screen aroused Joanna's suspicions, forced her into silence.
The man became more agitated by the second, his knuckles went white from the pressure he applied to the table. Joanna wondered that nobody else noticed him But then, the corner was extremely dark. Now she saw the man's body lurch, saw the lunatic expression on his face replaced by a calm, satisfied smile.
A minute later there was furtive scurrying beneath the table. And Joanna saw a heavily painted woman, a street-walker from all appearances, creep from behind that table cloth. An ugly smirk on her face, she stood, brushed her skirt, sat next to the man.
Joanna took more of her drink, wondered if those tablecloths were purposely as long as they were. Her stomach churning, she wanted to be blotto, to forget everything. She drank faster.
Shortly thereafter she felt a stealthy hand creep beneath the table cloth, a gentle, experienced hand she knew wasn't Mayo's. She glanced to Roul, saw his tense smile. The hand slid up her nyloned legs, crept along her inner thighs. Drunk, erotically infected as she was, she made no move to stop the attention. Which emboldened Roul even further.
His fingers walked beneath her skirt, swirled and tickled, made Joanna squirm with sense of delicious evil. She glanced to Mayo and Aimee, saw their eyes glued on the stripper presently performing. Her heart thudded, and wantonly she smiled, seemed to encourage Roul's attention.
It was when his fingers slid past her stocking tops, touched the bare flesh there that she was shocked to her senses. Instantly her legs locked, she jerked the hand from beneath her skirt. Her face felt scorching hot.
If Roul was miffed he didn't show it. He grinned arrogantly, a "Some other time" look in his eyes. And Joanna felt very small, very cheap indeed.
Thus is was, very shortly thereafter, that she sat erect in her chair, called to Mayo loudly, thickly, "Please, dear, I think we'd better go. I don't feel so good all of a sudden."
Alone with Mayo in the privacy of their own hotel room, Joanna felt better. The drink cutting in with deadly efficiency, her inhibitions, her awe of her husband routed, she felt wonderful. She felt free, emancipated, liberated. She felt like an amoral kitten-playful, naughty.
So Mayo was extremely startled, on getting into bed with his supposedly sick wife, to find her very lively, much aroused indeed. Instantly, as he got under the sheets, she reached for him, clutched him in a very vulnerable place. Her voice coated with a patina of lewdness, she drunkenly asked, "How 'bout it, lover boy? Y' got some f' r me tonight ?
Which astonished her prudish husband no end. He couldn't believe his ears. He tried to remove her hand. But Joanna was determined, she clung all the harder. "No, no ... " she growled. "I wan' this, Mama wan's...."
"Joanna!" he gasped. "What's got into you? I thought you were sick ... you were...."
"I wasn't sick, baby. I jus' wan' get you back in this room alone with me. You think a woman c'n see stuff like I saw t'night an' not get all worked up? Please, baby? Don' let me down...."
"But we ... just last night."
"So? I gotta have ration stamps now?"
She crawled all over her husband, revealed herself totally naked, a writhing, supercharged wanton. She revealed a new, too-long-concealed facet of her personality to him. Any other time Mayo would have been repulsed, he would have rejected his wife, forced her to behave, to assume the staid role he'd dictated for her. But it must be remembered that Mayo had been drinking heavily also this night. That it had been almost ten days since he'd tumbled his rubber-legged Vicki back in Peoria.
And with a switch like this-
He was a man, after all.
"What's come over you, darling? I don't understand...."
"I've come of age, that's what," she slurred. "I wan' act like a real live woman f'r once. like a steamed-up tramp." She shuddered, flung herself to him, rubbed her breasts against his chest. "Whew, doll. I'm on fire ... mama's on fire in all the right places ... C'mon, Mr. Fireman. Come put those fires out. Wowee ... Right now!"
And with that she dug her nails into his back, tugged at his pajama bottoms herself. A moment later, the item cast aside, she virtually manhandled him into position over her. "No," she whined as he attempted to take her at once, "not just like that. Love me up a li'l first. Take my breasts ... my boobs ... love 'em up. Kiss 'em, do all those wild things I like so much."
"My God, Joanna," the dazed man said, "I never knew you were like this. I...."
"Cause you never let me, damn you. I'm a woman too, I like my bedroom's well as the next ... " She lurched, sucked in her breath sharply. "Oooh, don't stop. Keep that up. Kiss 'em, lick 'em, make 'em burn. Oh! Good, good...."
Incitements like that would have swayed any man, Puritan, libertine or otherwise. Short moments later Mayo Kinsolving forgot that this was his pure, sacrosanct wife who wriggled and throbbed with desire beneath him. He forgot his preconceived ideas of what a wife should be. He forgot everything.
Except the fiery pain in his entrails, the ganglia-knotting lust that stampeded through his whole body. As this glorious incendiary now drew him closer, as she ground herself to him, as she boldly manipulated, stroked, used him to induce instant preheating. As her hips revolved, her knees locked, brought that torrid ease to greet him halfway.
"Dear God ... " Joanna groaned when she could endure that excruciating self-abuse no longer, as she finally clawed her man-this stallion-to her. She gritted in delight, slammed her trunk up in direct response to his brutal lunge. "Oh, that's good, good...."
And, adrift in a riptide of passion, she gave herself completely to her liquor-hypoed lust, she attacked and tore, she moaned and gasped with heathenish fury.
Then, as the tempo increased, as she felt she was riding the killer waves at Waikiki, as her body was seemingly transported, yawed and swayed and dove, Joanna surprised her husband even more. The spine-melting heat searing her, turning her to so much sizzling mush, she began to praise him, she told him how good he was, what he was doing to her. She used words that had lain unused in her subconscious since childhood, words "good" girls simply don't know exist.
The glory built, she teetered atop a climbing wave, an Empire State Building of a wave. And as she topped that peak, as she knew a brain-shriveling deliverance, as she started down, fought to backtrack, recapture that transfiguring sensation, she screamed in guttural victory, she clawed, she dug her teeth in Mayo's shoulder to muffle her cries.
His reactions dulled by liquor, his libido spurred as it hadn't been spurred for days, the man plunged on, he attacked viciously, ruthlessly, was wild to make this vixen scream again, to drive her out of her mind.
Joanna was gone, was replaced by eternal woman, all the wanton witches he'd tumbled in his lifetime. He attacked, attacked-
Joanna screamed, chewed, gasped, announced still another glory, this one as fantastic, soul-cauterizing as the first, before her husband's body finally died atop hers.
They slept then, he still locked in her steel embrace, both exhausted by drink, both surfeit of emotion, each little knowing what tragic consequences would ensue from this brief surrender to their most pagan impulses.
"Like this?" Aimee De Fonseca was saying within the dim confines of her bedroom at that very same moment, "you want me up here? You're drunk, Roul. I feel so silly...."
"So I'm drunk. Humor me, my dear. You'll reap wonderful benefits in the long run ... " He steadied his wife on the small bench at the end of their bed, he placed her heels so they wouldn't mar the finely finished surface.
Aimee, dressed in just her patterned brassiere, panties and garter belt, still wearing her stockings, the bewitching, high-heeled pumps, swayed slightly, looked down on her husband as he knelt on the bed, began to caress her silk-glossed legs. She saw his naked, bowed back, felt a wicked sense of power. That she could make a man crawl, grovel before her like this-
Her vitals jumbled, she tingled deep inside. She was glad she'd drunk so much tonight. Their love would be wild, uninhibited, a thing of excess upon excess now. They could wallow, savor, reject no depravity. This was the way she loved things; she never got enough of this. With Roul, with any man.
She wanted to giggle as his lips grazed her legs. She balanced herself, gleaned more of the tickling feeling. And while he adored her: "What do you think of Joanna? Do you think you'll find her acceptable? What a child...."
"A child indeed," Roul said, not interrupting his ministrations for a second. "But a sweet, very vulnerable child. She'll be extremely easy. Once the idea is planted...."
"And you planted that? Tonight?"
"I think so. And what about you? Will you enjoy seducing our stuffy friend Mayo also? Introducing him to our ... liberal ... ways?"
"I'm quite sure I will. He may be a little more difficult than Joanna." She snickered. "But in the end I'll prevail. Will you be jealous, darling?"
"Jealous? Hardly. Life's too short for such bourgeois emotions. Since when has either of us been jealous? So long as we share and share alike...."
His lips climbed to her knees now, his fingers splayed, caressed the backs of her naked thighs. Aimee sighed hoarsely, felt weak. "Darling, darling, that is heavenly. You know how to love a woman, how to excite her. I wonder how that jejune Joanna will like these things." She twisted her fingers in his hair. "When, chert? When will we make our move?"
"No hurry, pet. We must be discreet. In a week or so, when they trust us, when they are infected with our ideas ... Then's time enough. By all means we must do nothing to ruin the business proposition."
His lips were on her bare flesh, swirling and skittering on her thighs, hot kisses that drove Aimee quite out of her mind. And then: "Darling!" she gasped. "Are you insane? Don't. Those are new, I just bought them yesterday. You're tearing them."
"So? I'll buy you a new pair tomorrow. Tonight-the things I want to do now-are important. Relax, I won't hurt you. Be still!"
The sound of nylon tearing hung on the still air. And above that the sound of Aimee's quick gasps of delight, the click of Roul's lips and tongue. She looked down, saw his head there, saw the frayed tatters of her panties where he'd torn them. She gloated, giggled, whimpered. Her fingers twisted in his hair sadistically as the impending glory made itself known deep within her.
Still the man clung to her buttocks, still they braced one another, abetted and encouraged. Still the man worshiped at that unique shrine, chuckled proudly as Aimee lapsed into the Paris argot, as she moaned and hissed her inevitable release.
Afterward Roul was attended to in an equally servile way. On his back in the bed, Aimee still in her lingerie, he groaned, twitched, endured her adoration as long as he could. Then, when his desire was at floodtide, when he could stand the rite no longer-
He pulled her away, he grabbed her stockinged legs, arranged them over his shoulders, he pushed her back on the bed, bent her body in a cruel curve.
"Darling," Aimee gloated as he took her. "Wonderful, wonderful. All-allI get all of you this way. Yes, yes. I'm dying, darling, I'm dying...."
Shortly thereafter, both of them suffered that little death, that dying and rebirth combined.
CHAPTER FOUR
The October night was extremely mild, there was a hint of rain in the air. The unseasonable weather had lured out Paris' open-air cafe addicts, and at this moment in the seamy Rue Lappe district, seated at a table before Cafe Florida, an extremely gross, oily-skinned, thin-mustached man named Kamil Sharkawi was excitedly eyeing a thin, fashionably dressed female two tables over. His anticipation grew as he saw her cross her legs, saw how lovely they were.
She had no business in this trouble-infested area of Paris, he thought. What the little dear gets she deserves.
The name was different, the man was the same. Only in this case the name was his real one; he had a string of aliases-Gamal Mansura among them-as long as his arm. This night he wore a dark, plaid raincoat, a ridiculous, small hat. That and the sun glasses he sported despite the hour, gave him a very comical appearance.
Which was just the picture that Sharkawi wished to affect.
The man did not own a gift shop as he had told his last victim. That frolic had occurred a week ago, he revered now, helped to explain his restlessness these past two days. Instead he was, in reality, engaged in an illicit and dangerous enterprise of drug smuggling. He was an Egyptian, had a very dependable supplier of heroin in Cairo. And because Sharkawi was a very cunning man and an intelligent one besides-he had never been tapped by the Paris flics, he had never got hung up on the dope habit himself.
But there was one deadly weakness infecting him. The one that had brought him out tonight. Hunting. Who can say which addiction is the worse ?
Tonight there were no contacts to be made, he was on a busman's holiday, making his usual rounds for an entirely different reason. And so he relaxed, sipped his third Pernod slowly, studied his target for tonight, considered the best strategy by which he might approach her.
The woman wasn't so much, he concluded. Somewhat on the scrawny side, her face angular and harsh. Probably, had he been some other man, a less obese, repugnant man, he could have had the woman merely by flicking his finger, by buying her a few drinks. For all he knew she was a Hamburg whore, on a holiday also, she could be had for $10 easily.
But that wasn't the way he enjoyed his women. That wasn't his style as all.
The woman looked up at that moment, saw him staring, smiled contemptuously at him. And Sharkawi felt the bottled-up hatred swell inside him, bloat him. It had always been so, ever since he was a small boy. He had always been fat, his smile had always invited scorn, he had always been butt of his schoolmates' practical jokes and insults. Women had always laughed in his face, he'd always been forced to buy what he wanted from them.
At least until this last year. When he'd evolved his foolproof scheme, since Feisel, in Cairo, had supplied him with this new drug as sideline to his regular trade. His smile broadened, revealed yellow, cracked teeth. No-he needn't buy a woman's favors any more. He took what he wanted from them now-they willingly gave themselves to him these days. After a manner of speaking anyway.
And now this German tourist slut had had the audacity to smirk at him, to ridicule him with her eyes. He hadn't been sure before. But he was sure now.
She would definitely qualify as the night's sport.
And with no more to do than that, he rose, waddled to the solitary woman's table. "Pardon me," he said in
French, "I don't mean to intrude. But I have been dying of curiosity, speculating on your nationality. I have decided you are German, a tourist, on vacation in Paris. Is that right?"
The minute the woman opened her mouth, spewed the fractured French, she betrayed herself. "Yes, you are correct. I am German. From Munich. But how could you tell?"
"I don't know. Instinct, I guess. Your clothes, your hair I suppose. Have you been in Paris long?"
"Two days. I am here with a girl friend. She had another engagement."
"How long will you be here? Are you enjoying your stay ? "
"A week more," she smiled, thawing somewhat. "I find Paris most fascinating." She paused regarded him suspiciously again. "Are you a native? Do you know this district?"
"Yes. I am a habitu�. Are you interested in the sights?"
"I heard there are some very wild clubs hidden here. I wonder ... could you guide me?"
"My pleasure, Madame ... I didn't quite catch the name."
"Excuse me," she said. "Gerda Trokmann. Miss Gerda Trokmann. I am a buyer for a department store in Straubing. That's a suburb of Munich." Her smile was venal, lewd somehow. "I am combining business with pleasure."
The fat man made his ridiculous bow. "Beni Zarabi," he introduced himself. "At your service. So charmed to meet you, Mademoiselle Trokmann. May I have the honor of sitting with you, perhaps buy you a drink?"
The woman smiled coyly, made room at her table. "You are very kind." Instantly her suspicions fled. After all, in broad view of everyone, on the street, and with this clown of a man, what harm could come to her?
It was the most stupid assumption the woman would ever make in her whole life.
The man who called himself Zarabi beckoned a waiter, ordered another Pernod for himself, moselle wine for Mile. Trokmann. "You are wise," he said drawing close, talking confidentially, "to ask for someone to guide you down here. You know, I hope, that you are in a very tough part of Paris? I know my way, I can show you the clubs you seek."
"I know about the district," she smiled peevishly. "Why do you think I came? I was looking for something different."
You will find something different, Sharkawi thought to himself, his eyes greedily appraising the woman. Something very different. Something that will change your life from this day forward. "Some wild dancing, perhaps? Some nude women? Nude men, even?"
Mile. Trokmann smiled in a salacious way. "We speak the same language, M. Zarabi. You can show me such places?"
"But don't you have such things in Germany?"
"Yes, we do. But I have been told they're better in Paris. I came to see for myself."
The waiter arrived then. It was as Sharkawi took the glasses from the tray, handed them to the table that he slipped the small, white pill into the wineglass. He engaged the woman's eyes, chattered about the impending vile safari until the pill dissolved.
Now he pushed her glass toward her, lifted his in toast. "To your bold adventure," he said.
The woman sipped her wine, made a wry face. "This wine, it's different. Stronger somehow."
Alarm registered in the man's eyes. "Shall I call the waiter? Complain? Sometimes a different bottle is opened...."
"No," she smiled. "This is fine. Don't make a fuss.
There, it tastes better now. Only at first it was bitter." She took another sip of her drink. "Tell me more about this one club, M. Zarabi. It sounds fascinating."
As they talked Sharkawi studied the woman intently, watched for the first signs of the drug's effect in her eyes. He was pleased to find that she was, at close range, more attractive than he'd thought. Her face was pretty enough, her blue eyes lustrous, her complexion clear and flawless. She was a blonde, about 26, had obviously been around. Her breasts were good, her legs were exceptional. If these were clues to the condition of her remaining female attributes-
Even more exciting was her smug, imperious manner when addressing him, looking at him. It was obvious she held him in low regard, as someone to be used, quickly discarded. This was the type of woman he prized most highly; they made the best victims, he derived an especially intense pleasure from humiliating their cocksure breed.
Sharkawi's hands trembled, he became more excited by the moment. A few minutes more now-
He saw the first traces of dullness in her eyes, he saw the way she shook her head to rout the sleepiness that possessed her all at once.
Then he was summoning the waiter, settling his bill. "Will you call a taxi for me, please? It seems my lady friend has become ill all of a sudden."
And minutes later, as he bundled the limp woman into the cab, no one bothered to look up, to question the quick flow of circumstances. But then this was Rue Lappe. A murder might have been committed in full view of the passing pedestrians and nobody would have winked an eye.
The cab driver winked at Sharkawi as he dropped him in the fetid, damp alley, said, "Have fun, Monsieur." For which broadmindedness Sharkawi tipped him an additional five francs. As he half carried, half dragged the lifeless figure deeper into the alley, raucous laughter, loud music came from the rowdy taverns on each side of the cavern.
Minutes later, topping the long flight of stairs, Sharkawi let himself into his messy lair, a large, three-roomed apartment located above one of those same taverns. There were no other tenants to hear him; the bar noises would drown out any sounds he might make.
Dropping the woman on the floor, he scuttled about the apartment, closing windows, drawing drapes, locking doors. Then, by the light of a dim lamp, looking down on the drugged Mile. Trokmann, he leisurely began to undress himself. He chuckled at the way her firm, youthful breasts rose and fell with her breathing.
For a long time after he'd undressed the girl, had muttered, exclaimed, made insulting remarks as each pink, lacy article of lingerie had been torn off her, he knelt over her, studying her, his hands abusing her outrageously, turning her, arranging her legs in suggestive positions.
He went to get something to drink.
When the German adventuress first drifted up from her torpor, she had the distinct sensation that the was suffocating. She gagged, forced her eyes open, tried to force the choking thing from her mouth. She focused her vision, stared up at the man sitting in the chair above her, felt her heart constrict as she heard his fiendish snort of laughter.
She struggled, was appalled to find herself flat on her back on the floor, totally nude. Even more sickening-she realized that the thing in her mouth, the thing gagging her, was nothing less than his right foot! And if this wasn't bad enough, she railed as she tried to turn her head, only had the foot pin her face more cruelly, she found that his other foot was pinning her elsewhere, was partly wedged there, hurt her terribly.
"So, my dear Gerda," he snuffled, "you finally woke up, did you? How do you feel? Woozy? That will only last a few hours. Then you will be all right. But in the meantime ... we will have a little fun." He jammed his foot harder into her mouth. "There, how's that? You like that, don't you? It's good to be treated like an animal, isn't it?" He said more, disgusting things, he delighted in forcing this rotten humiliation upon her. But the woman didn't hear them all. She fainted once more.
When she awoke next she was still on the floor, still performing the horrid subservience with his feet. First one, then the other. And though she fought to gather strength, to force those extremities away from her, she found she was limp as a rag. And though her head was clear at rare moments, her muscular control was gone. "Good," he was prompting now. "They're good, aren't they? You love them?"
She moved her head feebly, didn't answer. But when his foot slammed down on her neck, cut off her wind completely, terror flooded her, she knew she was in the hands of a madman, that if she had any hope of ever leaving this snake-pit alive-
"Good," she mumbled, her voice coming from miles away, "they're good, very good."
"You want more?"
"More," she choked. "Please give me more."
She swooned again, the pain eviscerating, as he jammed his feet more savagely into her mouth. Elsewhere besides.
When she awoke next she found herself on a bed, the man almost squatting on her chest, his hands abusing her nipples. Again she was choking, she couldn't talk for the unique gag that was stuffed into her mouth.
"More?" he crooned, swaying and jutting his body at her. "You want more?"
Again, when she hesitated, he became even more cruel, he rocked his body forward with sadistic intent. She thought she'd die from the pain.
"More," she gasped when he let her talk. "Please, more."
This time she was grateful when she sank into that sulphurous trance. These were things she didn't want to remember. Never again, so long as she lived.
She fought against consciousness, was wild to scramble back into that murky void. But it was impossible. She. kept surfacing, was sickened to her soul to find the man still sitting on her, still reviling her, taunting her, making her repeat the insane refrain of depravity.
He made her get over him later, kiss him everywhere. He extorted other, indescribable servilities from her also.
Then she was on the floor, on all fours, he was fastening a dog collar about her neck, he was snapping a leash to it. "Come, puppy," he mocked. "My little witch. We'll go for a little walk."
He kicked her when she balked, he slapped her upraised buttocks with gleeful cruelty, he seemed to derive tremendous satisfaction from watching her crawl on all fours throughout his apartment, he forced her to bark, to whimper, to parody a dog in other ways. When she didn't comply there was terrible punishment. With his hand, with the leash, with his feet.
Again and again he stopped, made her grovel and curl at his feet, made her kiss and lick his feet. "Good little puppy."
Then she fell, the blackness came down anew.
She awoke on the bed, found him crouched between her knees, his eyes greedy, his ardor aroused, waiting. His eyes were fanatic, evil. She moaned, fell back, made one more attempt to escape. But she had scarcely any of her original strength left.
She submitted, felt scalding pain as he took her in a crude, pile-driver manner, as his immense weight dropped and rose, dropped and rose. She squealed, fought for breath, prayed that the blessed daze should take her again. So she wouldn't remember this.
She prayed harder later. As, his initial vilification finished, he forced her to tend to him anew, revitalize him in that so vile way. This she didn't want to remember!
As she didn't want to remember the way he flung her away from him when she was successful with her efforts. The way he rolled her onto her face, spread-eagled her, bound her ankles and wrists with leather straps that, seemingly, were permanently attached to the four posts of the bed.
She screamed, had strength enough to fight at the last. As he tied the cloth gag between her teeth. Only it was too late now. She was beyond salvation by then.
Now the madman took a heavy belt, began to lash her back, her buttocks, her legs with it. His eyes were deranged now, he moved in a secret, sadist's world all his own.
How inordinately sadistic Gerda Trokmann was soon to learn. As, the cruelty reviving him even more than she had, he advanced on the bed, fell upon her bleeding, slashed form. "You will like this," he chanted in an eerie tone. "You will like this very much...."
But Gerda didn't like what came next. If ever she came close to dying, if ever her heart nearly burst from pain-
She screamed into her gag, fought with all her remaining strength. But there was no exit, no surcease of the maddening pain. No exit except one.
Mile. Trokmann seized upon that.
She embraced the blessed sanctuary of unconsciousness.
When she awoke she was in an alley. Not the same alley to which she'd been brought, but one perhaps 200 feet over. But for all she knew-having been unconscious upon her arrival at Sharkawi's in the first place-it might as well have been 200 miles away. She fought to rise, to understand what had happened to her. But the pain, the acute sense of degradation, was too great, it bore down upon her like a hundred-ton weight.
She was dressed, she had her coat, her shoes, her purse. But instinctively she knew her underwear was missing. The pervert monster had kept her lingerie for a souvenir.
She smelled the rotten stench of the gutter in her nostrils, tried to rise. Then her outrage, her sense of helplessness defeated her. She began to sob rackingly.
And yet she was cautious, she stifled her cries as best she could. For should anyone hear her, come find her like this, start asking questions-
No, that would never do.
She would lie still, regain her strength. And perhaps, in a little while, she would be strong enough to get up, to walk. She would find her way back to her hotel, sneak in quietly so Elsa wouldn't hear her. Elsa, no one would ever know about this. She'd die if anyone knew of her subhuman vilification.
She cursed and sobbed. Won't I ever be strong enough to get up? God, dear God-
CHAPTER FIVE
THE KINSOLVINGS HAD BEEN IN PARIS A WEEK now. Business details were going extremely well, it was understood that Midland would award the European franchise to M. De Fonseca, papers had been drawn up to that effect. As well as contracts stipulating the extent of M. De Fonseca's financial investment in the projected concrete plants and facilities.
This, of course, Joanna Kinsolving got second-hand-and vaguely-from Mayo. Joanna had a terrible business sense, she couldn't make head or tail out of the complicated talk of mergers, franchises, options, interlocking directorates, subsidiary rights and the like. The few times Mayo had tried to describe how vast business empires could be constructed with little or no money at all changing hands, her head had spun before he'd hardly begun.
Things were going well. Let it go at that. At least if she was to judge by the excited glow residing in her husband's eyes these days, by the fact that he and Roul De Fonseca were together almost constantly, were always on the go, meeting with bank people, partners and the like, seeking plant sites, shipping terminals, materials supplies. Then, of course, there were architects, tentative bids from French contractors, meetings with government officials.
Small wonder Joanna couldn't keep abreast of current developments.
Aimee De Fonseca had been every bit as good as her word, had become almost a second sister to Joanna. The ing�nue American had come to implicitly trust and depend upon her new friend. If they weren't together in the flesh, they were on the phone; there was always an impending excursion, social afternoon, shopping jaunt.
Alone in her hotel suite this afternoon Joanna was somewhat fidgety. And yet, glad as well, for these few hours alone, to gather her wits. Paris was exciting, romantic, picturesque. They'd been to Versailles on Tuesday, had visited the historic cathedral at Chartes yesterday. Sandwiched in between had been visits to Sacre Coeur, the fantastic church atop Montmarte, Joanna had been moved almost to tears by the beauty of the city lying below them.
But there came a time when the human body must have a rest, when the brain is flurried, when landmarks and scenic views lose their power to touch the senses. And this afternoon-
Joanna sipped slowly at a small glass of dessert wine, a brand Aimee had recommended, she smiled bemusedly to think how quickly she was adopting her new friend's ways. The De Fonsecas' influence was insidious; it seemed she and Mayo were daily becoming converts to their free, liberal views on everything. She remembered how she'd been shocked at some of the astonishing things Aimee had told her those first few days-things most people back home never mentioned, and if they did, in soft whispers. Now the bawdy, intimate references barely fazed her.
As part of this change of philosophy, of this broadening of their outlooks, was the way neither she nor Mayo had mentioned, to this day, the very pagan love they'd made their second night in Paris. Aftermath of their visit to Le Frenetique.
She'd awakened the next morning to find that Mayo had already dressed and gone. Hung over, remorse-stricken, frightened, wondering what had got into her to make her flaunt Mayo's subtle dictates, she'd been glad when Aimee had offered distraction, had come to take her shopping at noon.
And yet, even at this moment, she had to admit that she'd felt somehow relieved, cleansed that morning. And damn the sickness, the guilt! Hadn't that love been wonderful, hadn't it routed too-long-repressed emotions, hadn't she tingled deep inside to review the wild things she'd done and said, hadn't she actually yearned for recurrence of the same?
She'd tried to talk about that erotic night with Mayo during the past few days. Each time, however, he'd given her short shrift, had acted extremely embarrassed at the reference. "We were drunk," he turned her off, "we both got out of control, acted like animals. Those things happen. The Paris influence, I suppose. We'll just have to watch ourselves. That wasn't exactly my cup of tea."
When she'd tried to pursue the conversation, he'd become angry. "Was it so terrible, darling?" she'd asked. "I mean we got carried away, I acted like a tramp, but isn't there a middle ground ? We don't have to go to such extremes, but on the other hand, this other we have ... passive, almost antiseptic ... can't be satisfying to either of us...."
"Forget it, Joanna," he'd snapped. "I don't want to talk about that. That wasn't you. I can't believe you really enjoyed having me treat you like that. And those things you said ... I was amazed." He'd turned his back to her in bed. "No ... we won't ever get like that again...."
Now Joanna smiled, something lascivious in her expression, to remember the love they'd made last night. Again after an evening with the De Fonsecas, after drinking a little too much, after visiting another wild club, one in which the atmosphere was only slightly more refined.
Afterward, in bed, Mayo had come to her, had inaugurated love overtures, had lain at her breasts for an exceptionally long time, had driven her out of her mind with desire. Involuntarily she'd let her hand slither down on his body, had agitated him still more boldly. Hoping against hope that this was signal of a change, a maturing, a new attitude on his part toward lovemaking, she'd gradually become more audacious.
Seemingly Mayo hadn't minded a bit, he'd suffered no spate of repugnance, he'd lent himself to every caress.
Their passion mounting, her breasts feeling like they would explode, he'd requested something he'd never asked for before. And even though she suspected this was a thing he'd practiced with his many mistresses, she obliged him. Thrilled, eager, she'd got over him, had braced her body with her arms, had let her breasts hang down over his face. She'd burned inside, had shivered reflexively as he'd gathered them, attended them with hungry lips and tongue.
Afterwards, when he was over her, was embracing her, his lovemaking had been more wild, more violent. And while she hadn't called out any of those words, while she'd confined herself only to pleasurable sighs and moans, she had at the end, let her body flow and twist and lurch in gorgeous answer to his. She had accomplished a stunning glory before he reached his.
Surprisingly enough Mayo had welcomed her reciprocal movements, he'd made no adverse comment about her energetic participation.
Now Joanna emerged from her reverie, was surprised to find her breasts aching, to find a hot searing deep in her entrails. Involuntarily she pressed her thighs together, the better to savor the evil sensation.
Talk about your sexed-up cases, she thought.
Her pulse quickened and she felt a giddy elation. Perhaps Paris, the De Fonsecas, were good for their marriage. Perhaps there still was a chance for them. If she could keep after Mayo, cause a gradual change. If she could get him to take her off that sky-high pedestal upon which he'd kept her all these years-
Her head swam at the delightful conjecture.
It was at this point, Joanna going to refill her wine glass, her temperature decidedly zooming, that her steamy introspections were interrupted by the phone.
Aimee was on the line. And after the usual amenities: "Joanna," she said puckishly, "did you notice how foolish our husbands were acting last night? What do you think of this 'night out' of theirs?"
"I'd forgotten," Joanna said. "But now that you mention it ... Was that supposed to be tonight?"
"Yes, tonight. I have an idea of what they are up to. I know my Roul only too well. I think he is taking Mayo to one of our special shows. A circus. You know what I mean?"
Joanna was confused. "No, I don't think so. You mean with lions and tigers? Clowns and animals?"
Aimee giggled. "Animals, yes. But a different kind of animal. Two-legged ones. I think you have things like this in America. Or movies of them, anyway. You call them ... let me see if I can remember the word ... stags. Only here we don't bother with movies. We have the real thing."
Joanna felt a visceral shift, a sodden lump suddenly formed in her stomach. She knew the word, she knew its significance. And yet she wasn't too shaken. After all, she knew her husband did worse things than watch movies.
"Joanna? Are you there? Do you understand?"
"I understand." She tried to make light of it. "I think it's a big gyp." She giggled, put on a bawdy front. "I think they should take us along."
Aimee laughed delightedly. "Ah, good, Joanna. You are becoming enlightened. But I'm afraid that is impossible. These things are only for men in Paris."
"You're sure that's what they're going to do?"
"I'm certain," Aimee said, acting out her role perfectly. For she was, of course, positive of where Roul and Mayo were going. She and her husband had discussed the circus even before Roul had broached the idea to Mayo. They had also discussed the following phase of their strategy at length, the kicker which was yet to be sprung on Joanna. For if they were to ever spread this libertine contagion among their gauche American cousins-
"What ... what are we going to do about it?" Joanna said. "Should I tell Mayo I know, forbid him to go?"
"No. Let the little dears have their fun. After all, they are men, men need these harmless outlets."
Bitterness gathered in Joanna's throat as she considered the irony of the situation. Men are supposed to be sensual, they're allowed to fool around, get their kicks. But women-especially this woman-
Her anger spilled over. "And what about us women? Aren't we supposed to have any fun?"
Aimee really giggled at this. "Oh, mais out, Joanna! I see that you are growing up. All my lectures haven't been in vain. You will be a woman of the world yet." She paused. "No, cher ami, we will not interfere with the men. But that doesn't mean we won't have some fun of our own, does it?"
Joanna suddenly tensed, got cold feet. Perhaps she'd gone a little too far. "What do you mean, Aimee?"
"I mean I know of a quaint little place where such diversions are offered too. Only with one restriction. The performances are for women only. We will go tonight, we will show those men...."
"No, really ... " Joanna balked, her heart thudding in panic, "I don't think I would care for a...."
"But of course you would, darling. Please. Trust me. This is part of your education. If you haven't seen a show like this once in your lifetime...."
"No, that's definitely out of the question. I couldn't look myself in the face afterward. I...."
"You're conceding then, that these things are just for men, that we women are nothing more than chattel, we haven't the right to this erotic enlightenment?"
Mme. De Fonseca judged her prey accurately. The barb goaded, stung Joanna. "Damn him, anyway ... " she growled. And the resolve was instantly full-blown. "All right," she snapped. "I'll do it. I'll go to your little ... circus ... with you. What time? What do we do, what do I wear?"
Aimee snickered gloatingly. "My treat of course. Now listen carefully. Here is what we will do." Aimee launched into a rapid-fire flurry of instructions. Then, as she closed: "I will come by for you at ten. Be ready. One other thing, dear ... "
"Yes?"
"Take a few stiff drinks before hand. You know ... to build up your courage a little? To make you more ... how do you Americans say ... broad-minded?"
Joanna did as Aimee suggested, downed two martinis before the solitary dinner she took in the hotel dining room. Mayo had called at six, had told her to go ahead without him. He and Roul had an important business meeting, they would be very late. She shouldn't wait up. Bitterness choking her, Joanna had accepted the fabrication without a word.
Barely picking at her dinner, the gin had cut in fast. As special precaution she'd gone into the bar afterward, had ordered another. Seeing it was almost ten by then, she'd fled to her room, had changed into the dark, simple dress Aimee had suggested, chose a black cloth coat.
She was in the lobby looking out, when Aimee's Daimler swept up before the hotel.
Entering the car she got a strong whiff of whiskey. Aimee wasn't quite as blase about their upcoming evening as she'd like Joanna to believe.
"How far?" Joanna asked in a hushed voice.
"Fifteen minutes or so," Aimee said, not looking at her. The ultra-auto purred off into the Paris night.
The street they turned into, drove halfway up, was in a modest, middle-class residential section. Already, at this early hour, the houses were dark, the walks were shrouded in shadow. The location was ideal, guaranteed the anonymity of the female visitors to the secret address.
Aimee's face was pale, her smile stiff as she took Joanna's arm, led her down the murky walk. "This way, dear. It's a few houses down."
The establishment they finally turned into was huge, hedge and wall surrounded, was at least three stories high. The windows glowed faintly, the drapes were drawn tightly. Joanna heard the tap of other female heels ahead of them on the winding stone walk, felt strangely reassured.
I'm not the only libertine abroad tonight, she thought.
A smallish, rat-faced man admitted them after Aimee tendered the proper French password. A plain-faced girl of perhaps sixteen led them up some wide stairs. Had Joanna been any more experienced she would have immediately known she'd just entered a bordello.
But a very unusual bordello indeed. As she was to discover later.
She and Aimee were ushered into a gloomy, hushed room. An eight-foot-high curtain blocked them. "Norn-bre dix," their usher said, opening the curtain at a precise spot, indicating a small booth, the back open, into which they walked. There was a rustle of paper as Aimee tipped the girl. Then they were alone in the shrouded booth, groping for chairs.
"Women are a little more discreet in these matters than men," Aimee said. She indicated the cowling of drapes separating their booth from the next, which cowling gave excellent view of the small stage-the fine silk curtain still drawn over it, the footlights glowing with firefly intensity-located not more than fifteen feet from where they sat.
But unless Joanna were to lean out, peer around the edge of that cowling, she couldn't see any of the other women present. But the depraved theater was packed. The lilting giggles, the miasma of perfume hanging in the air were testament to that. Alcoholically insulated as Joanna was, she still felt mean and cheap, she wondered why she'd ever consented to come.
A moment later there was a rustle and Aimee leaned back, opened her curtain a crack. The rat-faced man took the white envelope Aimee offered, disappeared.
Not too long after there was another rustle, and a waitress appeared, brought them each a drink, Joanna's an extremely potent martini, Aimee's a brimming, squat glass of Scotch-over-ice. Which each immediately drank as if their lives depended upon it.
The buzzing in the theater became more agitated. Still another drink came. "I shouldn't," Joanna whispered. "I can hardly see straight as it is."
"You'll see straight," Aimee chuckled. "Just as soon as the show begins. I guarantee that. Soon now."
There was a small commotion behind the curtains. Instantly a hush fell over the house. Nervous giggles, the clink of ice in glasses, was all that could be heard.
Hardly knowing what to expect, her breath burning her throat, Joanna leaned forward. As, at that moment, with no further fanfare whatsoever, the curtains slowly opened.
To reveal three men standing and kneeling in statuesque poses, all of them six-footers, all devastatingly handsome, two brunets, one blonde, all dressed in nothing but artist's posing straps. Each man was possessed of a spectacular body, was obviously a physical cultist. Their muscles were lightly oiled, the dressing making their tanned bodies glisten in a fascinating way.
A quick gasp escaped the female audience, and the show was commenced. The men were fantastically developed, their buttocks small, their legs, arms and chests slabs of solid, gleaming bronze muscle. Joanna felt her pulse quicken, wondered what love-with stallions like these would be like.
Even so she was somewhat disappointed. She had expected so much more. She was a little embarrassed for the men who posed on that stage. "Aimee," she whispered. "You mean ... this is all ... ? "
"No, silly. Be patient. These are just appetizers."
The men formed a beautiful tableaux of male flesh, they posed singly, then in representative groups. Little by little their poses became more suggestive, they turned so their fans could see unmistakable agitations within those tight straps. And not much later, one by one, making a prolonged, teasing strip of the segment, they began to undo the leather pouches, they drew them away by slow millimeters. In spite of herself, Joanna found herself leaning forward with bated breath, her eyes glued to the blonde, a man who reminded her slightly of her own Mayo. How would he compare?
Now, totally exposed, the men smiled arrogantly out at the women, they turned, posed anew, gave front views, profile views of their beautiful bodies. And if they were monumental in other departments-
Joanna heard a rapid patter of French from the booth next, the woman's tone definitely anguished. Comme sculpturesque!" she gasped. Aimee giggled huskily at the torrent of words. "What ... ? " Joanna asked.
"The woman ... as you Americans say ... is hurting...."
Again Joanna turned, had eyes only for the three men on stage, the spotlights bright now, the men staring boldly at the wide-eyed woman in their compartments. The blonde bull's gaze fell on Joanna, their eyes locked. He smirked when she had to look away. As she saw conclusive proof that her Mayo was badly outclassed.
Shortly the females became impatient, wanted more show than this. After all, the exorbitant price they'd paid-Joanna barely noticed when Aimee pressed a fresh drink into her hands. She drank, ogled, then ogled some more.
The men formed a last tableaux, their arms on each other's shoulders, their maleness boldly displayed, they smiled brazenly at their audience. Then the curtain was being drawn closed.
A furtive, self-conscious applause filled the room.
Three minutes later the curtains opened again. A bed had been hastily placed, small oddments of bedroom furniture were on stage. And on the bed, one of the dark-haired males, still naked, still in an excited state. A quick murmur of anticipation went through the girls.
As now a diminutive woman, extremely beautiful, a tarn on her dark hair, her sweater crowded to the breaking point, her ample buttocks waggling in her too-tight skirt, her feet in extremely high heels, sauntered onto the stage.
The pantomime that followed wasn't in the least bit subtle. The girl feigned initial shock at seeing the nude male on her bed. Then her eyes reflected interest, finally lust. Shortly she was sitting on the edge of the bed, admiring the arrogant man. First with her eyes, then with her hands.
She was very artistic. And every woman in the room received a vicarious jolt, imagined herself on that bed performing that tactile adoration. Her hands flowed, rippled, did outrageous things to the man.
Joanna felt like she couldn't get her breath.
Gradually the female became more agitated. She rose, quickly stripped off her clothes, revealed her tiny body to the audience. A quick gasp sounded as the women wondered how a woman so small, a njian so large-
For a long time the two bodies clung and writhed on that bed, their hands bold, inventive, moving everywhere on each other. Until finally the girl could withhold that ultimate adoration no longer. And rising, sitting on the edge of the bed again, her face to the audience, she began to kiss his muscular chest, the hard, flat planes of his abdomen. And not too much later, her hands frenzied, serving as advance guard. She adored the Adonis in still another way, A wave of sighs broke the silence.
The sight itself was inciting enough. But the artistry of the female, the wiles, the surprising accommodation she provided were fantastic. The man groaned and writhed.
The audience groaned and writhed also.
As now the man overturned the female. And crouching over her, she still busily occupied, began to reciprocate for the beautiful attention. His dark head disappeared, the vixen's legs tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed.
Joanna existed in an addled, torrid daze. She was transformed, she watched avidly, her breath came in quick puffs. She ached to the very roots of her being.
Now the couple played in other preposterous ways, they shocked and provoked, they assumed wild positions, arranged themselves in incredible knots. Until-
Both of them wild with lust now, they affected that final merging. The small woman sat atop her lover, she rode him like a child might ride an enraged stallion. She groaned, announced her initial glory. Almost immediately the man was lifting her, turning her. Her tiny body was almost hidden by the huge bronzed one. Then he was driving himself to her, driving, driving-
A wild chorus of moans erupted from the audience.
The pagan charade went on and on. Until finally-
The curtain went down again.
The next time it opened there were two women, three men on the stage. The one woman was larger, almost as muscular as the men. The other, a platinum blonde, was, once more, a tiny, child-like creature.
The show became more and more vile.
As the blonde was held in place by her Amazonian counterpart. And one man knelt at the end of the bed, attended her in a very maddening way. While another man knelt, higher on the bed, let the blonde minister to him in an extremely French manner. The third man kissed her breasts, handled them, used them coarsely.
The sin pantomime went on for an interminable time, the blonde squirming and screaming, announcing an artificially induced release. Whereupon everyone switched positions. Everyone except the blonde. The idle man moved to her, took her with a brutal lunge, made her scream.
And while the blonde took care of two of the brutes simultaneously, the muscular woman arranged herself on the bed beside her, her head down, her buttocks upraised. Shortly the third man neared her, crowded up behind her. Her anguished moan elicited other vicariously sympathetic moans from the on-looking females.
Then, for what seemed hours, the heathenish debacle went on. Seemingly the bed, beneath the weight of the five debauchees, should have collapsed. But it did not. It remained firm, steady throughout. Until the curtain finally came down, and the muffled applause built in the sin arena.
"My God," Joanna sighed, slumped in her chair. "I feel absolutely limp. I never dreamed...."
Aimee's eyes were glazed with lust, they glittered darkly. "The best is yet to come, my dear. Wait, the girl will come, take us to our room now."
"Our room? What are you talking about?"
"You don't think we can just go home now? As excited as we are? Non, chert. I ordered the complete package."
"I don't understand...."
"Don't be a ninny. This house is unique in Paris. There are men here, many men. Handsome, skillful men. For our pleasure, for the pleasure of any woman who has no man of her own. Any woman who can afford these magnificent brutes, that is...."
Joanna tried to protest, but Aimee was adamant. "Come," she ordered as the usher appeared, led them down a dark, deserted corridor, "at least look at what you are saying no to." Still dazed from the performance just witnessed, Joanna was pushed forward, forced to accompany her mentor.
She caught a glimpse of another woman ahead of them, a fabulously beautiful, well-dressed blonde, darting into a room. Blindly she stumbled on.
There were three men in the room, all seated on a low couch, all naked except for the leather posing straps. They put down their magazines, snuffed out their cigarettes as the two beautiful women entered. Instantly their eyes zeroed in on Joanna, the younger woman.
"Good evening, girls," one of them, a bold-eyed Spanish type greeted. "Come in. Here is where the fun begins."
Joanna felt cheap and ugly, she wished there were a crack into which she could crawl. "No, Aimee ... " she protested. "I can't ... I just can't...."
"Don't be foolish!" Aimee snapped. "They're already paid for. Pick any one you want. You can't go home all heated-up like this. That would be criminal ... After all, where is Mayo now, what do you think he's doing?"
Momentarily Joanna's gorge rose, she wavered. "I don't care," she shot. "I just can't. Not with a perfect stranger. Someone I've never seen before."
"Please, baby," a strikingly beautiful man, his eyes blue, babyishly soulful, said in broken English. "Take me. I'll do you fine. Love is best with strangers. No obligations, no involvement. You can concentrate on the most important things." He reached to touch her. "I'll do you beautifully, darling. I'll make you scream and moan...."
She recoiled, struck out at him. "No! I won't! I can't. You go ahead, Aimee. If you want. I'll wait."
"Silly girl," Aimee said scathingly. She shrugged. "All right, it's your funeral. Auguste is a fantastic lover, you don't know what you're missing." She wheeled, took in the Spanish man. "You, Antonio. I'll take you."
The man smiled broadly, went to open a door leading to inner labyrinthine passageways to his private room. Aimee looked back. "You won't mind, will you, dear? I just couldn't go home like this."
"No, go ahead. I'll be content to wait."
"Don't forget," she called back, "if you should change your mind ... Auguste, you stay with her, keep her amused."
Aimee and Antonio disappeared. As did the third man, a bull-chested redhead. And Joanna and her rejected lover were alone in the hushed room. She heard tapping heels in the hall, imagined another woman going to pick a purchased lover like so much meat in a butcher shop.
Auguste regarded her silently for some time. Then he moved closer. "Don't you touch me," Joanna said.
"Never," he sneered. "I don't have to touch women who don't want me. But once they've had me ... " His eyes rolled. "They're never the same again."
Joanna fell back, tried to stop her reeling head. She was so terribly confused. The drink, the erotic stimulation still were very much with her. Then, thinking of Aimee somewhere with that man, thinking of this handsome, proficient man, so near, so available-
This was all enough to make a saint melt.
Then she realized the professional lover was talking to her, his voice low, his words smug, wheezing. Taking her refusal as a personal insult, he was attempting to coax her into going to his room with her.
And for the next five minutes Joanna was forced to endure a scatological recital of the most appalling kind. As Auguste delineated, in gutter language, all the maddening things he'd do for her, as he described the multiple glories he'd create for her.
Moment by moment Joanna weakened, she verged on surrender, she sought some feeble justification for this ultimate self-deceit. At the end, however, she was strong. But not strong enough to resist the gigolo's final offer:
"Perhaps you would like to watch your friend? Antonio is a wonderful lover. Aimee too. They should be quite something."
"You must be out of your mind."
"No," he leered. "There is a peephole in the next room. One that opens into his bedroom."
"No, no ... I wouldn't be interested."
He touched her arm gently. "Gome with Auguste. He'll show you."
The sum total of her drinks, her non-stop exposure to raw sex, now took their toll. And a strange weakness infecting her, Joanna let the man raise her, lead her from the room.
"Be very quiet," he whispered as they went into the dark room. "The peephole is over here."
At first she suspicioned a trick. But the man didn't touch her. Instead he guided her through the gloom, sat her on the plush chair. Carefully he pulled the wide strip of tape from the crack between the partitions. "There," he hissed.
Unable to resist her wicked curiosity, Joanna leaned, peered into the room.
Instantly her heart froze, her face crimsoned furiously. As she saw (by light of the room's dim lamp) Aimee sprawled on the bed, her knees high, her head flung back in joyful ecstasy. While Antonio, totally naked, as monumentally endowed as those men onstage, leaned over her, attended her in an extremely servile way.
Mesmerized, she couldn't tear her eyes from the hole.
She never noticed when Auguste, no quitter he, stood close to her, began to stroke her bare shoulders.
Now Aimee went into a consummate fit of frenzy. She rejected her lover, made him lie on the bed. Then she was moving over him, downward, downward.
Joanna never noticed when Auguste worked up her skirt in front, began stroking her legs, her thighs, her trembling belly. He was gentle, extremely gentle, he knew precisely how to treat, how to inflame a woman.
Now Aimee and Antonio were on the bed, they were engaged in that final glory, they were oblivious to the world. Their bodies thrashed and ground, their groans and screams carried to Joanna.
Joanna was oblivious, she moved in a state of sensual levitation; her body and mind were things apart. Even when Auguste removed his strap, slid close to her, even when his one hand clutched and fondled her in that most intimate place, when his other guided hers. Even when she knew the prize she had bypassed-
Still Joanna was dazed, still she watched, unheeding of her own physical acts, her own physical needs.
At the last minute Auguste became too confident, he was too rough.
Instantly Joanna was flushed from her trance, she gasped an oath, wheeled away, struck at the man at the same time.
"Well?" Aimee sneered as she and Antonio returned to that outer room. Where Joanna and Auguste sat far apart from each other. " Did you avail yourself of my hospitality?"
Joanna didn't answer. "Auguste?" she insisted. "No," he said. "The woman is absolutely frigid."
"Did you let her watch?" Aimee smirked. "Yes, she watched."
"And still nothing."
"Nothing."
Slowly Joanna's face went red. "Aimee," she choked. "You mean you knew I was watching? And still you ... ? "
"Of course, my dear. All part of your education. Madame De Fonseca's finishing school. Did you enjoy yourself?"
Then Joanna knew true shame. She wheeled, lurched toward the door. "Home, Aimee," she sobbed. "Take me home now. No more ... no more...."
Aimee sneered, shrugged, turned to Auguste. "Pay me, cochon," she commanded. "You great whoremaster who can seduce any woman you have a mind to. Pay up our bet."
Joanna, thrown into even greater mortification at this new revelation, fell against the door, began sobbing hysterically.
Auguste went to a closet, dug out a pair of trousers, extracted a 100-franc note. "What an iceberg," he snorted, handing her the bill.
Aimee giggled. "These Americans. So narrow-minded, so priggish. They are the limit."
"Limit, indeed," Auguste growled, staring at Joanna a last time. "I'd like to have her one hour. I'd knock some sense into her."
"Home," Joanna blubbered, her stomach on the verge of rebelling, "please take me home now...."
"Yes, baby," Aimee sniffed exasperatedly, "we'll take you home now." Moments later, she led Joanna down the hallway, Auguste's last curse still ringing in her ears.
CHAPTER SIX
JOANNA KINSOLVING MOVED IN A DARK, BROODING trance for the next two days. There were times when she seriously considered going to her hotel window, throwing herself onto the pavement below. Physically sick, morally sick, thinking herself mentally imbalanced at those moments of lowest morale, she refused to talk to Aimee when she called, she was remote with her husband.
All of a sudden she was sick of Paris, she wanted to flee its depraved confines, she yearned with all her heart, for her safe, insular existence in Peoria, Illinois.
The most crushing thing about the cul-de-sac she now inhabited was the fact that she'd cut herself off from those who might have helped her rationalize at this so desperate time. She certainly couldn't confide in Mayo, tell him the rotten things she'd done. And since she wouldn't talk to Aimee De Fonseca, let her provide alibis, justification for that vile evening together, she had, to all intents and purposes, burned all her bridges behind her.
She could, as the cliche goes, only stew in her own juice. She could fret, pace the floor, drink too much, relive those ugly scenes endlessly. She could never, when Mayo questioned her sudden dissatisfaction with Paris, tell him the truth.
And since there were still slightly less than two weeks left of their stay in Paris-
She vowed never to step out of line again. If only she could be redelivered to their snug home in Illinois once more, if she could just crawl into her shell, become a dowdy, secure housewife again. If she could just coax
Mayo to let her have the babies she'd always yearned for-the babies he'd denied her, promised to conceive when they were more settled, when the rat race had slowed somewhat.
"When ... " his excuse had gone, "I'm well-fixed enough to give my kids all the things I was denied as a child."
Somehow she'd manage. She had to. It would be feeble enough hold on him. But it would be a hold.
And now, this afternoon of the second day following that most recent backsliding at the male bordello, just having refused a second pleading call from Aimee, her brain dull and weary, Joanna sat drinking again-martinis now-she fought away those disturbing memories.
The effect of those recollections undeniable, stronger than she might expect after this much time, she wished that Mayo was here. She would have loved to have lain in his arms, huddled to his strength. And perhaps, when her emotions overcame her, to have him make love to her in his dull, unimaginative way. Even that would be satisfactory now.
She drank faster, stared blankly into space, tried to quell the degenerate pictures that kept flickering before her mind's eye. Pictures of those men at that house-those beautiful, massive animals-pictures of the things they did to those little women. Her pulse raced, that eternal heat mounted deep inside her. Now she went further, let her mind rebuild an image of herself looking through that peephole, seeing Aimee and the man named Antonio, seeing them locked in that deviate's knot again.
And where her stubborn refusal of the man named Auguste usually seemed the only redeeming feature of that night, she was, at this moment, guiltily regretful she hadn't accepted him. Even as she fought the thoughts, hated herself for them, she wished she'd let him confer that love he'd so glowingly-and vulgarly-described.
She shook her head, drank harder. She seized upon any excuse, no matter how feeble. God knows Mayo was no good to her that night. Drunk, reeking of perfume, he'd fallen into bed, hadn't even spoken to her.
Nor had he approached her with even the slightest love overtures since.
What's happening to me? she raged inwardly. That I should be so dissolute, so weak? What was this aboriginal city done to me?
Why can't I be consistent? Why am I hating those things one moment, glorying in memory of them the next? Why do I burn inside, why do I ache? Am I becoming a nymphomaniac? Am I really and truly going insane?
It was at that moment-Johanna having showered an hour ago, dressed now in just her flimsy negligee-that her robe drifted away from her hips, exposed her naked, glowing body there. The oblique October sun caught in those golden threads of herself, strangely excited her.
The sexual urgency undeniable all at once, she finished her drink, dropped the glass to the carpet.
And commencing something she'd never done before, she let her hands completely undo her negligee sash, she began to finger her own nipples. Shortly, partially reclined on the chaise lounge, she let her timid fingers wander downward on her body.
Forgive me, Mayo, she thought maudlinly as that first electrifying pain began, forgive me. I'm sorry I'm so bad, that I'm not the chaste, pure, restrained woman you want. I'm sorry, I'm-
But brief moments later she wasn't sorry. She wasn't sorry at all.
Mayo Kinsolving arrived home at 6:10 that afternoon, found his wife on that same chaise, fast asleep, a small, happy smile on her face. Her negligee hung loosely about her, granted negligible modesty. He was irritated at first. Then, as he looked at his wife's lush, clean body, his mood changed. He suddenly found the lovely woman maddeningly desirable.
And moved by an overriding lust, he put down his briefcase, threw his hat aside. It has been a while now, he thought, Joanna had been acting strangely the past couple days. He sat gently on the edge of the chaise, leaned to kiss her slightly parted lips.
It was at that moment that Joanna awoke, saw her husband, was instantly assailed by guilt. If he even suspicioned her wanton behavior of an hour ago-And quickly, by way of smoke-screen: "Darling," she raised her arms to him, "I've been waiting for you." She kissed him hungrily. "Do you love me? Am I beautiful? Do you want me?"
She let her tongue dart into his mouth. "Mmmmm, lover. I'm getting that way. How about a quickie before dinner? Hurry, go shower. I've been waiting, thinking about you all afternoon. Mayo, baby, I burn inside."
Which was the truth. In that instant, torched by her wanton words and actions alone, she did want her husband. Even if only to dispel remembrance of her recent self-abuse and surrender. What did reasons matter? She wanted Mayo-a man. And now!
A strange thing happened to Mayo. Where, only seconds before, he'd wanted Joanna with a wrenching need, he was now repelled. He'd wanted to work his wife up gradually, seduce her, win this timid, reluctant treasure. But now, when she'd become so brazen, had reflected that hussy change dominating her so much of late-
This was all part of the weird ambivalence in Mayo's sexual nature. He couldn't explain the sudden repugnance and coldness any more than Joanna could. Something about the way she acted, seemingly wanted to consume him-
This wasn't the way a woman-a wife-should act.
He pulled away. "Just a kiss, baby. I'm not up to the whole bit right now. I'm beat. Later tonight, maybe."
The brusqueness of his rebuff cut Joanna deeply, sparked an enraged stubbornness deep in her psyche. "Please," she asked, controlling her fury. "Darling, just for me? Because I'm asking you? Because I've been sitting here thinking about you, wanting you all afternoon?" She let her fingers brush his front in hoyden invitation. "Don't be mean to me now."
Mayo frowned. "I don't know what's got into you lately."
Joanna purposely meant to shock him. "Maybe it's what hasn't got to me lately. C'mon, honey. Take me into the bedroom, give me a royal...."
"Stop that kind of talk this instant!" he grated, his eyes furious. "What is the matter with you?"
"Nothing's the matter with me. I'm a woman, possessed of a woman's needs." Venom coated her words. "A woman married to a prissy, old man. To a damned weirdo!"
"Watch what you're saying, Joanna. Unless you're looking for a split lip."
"Go ahead," she taunted. "Hit me, Mr. he-man. That's the way he-men act, isn't it? How come your cave man stuff doesn't carry into the bedroom? Then you come on like some timid twerp."
"Joanna," he gritted, his face florid with anger. "I'm warning you...."
"So warn me. Do we or don't we? I'm asking you a last time. Are you going to take me to bed, give me a real tumble? You going to prove you're a man?"
"I told you before. No. I'm tired, I'm not in the mood. Besides, we've got to get dressed. We're expected at the De Fonsecas' for dinner at eight."
"Maybe I don't want to go to dinner at the De Fonsecas'. Maybe I'm fed to the teeth with those two vultures."
"Knock that kind of talk off too. We've got a deal, remember? A deal that means everything to me, should mean as much to you."
"Deal, deal ... that's all you think about, all you've got time for. I ... your wife ... don't rate." Purposely she switched on the chaise, let the robe fall completely open, exposed herself from head to toe. Her nipples tingled, turned crinkly. "Even if we do go, there's still time. No finesse, Mayo. Just a quick jump." His face twisted in disgust. "I said stop that rotten talk!"
"You'd find time if it was Vicki asking you though, wouldn't you?" Joanna's rage finally boiled over. "You'd shuck out of those clothes so fast you'd singe the seams."
His face collapsed, he froze in place. His lips moved but no words came out. Then, finally: "Vicki? What'n hell are you talking about?"
"You know damned well what I'm talking about. I'm talking about all those chippy girl friends of yours. The ones who get the bonded stuff. While I get the watered down version. You think I don't know about those pigs of yours, you think I haven't heard you whimpering their names in your sleep? For all I know you've already found another tart in Paris already. How about that stag show the other night? Did you go without that night?" Her voice became an animalisic growl. "Just how stupid do you think I am?"
Mayo stood in numbed shock. His eyes darted, came to rest everywhere except on Joanna's face. "You're talking nonsense," he bluffed. "There are no other women, there never have been any. You're only imagining...."
"Stow it!" she spat. "I know, I tell you. As well as I know my own name. And I've put up with it, hoping that someday you'd change, that you'd let me be woman enough for you...."
"Don't start on that again. Don't act like a tramp!"
"No, I shouldn't. But those other sluts can. Did you ever think I might like some of that high-voltage stuff?"
The disgust in his expression became more pronounced. "Joanna! Stop this minute!"
"You know what's the matter with you, darling?" she grated. "You're sick. Sick to the core. You should find yourself a nice, friendly headshrinker."
He wheeled, headed toward the bathroom. "I'm not going to listen to any more of this crude talk."
"Mayo" she stopped him. "For the last time. Bedroom? Do I get mine? Yes or no?"
"I told you before, no! No, no, no!"
Joanna's words came slowly, deliberately. Each was a barb on a length of barbed-wire, the total being pulled with maddening pain through her heart. "All right. I'll remember that. For a long, long time, Mayo. Only don't forget. We're through. Don't ever come sniffing around me again. Don't ever try pawning off your sissy-boy seconds on me again...."
It was then that he slammed the door in her face.
Her eyes glazed with tears, she leaned forward, lurched up from the chaise. She rubbed the blindness away, headed for the bottle of gin, the cocktail mixer that sat atop the bookcase.
She was dull, woozy, when they arrived at the De Fon-secas' Faubourg-St. Germaine home. Mayo had caught her barely in time, had taken the remaining booze away from her, had sobered her as best he could, had made her get dressed, see their social commitment through.
A wall of solid ice easily fifteen feet thick, forty feet high had been built between them by the time they reached the De Fonseca front door. Neither spoke to the other, their glances were darting, furtive, malevolent.
The mood was instantly recognized by both Aimee and
Roul. They immediately exchanged greedy, conniving glances, pounced upon the rift, encouraged it, poured raw gasoline on its destructive flames.
"Martini," Joanna said, falling back heavily into her chair, eyeing Roul salaciously as he took their cocktail order. "I feel like tying a good one on tonight."
"Wonderful," Aimee chirped from across the room where she sat overly close to Mayo, her strategy instinctive, her knowledge of marital tiffs, the resulting hysteria, dictating her next move. "I think I'll join you. I've been blue all day too. We'll make this a real party."
"Joanna," Mayo warned softly.
The look she sent him would have bored holes in a battle-wagon's armor plate.
Aimee smiled, nodded guardedly at her husband.
They had three drinks each before the maid finally announced dinner. Roul hovering close to Joanna, attending her constantly, sympathizing, prying, giving the ingenue to understand that he was available should she be interested in some quiet revenge, he saw that she didn't drink too much. He had designs, he wanted to see that she would survive the long haul. He wanted her drunk, but not too drunk to function.
Joanna never noticed that her drinks were weak, she was flattered by the man's attention. A vengeful fire was ignited within her. If Mayo could play, if he could flirt, carry on with countless other women-
Why should she be left out?
While across the tete-a-tete corner Aimee used similar methods on Mayo. And if he noticed that his drinks were of a "catch-up" potency, he never let on.
The evening rolled on.
Dinner was dragged out, the food serving as oil on stormy waters, Roul De Fonseca masterminding every move perfectly, each wine, each cordial, the after-dinner drink acting as grease for the proverbial skids. Both he and Aimee paced themselves beautifully, watched with Machiavellian cunning.
After dinner the maids, the kitchen help was dismissed. The house was left to them alone. There was music, more conversation in the living room. And most important: More liquor-Scotch, a very mild and deadly cognac.
Things began to blur for Joanna about eleven. She seemingly lost track of great gobs of time, drifted in and out of touch with the group, she wondered how she'd got so loaded in so short a time.
Even more puzzling, she wondered if she imagined things, or was the room actually becoming progressively darker? Was someone putting out lamps when she wasn't looking?
There was a distinct feeling of separation. She was on this side of the room with Roul, Mayo was with Aimee on the other wall. She felt almost smothered by Roul's persistent attentions, his smiles, his accidental touches.
But were they so accidental? Once she snapped up from a dazed drifting to find him gently, soothingly massaging the back of her neck and shoulders. Another time she swore she came awake to find Roul stroking her nyloned legs, she had strong impression that he'd had his skillful, soft fingers up under her skirt.
And then, losing complete track of things-
"No, please ... " she murmured softly as she broke away from Roul, realized that she'd been permitting a prolonged, searching kiss . "Don't ... I ... we shouldn't...."
She wondered at his mocking, small smile, at the shift of his eyes. Her glance followed his and she stared stupidly, her mouth agape, saw Mayo and Aimee wrapped up in a writhing knot on the davenport across, their mouths locked, their heads twisting, pressuring, both oblivious to the presence of their mates.
She turned back, her expression frantic, baffled, a howling rage growing in her heart and mind. She saw Roul's cynical shrug, his "When-in-Rome" smirk.
Now, when he drew her into his arms, she surrendered quickly, eagerly. Her breath came fast, she felt a torturing heat in her nipples, in her loins. Suddenly her knees were trembling, she pressed her thighs hotly together to quell the wildness, to control her limbs.
Her heart raced, an evil hand twisted her guts as Roul's mouth closed, devoured, ground into hers. She whimpered deep inside when his tongue dove into her mouth, when the hard-pointed member began to swirl, fence with her own.
Her conscience heeled over hard, was instantly devoured by hungry waves, went down without a ripple. A humming began in her ears. Then she giggled, felt a primordial wickedness as she drove her tongue to Roul's, as she purposely, greedily worked her breasts into his chest.
The heat ballooned in her, bloated her, virtually melted her. She sighed, clung to Roul, welded her lips to his as he lifted her from the davenport, began carrying her up the sumptuous, winding stairs.
The things that happened to Joanna after that, within the dimly-lit boundaries of that exquisite bedroom, were understandably vague. The excesses she wantonly gave herself to were glorious in one light, depraved in another.
She remembered laying on that bed waiting for Roul to return with the bottle of cognac, the two glasses. She remembered being propped with pillows, sipping more of the sense-robbing liquor, all the while watching Roul undress in preening show before her. She was reminded of another such show she'd recently witnessed.
Only Roul didn't quite compare with those specially recruited brutes.
But in retrospect-the consideration that the expert use one makes of his attributes is much more important than those attributes themselves.
Along these lines Roul was fantastically talented.
Joanna was to remember lying in that blissful torpor, not moving a muscle, watching Roul as he hovered over her, undressed her in that thrilling, beautiful way of his. The way she savored his touch, his words, his constant, deranging kisses. And though she wondered at the fetish-bound man's preoccupation with her lingerie-and was glad she'd worn something special, a red, lace-encrusted ensemble-she gloried in that adoration just the same.
"The rest?" she squeaked when he'd peeled her to her brassiere, panties, garter belt, stockings and heels.
"No, my darling," he hissed. "Not yet. Let me admire you, adore you. You're so beautiful ... your body is so young, firm, vibrant...."
His hands had roved over her breasts, over her tummy, his fingers had spread her thighs apart, had flitted over her there, had seemingly overturned a nest of hornets inside her. She had sighed, squirmed, had felt like she would explode at the snarling wildness bloating her.
But this had only been mild forestate of the hell-and paradise as well-that was yet to come.
For hours seemingly his lips had coursed up and down her silky legs, they had tantalized her feet, had flirted with her thighs and knees. She'd ached inside, her legs had jittered nonstop, she'd been possessed of the most primitive desires. Things she'd never yearned for in all her life.
Joanna was to recall the way he'd removed her undies one piece at a time, made a lengthy rite of each divestiture. She recalled the way he peppered her body with kisses, with caresses as each item came away. The way his lips tormented her nipples as the bra glided off her arms, the way he captured both tips simultaneously, actually made her whimper with ecstasy at the attention.
The stockings came next. Each was worked down in butterfly whisperings, her shoes were removed, put aside) gently. Then his lips had careened across her velvety flesh, the sensation even more unhinging then. He had turned her on the bed, had kissed the backs of her legs, had roved up and down her spine.
But the worst-or the best-still waited. For as he peeled off her panties, undid her scarlet garter belt, arranged her, totally nude now, on the sheets-she was again reminded of that circus performance she and Aimee had witnessed. He-was going to-do-those same things-to her
She made feeble attempt to dissuade him, to hold his head. But sexually aroused as she was by then, her body a quaking, spasming ball of fire, she had little heart for impeding him. Especially when his lips began to swirl on her tummy, when they carved searing trails along her hips, down her thighs. Quick puffs of desire broke from her, she instinctively brought up her knees in twin spires, she let them slowly topple in unmistakable welcome.
And when she felt that first touch of his fingers, that preparation-when she knew that first hot, torrid kiss, that tentative flicking-
She began to moan like a wounded animal.
"My God, my God ... " she choked. "Darling, darling. You shouldn't ... we shouldn't...."
"Shall I stop?" he taunted, pausing momentarily, his brief desertion panicking Joanna.
"No, no ... " she wailed, her hands reaching for him, trying to bring him back, "never stop, never, never...."
But there was a time to stop. For then, Joanna, driven to a mindless limbo by alcohol, by sense of revenge against her husband, by the spine-kinking thing Roul was slavishly doing to her, could endure no more of that awesome adoration. She would go out of her mind, she would babble like an idiot if he-didn't stop soon!
Roul, master lover that he was, sensed as much. And content that he'd brought Joanna to a sublime peak, that further preheating was wasted effort, he broke away from her, righted himself on the bed. "Baby," he seethed, "my exquisite, beautiful baby. Here. Here I am. Yes, like that. like this. Yes. Oh, you precious angel...."
Joanna had gasped, had taloned her nails into his back, had clamped and wound her legs as he'd come to her. She'd growled in primitive rapture as she'd harbored him completely. Almost immediately her body had commenced to bob and writhe and sway. She'd done the things she'd longed to do all her life, And, inhibition routed, a female animal beside herself, beyond conscience now, she'd exhorted him to love her, to use her, to thrill her. She'd used language she'd never known she knew. She told him in plain, direct words just what to do, she described her sensations, her delight with his presence vaingloriously, shrilly.
His reactions liquor-dulled, his age a contributing factor, he worked over Joanna for what seemed an eternity. Not that she was complaining. The liquor taking opposite effect on her, making her that much more wild, she prayed that this transfiguring love would last forever. Seemingly the heavens kept exploding behind her eyelids, great shattering super-novas that blinded her, left her momentarily debilitated and stricken.
There were explosions elsewhere, and she pursued them avidly, proudly announced each, counted them off loudly. She gathered each fireball, strung it on a golden thread.
She compared this man to her feckless husband, she found this ecstasy surpassed anything she'd ever known before. And where with Mayo she was lucky to seize one or two releases at best. With this glorious lovemaster-
"Six," she'd chanted.
Then: "Seven."
Then: "More, please more ... Never stop. Go for ten." She'd encouraged, screamed, cursed, cajoled.
Even twelve wasn't enough. "A baker's dozen," she'd groaned in drunken transport. "Be unlucky for me. Be lucky." Luck became altered somehow then.
And she was cheated. Scream and squirm though she might. Roul had climbed his mountain, was starting down now.
While in the room across the hall, Aimee's room:
"Yes, Mayo," she was wheedling. "Do that. If you want Aimee. You have to love her there. Go ahead, you won't find that so terrible."
Mayo, drunk, wild with lust, fought her. But she was too strong for him. And finally. "All right, damn you!" he growled.
He began.
"Good boy, my good little boy," she whined. "Oh, chert. Magnifique, tres magnifique! More, more...."
And shortly she was wrestling with his body. "Together, mon amoureux," she gritted. "Let me reward you. Yes, yes." Her words came in garbled flow. "Like this, mon etalon vigoureux. Be still. Let me, let me...."
Mayo let her.
Paris, City of Light?
Or-
Paris, City of Satanic Darkness?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The express to St. Gervais leaves Paris' Gare de Lyon at eight in the morning, arrives at its destination at six the next morning. In October the skiing season is just beginning in the French Alps, there are always some hardy souls who want to get a head start on their foolhardy compatriots.
And this night, in compartment 46, second-class carriage 54336-
Sharkawi hardly dared to believe his good fortune. Staring at the adolescent, a jeune fille of scarcely seventeen or eighteen, it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking, his eyes from jumping out of his head. To conceal his extreme elation, not wanting to alarm the child in any way, betray his designs in the bargain, the pervert affected a brusque disinterest, buried his head in his copy of France-Soir, barely gave her a passing glance.
At least when she might be aware of his greedy surveillance. Often, as the train swept out of the station, meandered through the city's outskirts, he peaked around his paper, all but drooled at the pink innocence of the child, already wallowing in the subjugation he would wrest from her before the night was out.
The girl's name was Suzette Moreau, she was, in fact, eighteen, she was forced into traveling alone when her closest girl friend had defected at the last moment. Eschewing her indulgent parents' warnings about the dangers of traveling alone, moving in that supreme confidence of the young, she planned to meet other friends (her recent swain, Claude Lazair among them) upon her arrival at St. Gervais on the morrow.
Settled in her locked compartment, in the company of the comical mountain of fat across from her, she hummed softly to herself, worked on the sweater she was knitting for Claude, hadn't a care-or a fear-in the world.
If she knitted nonstop, went without her usual little catnaps, who knew? the sweater might be ready for Claude by the time the dawn-mantled Alps came into view. But in time, the loquaciousness of the young taking over, the newspaper reader's silence irritated her. At least he could say hello. And where she'd thought him somehow ominous at first, she now considered him in more and more of an amused light. Until at last, in a patronizing tone:
"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur," she said. "Are you going all the way to St. Gervais? For the skiing perhaps?" The picture of the obese clown on skis flickered before her eyes, and she stifled a giggle.
The mockery wasn't lost on Skarkawi, and instantly the fury mounted within him. If he'd entertained the slightest thoughts of pity for this juvenile victim, they were gone now. "No, my dear," he smiled slowly, "I am not going to ski. My days of skiing are over, I fear. But I used to ski very well when I was young."
The raven-haired child's pretty mouth drew into a dubious bow. Without looking up from her knitting, she said, "Is that so, Monsieur?" Plainly she didn't believe him. "And where did you ski?"
Her insolence angered Sharkawi even more. He frowned, imagined how insolent and superior she would be an hour from now. Crawling at his feet. "At Chamonix. Near Mont Blanc. But that has been many years, Mademoiselle."
The archness never left her lovely, flawless face. Skarkawi marveled at those pouty red lips, the evenness of those small white teeth. He imagined the touch of the firm tongue, the dazed alarm he would soon induce into those lustrous, almond-shaped eyes. "Please, Monsieur," she said casually. "Call me Suzette. Suzette Moreau."
"Charmed, Mademoiselle." His eyes now fastened on the precocious swell of those breasts, at the smoothness of her stockingless knees. He wondered if she might possibly still be a virgin. More than-likely she was, he concluded. This high-handed type held themselves very dear, sold only to the highest bidder. After tonight, pig, you will have precious little left to barter with. "I am Ahmed Wastra."
"Wastra," she sniffed, the needles never stopping their clicking, "what a strange name. Where are you from?"
"I am Turkish. I came to France in the late forties. I am a tobacco importer."
"How interesting. And is business good?"
His eyes glittered as she shifted, gave him ample view of her white thighs. "Business is very good, my dear."
"Please. Suzette. It's more friendly. After all, we'll be traveling a long way together. Do you snore?"
"Yes, of course. Suzette. No, I don't snore. In fact, I probably won't sleep at all. I'm an insomniac." He patted his luggage. "I have my papers and magazines."
"Please," the girl said pettishly, "don't read now. Talk to me. This riding is so boring."
"Eh, bien, Suzette. But what shall we talk about?"
"I don't know. Tell me about your tobacco business. Anything. Have you seen any good movies lately?"
"No," Sharkawi said, noting they were coming into open country now. Furtively he snapped the clips on his portfolio, brought out the box of chocolates. "I don't go to the movies very often."
The girl sighed exasperatedly. "And books?"
"None, I'm afraid. Business keeps me extremely busy." Sharkawi listened for the sound of the conductor's rap. Where is that moron? he chafed. Will he never get here?
"You adults," Suzette sniffed. "You always seem so busy doing absolutely nothing. I should think...."
At that moment a sharp rap sounded on the door "Billets," the conductor called, "sil vous plait...."
It was only when the conductor had punched their tickets, had gone, that Sharkawi opened the box of candy, began to pick among the bonbons. He was swallowing his third piece when the girl looked up scathingly, said, "Well, the least you could do is offer me some."
Sharkawi feigned embarrassment. "Oh, I am sorry. How stupid I am. That comes of being alone so much. Please, Suzette, help yourself."
The girl was finicky; Sharkawi had to turn the box several times before she chose one of the drugged chocolates. But finally she picked one, lined it up on the arm rest of her seat along with the other four pieces she took. The lethal chocolate was fourth in line.
Their talk was desultory, she toyed with the candy. Sharkawi was a bundle of nerves, he watched her like a hawk. Then she took the loaded bonbon, bit into it. A slight grimace formed on her features. But greedy child that she was, she said nothing, went on to finish the piece.
Perhaps five minutes later the needles stopped clacking. Suzette slumped back, stared blankly into space.
Instantly Sharkawi was up, locking the door, drawing the curtains. Seconds later he had lowered Suzette to the seat, he was frenziedly hauling at her clothes.
When Suzette drifted up from her doze, blinked her eyes, tried to focus them, she was suddenly hit by a sense of suffocating closeness, she could hardly breathe.
Small wonder, she mused hazily. This fat pig has taken his shoes off. He has his foot in my mouth.
Then her senses were jolted, she felt vague alarm. She squinted, squirmed, tried to understand what had happened. But her mind kept tilting, kept sliding into a midnight abyss. She couldn't think, she couldn't move. In an embryonic reflex she clamped her mouth, tried to draw those wriggling toes even deeper. She sighed, fainted again.
And Sharkawi cursed his luck. The dose had been too strong. Prepared for a grown woman, it had all but paralyzed this stupid girl. He felt sudden rage, a sense of being cheated. With a liquid plop he pulled his toes from between those pretty lips, stood over Suzette, tried shaking her back to consciousness. Momentarily he felt panic. Suppose the dose was toxic, suppose the girl died.
He shook harder, smiled as she moaned softly.
Dropping her on the bench cushions, he wheeled, did a happy little jig. Then he began tearing off his clothes.
For a long time, as Suzette climbed up those slippery stairs to consciousness again, the naked whale sat beside her, handled her pristine body, the firmness of her flesh. In the whiteness of her body, the firmness of her flesh. In time, this no longer pleasing him, he committed unspeakable outrages on that nubile form. None of which the sleeping child would ever know about.
Suzette surfaced another time, managed a barely coherent, "What ... what's happening to me ... " Then the words were blocked, she gasped, knew that horrendous suffocation again. Her eyes focused, she looked up, found her torturer kneeling, pinning her shoulders.
She realized what abomination he was forcing upon her, she felt her brain shrivel at the concept. Her eyes widened, she fought to scream, to repel the man. Her heart nearly burst as she found herself helpless. As she discovered she could barely move, that she couldn't utter another sound.
Her brain reeled, rebelled. The furry grayness invaded anew. She felt herself sinking. Again that childish, uncontrolled reflex took control. From somewhere far off heard the sound of fiendish cacklings.
So the dreary night passed, Suzette drifting in and out of stupor through those hours, becoming more lucid, staying awake for longer and longer intervals. Remembering, to her everlasting shame, the horrors of the man forced to her.
When she slept he was content to sit close to her, to dip first one, then another foot into her gaping mouth. When she awoke, was aware of his presence, he employed more stomach-turning mortifications, slapped her when she malingered at her duties.
By one a.m. she was rapidly emerging from the effects of the drug. And moaning and babbling softly in her throat, too terrified to openly scream, she awaited each new vilification with wide, haunted eyes. It was here, when she almost totally recovered, that he coldly, graphically told her what he would do to her now.
When Suzette began to protest too loudly he took her brassiere, made a rope of it, bound it tightly between her teeth. She writhed, tried to kick him as he pried at her legs. He only giggled, clawed her calves more sadistically.
Then he was standing. And only Suzette's shoulders and back resting on the roughly upholstered bench, he jammed her knees about his hips. He drove himself ruthlessly to her, felt her reflexive lurch of pain, heard her muffled screams. That and one other phenomenon told him that his original estimate was correct-Suzette was a virgin.
Correction: Had been a virgin.
His initial release was a rapid thing.
Then there was time to force her to repeat her lessons.
At 2:00 a.m., revitalized, he assaulted her again.
Once more he forced her to indescribable degradations.
At 3:00 a.m., the gag in place again, Suzette a hysterical, mind-addled ball of flesh, he made her kneel on the bench. Her head jammed into a corner, her white buttocks gleaming, he administered the coup de grace.
The outrage, the pain was too great. Suzette fainted once more.
But even this wasn't satisfaction enough for the madman. The sense of being cheated still prevailing, he saw his perversion through. Afterward, seeing the helpless, white lump of flesh, thinking of the insufferable torment she would have put her beaus through had she not been given this valuable lesson in humility, he was driven to a more psychotic rage.
The thought of her with some other man, beautifully dressed and made up, all traces of this bestialization behind her, the thought of her deceiving that youth, of her masquerading as a pure girl drove Sharkawi wild. And beyond that, the thought that he had never been comely enough to have a girl once look at him with any semblance of affection in her eyes, that he would never know that voluntary female surrender-
If Sharwaki had been disturbed before, he was a hissing lunatic now. And to punish this slutty girl, to punish a world that had treated him so foully-
He raised his arms. And with no hesitation whatsoever, began to beat the limp, lifeless body with all his strength. He pounded and slashed and kicked, felt ecstatic elation when he heard the dull snap of bones. He hit her again and again. Still he pounded her.
At 4:00 a.m., calm now, neatly dressed, Kamil Sharkawi left the night express, debarked at Dijon. Because it was the middle of the night few people noted his departure.
At 6:00 a.m., when the train reached St. Gervais the conductor was hard put to awaken the occupants of compartment 46. It was then that he tried the door handle, found it unlocked. Risking the indelicacy, he slowly turned the handle, pushed the door in.
He froze, his heart died as he saw the bloody body on the floor, as he saw that the once pretty girl, her right arm shattered, was now more dead than alive.
The conductor was a timid man, a man with a weak stomach. He released a sick gasp, backed from the cubicle. A shriek escaped him as he wheeled. Then he was running the length of the narrow corridor, shouting as he went.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joanna and Mayo Kinsolving moved in a zombie-like trance during the days following that disastrous dinner at the De Fonseca home. They lived together-existed together would be more apt-they moved within the confines of their hotel room, they ate and slept together.
They spoke to each other in monosyllables, their conversations dealt with only the most essential exigencies of their daily rounds. Was Joanna ready to go down for dinner yet? Don't wait up, Roul and I will be late. Aimee and I will be shopping all day.
Otherwise they might as well have been mutes.
There was the one aborted confrontation. The one time they tried to explain what had happened that night, what forces had driven them to that debauch. A conversation Mayo had cut short with a shouted: "Okay, so we're both degenerates, we can't go on living with this lurking in the back of our minds. We'll call things quit. Fine."
"That isn't what I want, Mayo," Joanna had said. "There must be some other way. We have to talk out, understand what made us act that way...."
"Well that's what I want. Out! I'll accept my share of the blame, I'll do right by you in the settlement."
"Please, Mayo, listen to reason. Other couples have had troubles, they've managed to...."
"Not troubles like these. Skip it, Joanna. I'm done, fed up. You might as well book a flight right now, get things rolling in Peoria. Anything you and that vampire lawyer decide will be all right with me."
"Won't you come with me?"
"No, damn it! Can't you understand? This subsidiary plant, these European franchises come first. I'll stay here until this whole deal's wrapped up neat and tidy. Take off, catch the first plane out of here."
Still Joanna hadn't given up. This was her husband, this was her marriage. Time would confer perspective; they'd find an exit from this impasse. And even if they did have to live like virtual strangers these remaining few days-
Something would happen. Something had to happen! What, she couldn't begin to imagine. What did she expect to happen? And remembering those futile hopes during their first days in Paris, that same ephemeral something, she wanted desperately to cry.
Only there were no tears left now. She'd expended them in sick surfeit of grief and shame during those days immediately following her one and only infidelity to her husband. There were times when she couldn't really make herself believe the betrayal had happened. Looking closely at Roul those few times they'd been together since, seeing the imperturbably noncommittal expression in his eyes, it was incredible to even think of being in bed with him, letting him do those heathen things to her.
There were other times however, when, tired, dispirited and lonely, she remembered all too clearly. When she was sexually piqued, when she all but wallowed in memory of that exotic night. And as she actually trembled, actually yearned after repetition of that soul-igniting love, she knew the event hadn't been merely imagination, byproduct of too much drink. This hadn't been emotional D.T.'s.
Roul had driven her out of her mind, he'd transported her to the stars. She had screamed, clawed and writhed beneath him, she had uttered all those pagan profanities.
Small wonder Joanna thought more and more often of suicide of late. She was truly mixed up. More mixed up than she'd ever dreamed she could possibly be.
As further evidence of the illusory dream-world she and Mayo sleepwalked through was the fact that they could even tolerate being in the De Fonsecas' presence after what had happened. Civilized? Joanna raged now. Sophisticated ?
Just how civilized, how sophisticated can the world get?
Theirs was the craziest of arrangements. They met for dinners, they went sightseeing, there were casual encounters. Yesterday Joanna and Aimee had gone to the Louvre, had spent almost six hours there, Aimee very knowledgeable in artistic matters, guiding her predominantly through the modernists. Yet, not once, during that time, had either referred to that night in the De Fonseca boudoirs.
Looking at the chick, aristocratic woman, thinking that she had taken Mayo to bed with her, that she knew Joanna had gone to bed with her Roul, Joanna was stunned and confused. Here when we should be clawing at each other, railing, spitting out dirty names-
They'd talked about art.
They'd acted like nothing had ever happened, as if their orgiastic swap had been something apart, something existing in another, phantasmal world.
They'd even made plans for a shopping jaunt this afternoon. They were visiting the salons of Yves Saint-Laurent, Aimee had an in there.
Civilized? Joanna thought anew. No, not civilized. Unreal, insane. Weird, weird-
Luckily Joanna wasn't allowed to pursue the unsettling train of thought further. The telephone rang at that moment, provided welcome distraction.
Aimee was on the line. "Darling," she purred, "I have to make a small change in our plans, I hope you won't mind. I know it's rather late-"
Joanna was surprised to find it was almost noon. "No, that's perfectly all right. What is it?"
"An old school friend of mine has just arrived. I'm with her now. We're having lunch at her place. I wonder if you could stop by here first. Then the three of us will go on. You'll love Claudine."
"Surely. Give me the address, please. I have a pad and pencil." She rapidly scribbled down the street and number, confirmed the spelling. "At two instead of one. Fine, Aimee. I'll be there."
Still, numbed by the enormity of her transgressions during the past few days, glad for diversion, Joanna never for a moment thought the phone call suspect. She turned, marshaled her thoughts. She had to baths, choose some special ingerie, an appropriate gown for a visit to such elite couturier's. Then there was the matter of a quick lunch. This Claudine of Aimee's sounded interesting. But on the other hand, if she was as emancipated, as much a free-thinker as Aimee-
Joanna hurried toward the bathroom, throwing off her peignoir as she ran.
The building at which the cabbie dropped Joanna was a structure of fairly modern design, surprisingly near the metropolitan part of Paris. It was tall for Paris, sported four stories, was obviously an apartment building. Shrugging, she entered the foyer. Finding no guard door to impede her, she went directly to the small self-service elevator, pushed the three button. She checked her crumpled note.
Moments later she stood before room 320, wondered at the ominous silence within. If Aimee and an old school friend were catching up on old times. There should certainly be sounds of chatter, female laughter. Again she shrugged, pushed the buzzer.
Almost with a rush the door was flung open. "Oh!" Joanna gasped. "I'm sorry, I must have the wrong apartment-" Then her vision focused, the male figure was immediately recognizable. Roul! I...."
She wheeled, tried to flee. B ut the man was too fast for her; his hand shot out, clamped to her wrist with a steel grip. Joanna was amazed at the mans' strength, at the swiftness with which he whisked her into the room. "Joanna, pet," he slurred, "don't be afraid ... I won't hurt you." Now the door slammed behind her, she heard the click of the lock, the rasp of the safety chain.
"Roul, no!" she choked. "This is insane. I don't want ... " The rest of her protests were drowned out. As the man pulled her viciously into his arms, fought her face into submission with his own. As he seared her lips with a painful, dominating kiss. A brutal kiss. A strange, exciting kiss. A kiss that gradually made Joanna feel weak, helpless, almost dependent.
Her brain rebelled at that last moment. As, the kiss going on, she found herself going limp in his arms, found herself almost yearning to that melting heat. No, you slut! she raged. Stop this! This very instant. What kind of alley-cat round heels are you turning into?
She tore her mouth from the man's. "Roul" she hissed.
"Stop now. Are you out of your mind? This is impossible, we-can't. Wasn't that one time bad enough? We were drunk, we were out of our minds ... there might have been an excuse then. But this ... Roul, Roul ... Please!"
She managed to break away, she retreated toward the davenport, got fleeting impression of the room, saw it was sumptuous and lavish to the ultimate degree But there was little time for appraisal of decor. For immediately, a smug, hard smile on his lips, Roul De Fonseca was stalking her again. "Perhaps I am insane," he grated. "Insane about you, Joanna. I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since that night. I want you, baby. I must have you."
"No, Roul! Not again. Never. I've hated myself ever since. You were the first man-besides Mayo. I'll never betray him again. Let me go, Roul. I thought Aimee and her friend-"
"Forget your bourgeois morals, Joanna," he said softly, coming closer, his fingers lightly caressing her throat. "They count for nothing at a time like this. The important thing is us. Was I good that night? Did you enjoy me? Did I show you how love between a man and woman was supposed to be? Answer no to that, tell me I disappointed you."
"You were good, Roul," Joanna said, her mind refusing to function at this moment. "That love-that night was wonderful. Only I...."
"Then why shouldn't we have that again? Why shouldn't we even have a better love? A love when we aren't drugged with drink, when we can savor, enjoy every emotion, every sensation, to the utmost?" He tried to pull her into his arms again. "We have such an opportunity now. A whole afternoon to do with what we want. An afternoon alone." His voice grew husky, persuasive. "An afternoon of love. An afternoon to remember the rest of our lives...."
Joanna couldn't repress the shudder, the surging arrow of evil that pierced her body at that moment. She fought Roul, but he was too strong for her. He pulled her tightly against him, drove a dozen stinging kisses into her lips, into her eyes, into her throat. "You know you want me," he breathed hoarsely. "You want those beautiful things I do to you. You want-a-real man...."
Then as his tongue began to batter at her lips, as she felt her entrails jumble and tighten. Joanna exercised a last reserve of control, she twisted free. "No, Roul," she quaked, her eyes frantic, "this is wrong, it's evil...."
"Wrong? Evil? My silly little American. Who is to say what is wrong, what evil? If we are offered love-an interlude of ecstasy-a peep into paradise...."
"Aimee ... " Joanna croaked. "She was supposed to be here. Where is she? What is this place? I don't under...."
"This place as you so charmingly put it, is my own private town apartment. I-use it to entertain my friends-away from home."
"And Aimee knows about this ... ? "
"Knows? Of course she knows. She has a similar lair of her own. In another part of the city, however."
"And neither of you object to the other? I mean...."
"Object? Why should we? We are both adults, we realize marriage grows stale, must seek diversion. We realize marriage is no prison in which one person is shackled to the other forever and ever. Wives-husbands need variety. Can't you see that? Or does your childish American philosophy preclude such acceptances?"
He moved away from Joanna, went to a small bar in one corner of the room, poured two small snifters one-third full of cognac. "Here, drink this. We will sit down and talk about our differences, I will try to explain our continental ways to you. Perhaps convert you."
Joanna knew that to attempt to flee was futile. She would humor him, reason with him, escape from this sin-nest somehow. She wouldn't be such a pushover today. And yet she wondered at the lack of real conviction she felt. She sipped the cognac sparingly, was pleased at the smooth bite of it, at the gradual ease the liquor conferred.
"I'm still confused," she said. "Aimee told me...."
"Aimee told you what I told her to tell you. I knew if I invited you here you'd refuse. So I prevailed upon my sweet little wife...."
"And she willingly ... ? "
"Of course, chert. Can't you get it through your head that we are both of a mind? If I genuinely wanted you ... " Joanna sipped at her drink more avidly. How long, she mused, since Mayo, since anyone looked at me like that, let me know they wanted me so badly? Another spine-twisting shiver went through her.
"No," she warned as he sidled closer to her on the davenport, desire aflame in his eyes. "Roul, we can't...."
"Who is to say we can't?" he murmured, catching her, drawing her close. Joanna cursed her damnable weakness. "No one but us will ever know."
"Aimee knows...."
"She doesn't count." Inch by inch his lips lowered to hers. And, as that last crucial gap narrowed, Joanna's body spasmed, she found herself waiting breathlessly for that hot contact. Their lips fused, melted, became one. His tongue darted to hers in erotic challenge. Joanna felt herself sinking, sinking-
She started when Roul's free hand slid inside her jacket, clutched one straining breast. "Oh no, Roul," she gasped, regaining minor control, fighting him viciously. "This can't be. No, never again...."
His smile was sardonic. "No?" he mocked. "Why are you worrying about being faithful to your husband? When he isn't being faithful to you?"
"What ... what are you talking about?"
"Don't be such a child, Joanna. Where do you suppose Mayo is at this very moment? If Aimee did me a favor by inviting you here, don't you think she'd expect a similar favor from me?"
"You mean-she and Mayo-at her apartment...."
He didn't answer. But his shrug, his mocking smile was answer enough.
Joanna's rage, her hurt crushed her. A deadly, maen-adic resolve formed in her mind. Her jaw twitched, her eyes became steely blue, determined. With one long swallow she drained the remaining cognac. "Another," she said in a firm voice, pushed the snifter at Roul.
"Good girl," he murmured, "good girl. I knew you'd listen to reason." This time he filled her glass half full.
By the time this cognac was down, Joanna was out of control, she was so much limp putty to be manipulated any way Roul De Fonseca desired. Memory of their last love bout titillating her, the loneliness of the past days, the hopeless state of their marriage further hacking her, she thought, why not? What's the harm? What's to lose?
Thus she made no protests whatsoever as De Fonseca began to undress her where she sat. She drank and watched, felt lust snowball in her as he knelt before her, as he unloaded her lacy, purple brassiere, as he adored her aching breasts with tongue and lips and teeth, made them ache the more. She felt queenly, she writhed and tingled as he propped her back with pillows, arranged her legs before her, kissed them, caressed them with burgeoning passion; she thought this the most magnificent of sensations.
Then, the combination of cognac, the frank touches of his fingers, the bold words and analogies he used to praise her body, her very self-
Joanna all but swooned where she sat.
Thus she was not overly amazed when he finally carried her to the bedroom, laid her-still in her hose and shoes, in her panties and the matching purple girdle-on that massive bed. Sensually inflamed as she was, virtually out of her mind with lust, she was only faintly curious about the many full length mirrors on all the walls, about the soft spotlights that fell on her body, afforded the only light in the heavily draped room.
These were just so much background noise, the main signal, demanding, incisive, still came in painfully clear, banged one echoing message into the nerve centers of her brain. Soon, soon, soon-I hurt. I want. I need. Oh, soon-
The slavish adoration as Roul finished stripping her was almost anti-climatic to her. Golden towers of sensation, remembered glories, still loomed before her. If she could only reach them, embrace them, scream from their soothing touch-
She giggled lazily as he kissed her legs, her feet, as he let his lips slither up the insides of her legs. She jerked involuntarily as his teeth nipped her thighs. Then she was moving her knees, adjusting herself to him.
Those kisses, those searing, maddening kisses! That silver needle that was driven, in countless thrusts, through her very body! That ecstatic pain. Pain she hungered after, never to stop!
Looking at him, seeing the slavish, fanatic light in Roul's eyes, she felt supreme, confident, she felt like empress of the universe. She twisted her fingers in his hair, chuckled thickly, drew him back to that exquisite embrace.
She felt a deep sense of loss when he deserted her not much later. Again there was mild wonder as she saw him take the purple panties, bunch them in his hand, kiss them. Then, murmuring something about, "Souvenir, my darling," she saw him put the item in a shallow drawer in a nearby dresser. Raising slightly she saw that the drawer was a riot of colors. That there were panties of every description there, at least fifty pairs, a veritable fetishist's trove. Still the revelation failed to sunder or shatter the erotic torpor she floated in now.
If this was the way the man got his kicks-
So long as she was being, in no way, short-changed-
Thus she didn't protest, beyond hair-raising wonder, when he went to a long closet, brought out the full length rubber garments. Leotard-like things, black and glistening with dull sheen, resembling nothing else so much as long winter underwear of olden days.
"Please, darling," he seethed, his smile sick, as he advanced on her with the weird costume, "Let me put this on you. I enjoy my women so much this way, I find this liberates me, allows me to express myself completely. I rise to heights, descend to depths ... no one can begin to imagine. And you, my pet, can go along with me."
"What ... what is that?"
"A rubber suit, Joanna. They're made special for people like me ... like us. For sensualists who want to experience every iota of sensation there exists on this jaded planet of ours." He leaned, kissed Joanna's tummy again. "Please, my beloved...."
Joanna fell back, surrendered. Felt incredibly strange, a distillation of evil in her mind, as the thin, rubber garment was drawn up about her. The tightness about her feet, her calves, her thighs and buttocks incensed her, made the nympho, wanton fires lick higher within her. Now she was turned on her belly, felt the rubber encase her breasts, felt the zipper being drawn up her back. She giggled to find openings in the suit, to find her nipples protruding from the black garment, to find the lower juncture of the suit ventilated also.
"Beautiful, beautiful ... " Roul wheezed as he attended to last details, smoothed wrinkles from the suit, pulled the high collar about her throat, pulled the cuffs to her wrists. Uncontrollably he fell upon her, wriggled against the rubber, attempted to embrace her, compact her into a tiny ball. His lips attacked the proud berried topping each of those ebony conoids, his hand speared that other peephole.
Joanna squirmed, thought how lovely the sensation was. How unique this concept
Shortly Roul deserted her. "Your shoe size, my doll," he called from the cavernous closet. In which, she now saw, were stored racks and racks of high heeled pumps of every color and description. "Such tiny feet you have."
"Five," she quaked. "Roul-what?"
He brought a pair of black kid pumps, exotic things with stiletto toes and heels, the heels fully five inches high. With fawning motions he put them on her feet over the rubber glossing already enclosing them. There was that sliding kiss again.
Then, later, when he had pulled on his rubber suit, had let Joanna zip the back, there was yet another part to the sensualist rites. This, the posing session Joanna consented to. She stood before him in the black suit, the tight rubber enhancing, modeling every curve of her body, revealing every indentation, every ripple. Joanna saw herself in the mirror, shuddered of her own accord as she saw the evil vision reflected there.
The glistening curves, the long flare of her lovely legs, the fetish shoes. The way her buttocks and breasts protruded in saucy, glistening allure, the incongruous pinkness of her nipples against the midnight rubber, the gold of her elsewhere, was certainly enough to drive her, let alone a man, into gnashing fits.
When Roul could stand the fashion show no more, he ran to her, fell on his knees before her. The groveling, the hot kissing, the adoration of her calves and thighs, the hot kisses conferred upon that smooth body, the strainings and sobbings to get at those turgid nibs of her breasts.
And always that building heat, that mind-cracking desire. Incredible, will-sapping. She had never felt so wild, so wanton, she had never lusted after depravity so crazily.
Until finally, when it seemed her legs would cave in beneath her, Joanna pulled the slobbering man to his feet, clung to him. "Please, darling," she choked. "Now, now! Don't torture me any more."
When Roul whimpered, tried to prostrate himself before her once more an aboriginal fury erupted within her. "Now!" she growled. And with that, tore open the flap at the base of Roul's suit. Then she wheeled, flung herself on the bed.
Stiil he didn't immediately take her. Instead he let his body go topsy-turvy on the bed, he worshiped her even more frenziedly, made her scream and whimper with pain.
But at long last, when it seemed that layer after layer of molten lava was flowing over her, the suit intensifying body heat, driving her beyond reason. She literally forced him up, forced him to take her.
But the interminable work-up had worked devastating effect upon De Fonseca. And this afternoon, only a fraction as drunk as he'd been that first night with Joanna-
He had taken her with one beautiful, singing motion he had made her scream and sob with delight. But then, the glory hardly begun, her body surging up, conforming, holding itself to his-
Joanna reached one cataclysmic glory, felt like her entire body was being constricted into one excruciating, withered ball, was being pulled tighter, tighter. More and more compact. She began to scream, to praise this fantastic lover, almost immediately went in pursuit of still another rocket-ride to that blissful lotus land. There were other glories out there, countless glories. She had but to gather them.
Only at that moment Roul screamed, cursed, throbbed atop her. He spat a thick, satisfied howl into the air. A moment later he went limp over her.
Joanna didn't remember ripping off their rubber suits. But now, another glass of cognac down, the sense of being cheated a goading, maddening thing, moving in an insane, irresponsible trance, she dazedly noted the limp, rubber skins on the floor. She had to have Roul again. She had to have that prolonged love. There were victories waiting for her, taunting her, beckoning her.
This was something she'd never done for a man before. Never in her life, not even for Mayo. But at this moment no sacrifice was too great.
She hung over Roul, worked determinedly, no shred of revulsion inhibiting her now.
Then as he began to groan, as he reached for her, reciprocated greedily for her-self sacrificing attentions-
Joanna sighed huskily, worked faster.
Everything's gone now, she rationalized. Ruined. What have I got to lose? Nothing, nothing to lose.
She worked still faster.
CHAPTER NINE
FFhen Roul De Fonseca told Joanna her Husband was with Aimee he lied. Joanna proving more difficult than he'd anticipated, he had used a trump card, had pushed the infallible panic button. And Joanna had fallen for the gambit hook, line and sinker; she had responded with a pagan amorality which, at times, astonished the seasoned lecher.
After Aimee had consented to call Joanna, she'd offered no explanation as to her whereabouts and activities while he was seducing the stupid American woman. He assumed she'd worked out a relationship with Mayo by then, but he had no proof. She might be with someone entirely different, another man, a stranger of whose existence Roul was ignorant.
What did it matter? So long as he had Joanna, so long as she was at his mercy-Aimee could accommodate a half dozen men simultaneously; he couldn't have cared less.
Thus it was, at that same moment that Joanna was so dissolutely attempting to revive her lover, in Aimee's bedroom at their Faubourg-St. Germaine address-
The girl's name was Ayesha Saleem. She was a full-blooded Algerian, a dusky beauty of singular and warped tastes. She was 31, a calloused, practical female who had come to grips with herself-and the world. If she was a Lesbian, she was proudly so. This was the way she was made-the world contributing to that mutation in no small degree-society could accept, or reject her, on her own terms.
And if society chose to turn up its nose at Ayesha and her peculiar inclinations-
Well, there was a French word for that too.
There were always other Lesbians, there were always free-thinkers like this thrill-hungry Mme. Aimee De Fonseca. There were the bisexuals, the possible converts.
Which was, to some small degree, the light in which Ayesha regarded Aimee. As a possible prospect.
And in the meantime-
There were always the financial considerations, the pretty clothes, the expensive trinkets Mme. De Fonseca showered on her. As did those others among Mme. De Fonseca's high-society friends who indulged themselves in exploratory sex. And if they enjoyed themselves, lent themselves to deviationary thrill, who was getting hurt?
Didn't she, Ayshea, of humble North African beginnings get hers in the bargain? Didn't she get to love these Paris socialite wenches, achieve her own joy in the process of making them squirm, gasp and yip their own pleasures?
The trade was profitable. As well as educational.
And more important: Balm to her own deranging lusts.
Ayesha still counted that night, when Mme. De Fonseca had discovered her doing her tawdry belly-dance in one of the disreputable clubs fringing Montmarte's fun center, had invited her for a drink, had fostered their most incongruous friendship, as the luckiest night of her life. Recognizing Ayesha for what she was, the fine lady had subtly inaugurated the relationship that had lasted to this day.
Thus the beautiful Algerian emigre was content, more than happy to hover over Aimee at this moment as the grande dame lolled in her tub. She loved to wait on her hand and foot, bathe and cleanse her for the impending love session. She thrilled at the contrast between her dusky flesh and that of Aimee as her hands laved and caressed those ivory breasts, that white, soap-slippery belly.
"Lovely, lovely," the aristocratic sensualist purred as the brown hands rippled over her, ignited torrid fires inside her belly. "That feels so wonderful, darling. Mmmmmm. Lower, lower. Wash me there now. Get your mistress ready."
Lower then. Carefully, maddeningly. Ayesha didn't need to be told a second time.
Ayesha's wanton attentions drove Mme. De Fonseca completely wild. And now, moving into the first phase of her homosexual involvement, Aimee let her hands drift from the tub, she caressed Ayesha's honey-toned breasts, teased those poppy-sized nipples. With a thick giggle she let her hands drift elsewhere on the Algerian's body as well.
Temperatures rose very quickly in that steamy bathroom.
Until, shortly, at Aimee's insistence, Ayesha was climbing into the tub also. Trembling, like a dependent child, she let Aimee gather her in her arms, kiss her full, ripe lips, she let Aimee run her hands over her body.
Not too much later the mistress-servant roles were reversed. And Ayesha was lying in submissive repose, was allowing Aimee to bathe her. A bathing that became infinitely thorough and intimate before it was finally concluded.
They made a great show out of toweling each other off. Ayesha derived a fanatic pleasure from powdering her mistress' body, from massaging her muscles, spreading a musky, aphrodisiac perfume on her throat, breasts, tummy-even her inner thighs.
Then they were hurrying into that darkened bedroom, they were opening the bed, baring the pristine sheets. In preparation for the sweet joys as yet untasted. But first:
"Will you dance for me, Ayesha, darling? Just a little bit? I love to watch your body when you dance."
"I would be honored, Madame," the girl replied in that liquid, singsong French the Algerians affect. "You are kind to ask me."
Aimee reclined on the bed, her head braced on her hand, watched with lazy pleasure as the lithe-bodied woman moved to the center of the room.
And there, sans the usual gilded, fringed trappings she wore at Le Algerienne, the voluptuously-endowed female, her body a golden-brown, began to dance.
As always Aimee was enraptured by that chocolate flesh, by the darkness of those nipples, by the proud aureoles that ringed those stone-hard nibs. She thought the black-haired pagan the most noble of female creatures, marveled again and again at the serpentine glide of those hips, the grace of those legs, the tautness of that belly.
Yet, revealed totally as her tummy was, there was lushness also, a convexity that tantalized and taunted. For, Aimee mused, after all, what good is a belly-dancer who has no belly? Her eyes glittered, lingered on that revolving, undulating bowl, slid lower, to that freshly shaved area. An occupational exigency, she smiled.
Now her eyes rose to those large, firm breasts, she delighted in the way they bobbed and rolled in direct reaction to Ayesha's revolving hips, to the waggle of her luxuriant buttocks. Sexual stirrings made themselves known within her. Aimee felt an overwhelming pride as she thought that-in a few minutes-this luscious creature would be groveling before her, wanting her, loving her. Merely because she'd been lucky enough to be born a woman. It was a thought to make a much stronger woman squirm.
The dance became more frenzied, Ayesha threw back her head, arched her long, lovely throat, she let her long, black hair sail behind her like a plume. Her knees bent, her legs were spread wide. And now, her breasts throbbing and swaying in perfect time to the singsong tune she hummed, came the highlight of her dance.
As, with perfect muscular control, the Algerian began drawing her stomach muscles tight, seemingly contracted her whole stomach, drew it up high, almost into her diaphragm. There was a serpentine bunching there, an almost hypnotic quivering. Then, slowly, inch by inch, Ayesha let the contracted mass slither downward, seemingly pick a path of its own behind that dusky skin.
Her breasts continued to bob throughout, her hips ground and swayed in light throbbing. And again and again she made those stomach muscles rise and fall, rise and fall.
Finally, sweat beginning to glisten on her upper lip, Ayesha, with a last thrust of her pelvis, brought the exotic dance to an end. Aimee clapped lightly, gleefully, summoned the dancer to her bed. "Wonderful, wonderful," she praised. "Whew! I get all worked up just watching you."
"That is good, Madame. I am glad I still have that power. For when you are worked up-" She fell softly onto the bed, she agressor now, Aimee the dependent novitiate. She took Aimee into her arms, began to embrace and kiss her. Almost instantly Ayesha was inflamed, she began to tremble, her breath came in harsh, quick puffs.
"You are so beautiful, Madame. So white, so clean. I enjoy making love to you. I am sad when we are apart."
"Do you really love me, Ayesha?" Aimee fished, the vocal adoration by this lovely pagan as important to her as the physical. "Do you really enjoy me? Is it because I am white?"
"Perhaps," Ayesha said, raising Aimee in her arms, bracing her with one knee, dropping her head to her crinkled nipples. "Perhaps it is because you are a quality lady. Because I feel like it is an honor to love you...."
Aimee's eyes closed, she relaxed, savored the incredible softness of Ayesha's lips, the unique, tender way she attended her. A manner so entirely different from that in which men treated her. "That's exquisite, darling," she sighed. "You know how to love me so well. Oh, ohhh ... Your lips set me on fire. Your tongue ... Oh, my God!"
Aimee's legs began to flex, her knees began to compress in rhythmic cadence, indication of the urgent desire mounting deep within her. A reaction Ayesha was well aware of. And letting her lips and tongue work faster, she let her free hand caress that velvety tummy, she let her fingers skitter and tickle, inflame her mistress all the more.
Then, when her hand became more bold, demanded greater hedonistic rapportAimee surrendered almost immediately, squirming and whimpering at that tandem arousal.
Shortly it was Ayesha who couldn't control herself further. Her teeth becoming gently sadistic, she pulled away from Aimee, looked at her with imploring eyes. "Now, Madame," she husked. "I cannot wait any longer."
"You really want me?" Aimee teased, enjoying withholding herself at these moments when Ayesha became aroused beyond endurance. "You must have me now?"
"Now," the girl hissed. "Yes, now. I ass, I must have you...."
"You burn? How badly?"
"Very bad, Madame. Please. I can't wait."
"Say please," Aimee giggled.
"Please, Madame...."
"Please, Madame, what?"
"Please, Madame, let me love you. Let me have you."
"Shortly," Aimee simpered. "Bring me some more absinthe first. I am thirsty."
Quickly the sex-addled woman scurried to the dresser, brought the two small glasses of the dark, murky liquid. "I like this, you know," Aimee said, sipping hers lightly.
"This makes me wild, lets me enjoy you-everything, that much more."
"Qui, Madame. The absinthe does the same for me. Now, Madame? Please?"
Aimee smirked broadly. "Yes, now." She dipped her fingers into her glass, coated her nipples with the potent liquor. "But first, a little more absinthe. Come, Ayesha."
Docilely the Lesbian leaned her head, laved the pink buds clean. Again Aimee's fingers dipped, painted a patch of flesh south of her breasts. The head ducked once more.
Now on Aimee's belly, on each hip. Ayesha followed like a hungry puppy following a trail of meat scraps.
And finally Aimee's fingers dipped a last time.
Ayesha whimpered, came over her. Aimee giggled, sucked in her breath loudly as that first hot touch was conferred. She adjusted, made Ayesha even more welcome.
"Magnifique," Aimee gloated as the abnormal rite went on and on. "This is unbelievably good. I'm sure if more women knew how good this love is ... " She snickered, sipped more absinthe. "We'd certainly put the men out of business wouldn't we, Ayesha, darling?"
"Yes, Madame," came the muffled reply. "Certitude."
Now Aimee's body began to lurch and twist, she let her hips rise and fall in mock lovemaking. Her cries were more pinched, more agonized.
"Yes, Ayesha, yes," she chanted. "Like that, like that. Don't stop. Oh, darling, this is the most exquisite of loves, the love a woman gives another woman. This is so restful, so peaceful, so gentle. None of your crude, impatient stallions. Only one woman taking care of another, desiring only the other's sublime joy. Divine, oh divine."
Which praise drove Ayesha to even greater efforts. And as she worked even more assiduously:
Aimee lost control. And for the first time in her life-
Now she arranged pillows beneath her head, she drew Ayesha's legs toward her. And when her hands fumbled, when her meaning was clear-
Ayesha was quick to accommodate her.
There were no more words. Only those dull moans, the whistling breaths. Aimee swung into the aberrated love as though she'd been a practitioner all her life.
Ayesha responded in kind, laughed to herself. Convert? she mused. Here is the first step. Who knows? Someday I might be paying the niadame. She growled hungrily, made Aimee moan and twist the more abandonedly.
CHAPTER TEN
What do you think," Roul De Fonseca addressed his wife, both of them in their bedroom, both in the process of dressing, "will ever become of our bumbling friends, the Kinsolvings?" They were preparing to go out for dinner, they were to meet Mayo and Joanna within the hour.
"Think?" Aimee smirked, leaning to drop her breasts into the black brassiere, wriggling now in self-delight as she appraised her uptilted bosoms in the mirror. "Does it really matter? They'll probably divorce, make a mess of the rest of their lives, go running from pillar to post. They're such helpless babies, really."
Has Joanna told you that?"
"No, she hasn't. But I get that feeling. She looks so frantic and desperate at times. I assume that's the only solution that's ever crossed her mind. Has Mayo said anything to you?"
"No, he's very secretive. That's a damnable trait with these Americans. A code of honor with them, seemingly. Never breathe a word of your personal problems to anyone. Least of all to anyone with more experience, someone who could helpfully advise you." Roul finished tying a jaunty bow in his tie. "Bah! These Americans! They are fools. It's a source of constant amazement that they do as well in business as they do. They don't know the first thing about living. Real living, I mean."
Aimee's smile was sly. "There's quite a difference between business and the art. of living, my dear. Or should I say the art of loving?"
"You twist everything so charmingly, you little devil."
"And Joanna ... she's never said anything to you? During all your countless little assignations at that apartment of yours?"
"Do I detect a note of sarcasm, kitten? Don't tell me you're beginning to pry at this late date. Could that be jealousy? I thought we had made an agreement...."
Aimee shrugged, arranged her dress, began running zippers. "Not jealous, just curious." Her laugh was brittle. "Perhaps somewhat miffed. You seem to be so much more successful with Joanna than I am with that priggish husband of hers. Such an insufferable man."
"Troubles, pet? I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be unable to make your lover jump through any hoop you chose."
"That man is impossible. He finds sin in every corner, he seems to think he's violating some false code every time I do manage to lure him up to my menage. He has to be almost drunk before he loosens up." Her eyes glittered. She lifted her skirt, straightened her seams, studied her legs, the new red pumps, in the mirror. "I'm sure you know what I mean by 'loosening up.' "
"Indeed I do, my dear. I'm glad to say that Joanna suffers from no such inhibitions. She's a real find, a wood nymph, a truly passionate woman. There are times when she amazes me. And you know how much it takes to surprise an old ram like me."
"Indeed I do. She must be quite something." Aimee became pettish. "But you don't have to brag so tediously. Four rendezvous you've had with her now? Well, I'll soon even up the score, surpass that by far. I'm beginning to get under Mayo's skin. He'll come around yet."
She changed the subject. "Where are we going tonight?"
"I thought we'd go to Maxim's. It's not really top drawer any more, but these Americans don't think they've seen Paris if they haven't been to Maxim's."
"And afterward?"
"The Crazy Horse Saloon, I suppose. Perhaps Club Sexy. They've seen better already. But tourists ... Afterward we'll hit some spots in Montmarte. Moulin Rouge and such. Maybe even detour into Pigalle. Things are dead there now since the girls were outlawed, but you're always sure to find a few violators abroad."
"Sounds simply charming, dear," Aimee said acidly. "But aren't you being condescending?"
Roul shrugged. "If this is what Americans come to Paris to see? Why fight it?"
But if the De Fonsecas were conducting a calm, civilized chat in their bedroom, theirs was quite a contrast to the tomb-like silence encompassing the Kinsolvings' boudoir at that same moment. As they, too, prepared for their evening out.
Joanna got into an especially provocative green shiffon she'd purchased at Molyneux, felt a small darting of pleasure as she saw Mayo glance at the gown, then at her, stirrings of desire in his eyes. Her heart sank when he glowered suddenly, turned away.
The steel wall still existed between them, their silence became more inviolable with each passing day. Now, with barely seven days remaining of their stay in Paris, their strategy was, seemingly, to wait the other out. There would be time to talk, in court, when they returned to the states. And Joanna, daily more certain that her husband was conducting an affair with Aimee De Fonseca (this certainty reinforcing her own resolve to continue her liaison with Roul virtually up until flight time), didn't hesitate to further barricade that chasm of silence, to sprinkle ground glass on the rim of that parapet looming between them.
Now, as she slipped on a pair of black patent pumps she knew would please the fetish-riddled Roul, she recalled their last few meetings in that plush love nest of his, she wondered at the ease with which she now answered his summons, succumbed to his erotic caresses. Conscience barely nettled her now, shame was a cowering phantom.
For if everything was lost anyway, if there was no hope for her marriage any longer, if Mayo was determined to go on with his floozies, why shouldn't she live, indulge in fantastic sexual excesses to the hilt?
Who was to say no to her now?
She shivered at the thought of coming face to face with Roul again within a few minutes. To know that they would both remember their last intimate session together. That silk-she thought now, the hot tingling instantly reborn within her-that hair-curling love.
And in that moment she was transported, back into time, ancient history-like yesterday afternoon-to that torrid reunion at Roul's apartment. Again she was wallowing nakedly on that bed, letting him touch and kiss her everywhere. Again she was submissively letting him dress her in that clinging, red silk costume, a creation that covered her from feet to neck, made her feel slippery as she waited on the bed. Waited while Roul had put his matching suit on.
Weird, incredible? she thought in retrospect. Yes, it was that. And yet, unbelievable as the getup might sound, as its raison de etre might be, at that moment her surrender to his addled request had seemed perfectly normal, it had enhanced their love immeasurably.
The red silk suit had been altered in the same way as the rubber suit, her nipples, another elemental portion of her anatomy had been exposed. There had been a convenient slit in Roul's suit also.
And when he'd tired of kissing her, of maddening her, of tormenting her nipples, when he'd had enough of the by now commonplace subservience on Joanna's part. When their bodies had come together, fused in that most transporting manner, when their bodies had commenced to slide-
Flesh against silk, silk against silk-
They had nearly gone out of their minds at the advent of that final devastating deliverance
The mere remembrance of that triumph, of those flashing colors behind her eyelids, of that incredible heat, was enough, now, to make her freeze, wince from the pain stabbing her loins, jumbling her very entrails.
She shook her head, focused her eyes, saw Mayo staring at her in a strange way. Abruptly Joanna averted her gaze, fumbled with her earrings.
"Ready?" Mayo grunted.
"In a minute," she said.
They were the first words they'd exchanged in the past two hours.
As Roul De Fonseca had predicted, the Kinsolvings were delighted with Maxim's. They found the strip extravaganzas at Club Sexy, at the Crazy Horse Saloon flat in comparison to Le Vrenetique and other such clubs they'd visited previously. They were but pale imitation of what has been offered in L.A.'s "Sunset Strip" for a decade now. The luster of Montmarte nightlife was somewhat tarnished now, they came away with the impression that Moulin Rouge, The Lido, Paris Revue, were only faded shadows of what they'd once been in the time of Toulouse-Lautrec and his other Bohemian compatriots.
The streets were picturesque, still exciting, the illuminated dome of Sacre Coeur dominating whichever way they turned. The types on the streets, the vendors, the polyglot hash of conversation, the random mixture of the races were all vastly fascinating, and all of them well insulated with liquor, they were open to any and all suggestions. They bought hot chestnuts, they threw coins at the wrestlers and jugglers and other down-at-the-heels entertainers they found performing in the center of certain squares. Some of the vitality of this section inevitably infected them, and they were loathe to end the evening even when they realized it was almost 2:00 in the morning. They went on.
Again true to his word, Roul guided them to the Pigalle section, the seamy, anything-for-a-franc district of Paris. As Roul had predicted, the street-walkers of Pigalle were out in force. Nothing like the old days, but still prevalent enough to not be missed.
Joanna was amazed at the extremes of beauty and ugliness the prostitutes exhibited. There were the extremely young, slim, clear-complexioned, innocent, beautiful. There were the old, grandmothers who scavanged for the dregs of male humanity. There were the in-betweens, hard-faced, realistic, their beauty coming from a bottle, their bodies barely on this side of futility.
Also she was amazed at the boldness these sidewalk commandos displayed. They thought nothing of approaching their strolling foursome, offering their services in no-nonsense terms, describing their specialties without blinking an eye. And invariably finishing with: "The ladies? Perhaps they would like something too? We have friends . . .men or women ... who will serve." Then noting the distaste registering on Joanna's face: "Or perhaps you would like to watch. Tres interessante, mesdames...."
In time Joanna became hardened to their vulgar offers. Once a ratty, disheveled harridan of perhaps fifty stopped them, opened her coat in plain sight of all the passersby, revealed herself naked to the waist, offered her surprisingly high, plump breasts for her would-be clients' appraisal.
"Good job, Monsieur," she husked. "I give you a very fine job. Not like these kids. Real professional...."
This, along with the casual way with which Roul reached out, fingered those nipples, managed to shock Joanna.
Again, later, as they found a covey of prostitutes huddled in a dark corner, when Roul approached a gorgeous female of perhaps 22 or 23 dressed in a lavish fur coat, ran a quick reconnaissance of her entire body with her backed against the wall, Joanna was stunned. Not so much at the inhuman way Roul abused her as at the manner with which the girl accepted the indignity.
Her eyes vacant, her face expressionless, she merely moved deeper into the shadows, stared at both Joanna and Aimee. While Roul opened her coat, raised her skirts, opened her bodice, revealed the girl was stripped for action beneath the flashy clothes.
And when Roul had played long enough: She shrugged her body to dismiss him, let her skirt fall. "Monsieur, no more free samples. If you are interested ... my room is a few doors from here. Bring-your-friends."
Roul only snickered, pressed a fifty-franc bill into her palm, the "going-rate" for such a visit. He muttered a French vulgarity at her, suggested the strumpet return to her room, take care of things by herself.
"Merci, Monsieur," the girl said, taking the bill. "The same to you." She flicked her coat shut, spat on the cobbles at Roul's feet. Before they'd gone ten feet she was already accosting another male pedestrian.
Joanna's head was spinning when they finally lit at a nearby cafe, had coffee and a snack. Both from the liquor, from the kaleidoscopic jumble of things they'd seen and experienced this night. And from the contradictory thoughts concerning her own condition that clattered in her brain.
It was here that talk of Carcassonne came up once more. "This weekend," Aimee insisted animatedly. "This will be our last chance. You'll be leaving us next week." She made a mawkish expression of sadness. "And how we'll miss our good, American friends."
At that moment Roul's eyes burned into Joanna's, Aimee's locked with Mayo's.
There was good reason the Americans would be missed.
"Please," Roul said. "Be our guests on this last excursion. Let this be our farewell gift to you. I know we've been promising you for a long time now. And here, at last...."
"We'll spend Friday in Carcassonne touring the city, walking the walls," Aimee interrupted." The scenery is fantastic, the sense of history something you can't get out of your bones. Then we'll motor down to St. Tropez, spend Saturday there. Saturday night should be frantic."
"Sunday," Roul took the ball, "should see us in Lourdes. We can visit the shrines in a day, go on to Biarritz. If we're lucky there might be a bull fight, a jai-alai match at any rate. We'll make a regular vacation of it, won't return to Paris until Tuesday."
The prospect of such a lengthy diversion immediately intrigued Joanna. What better way to end their French tour? She looked to her husband. "What do you say, Mayo?" While in the back of her mind: Don't look so glum, creep. Who knows, somewhere along in there you and Aimee might find a chance to sneak into bed together.
A risque smile stretched her lips. Lord knows, Roul and I will be right in there pitching.
"Sounds okay to me," Mayo agreed with no real enthusiasm. "Sure we can spare the time, Roul?"
"Surely. We're about finished. We deserve a break."
And so it was decided. This was Tuesday. Tomorrow Roul would make train reservations. And Thursday evening, at Gore de Vest-
It was on that expectant note that the sensualist quartet decided to call it a night.
Mayo, Joanna discovered when they arrived back at their hotel, had hit the bottle hard tonight. As he evidenced when he got into bed with her, immediately began pawing her, his attentions clumsy and coarse, disgusting Joanna. "Well, Casanova," she mocked tartly. "What's this all about? Am I finally good enough for you?"
And irresponsible herself, she didn't have the good sense to sublimate her bitterness, use this opening to attempt healing their marital rift. She purposely set out to inflict even more pain, to rub salt into already bloody wounds.
"Please, baby," he rasped, the night's eroticism infecting him, "I need you. Don't be like this...."
"You don't need me," she sneered. "All you need is my body. Any body, any female will do for you. Why didn't you go with one of those sweet maidens in Pigalle?" Her voice became even harsher. "Or better still, why don't you go sniffing after your beloved Aimee? She'd be overjoyed to have you."
She felt his body stiffen, she heard his muffled growl. And wondered if she hadn't blundered. "How ... how'd you find ... out about that?"
"Roul told me," Aimee said, the vindictiveness mounting by the second. "He told me all about that cute little hideaway Aimee has, how she's been entertaining you there."
"How ... how'd he know? She has a place ... like that?"
"Because," she mimicked, "he has a place like that too." Then, a ripping vindictiveness goading her: "Because I've been going to his place," she gritted. "Because I've been getting my kicks too."
And now, an overpowering tide of spitefulness swamping her, sweeping all good judgment before it, she clinically inventoried all the times she'd been to Roul's, she described the vile stunts she'd allowed, had welcomed.
And with every gasped, "No, Joanna, no ... No more, don't tell me any more ... " she became even wilder, more graphic in her narration, she rubbed his nose in description of her excesses.
Then, finally, when she was drained, purged: "What does any of it matter, Mayo? Our marriage has been a sham all these years. You never wanted me, really wanted to be married. I was just some sort of status symbol for you. That house, a pretty, chaste wife-another trophy to put on the mantle, to dazzle your friends, make them jealous...."
"I wanted you, Joanna," he gasped raggedly, in the throes of near hysteria now. "I always did. Only I didn't know how...."
"You wanted my body, my presence. But in reality all you wanted was that damnable witch-goddess, success, you wanted to wheel and deal."
"Joanna ... " he croaked.
" ... And what was left after that-and after all your hot-pants chippies, of course-was good enough for me. You didn't want me. Not the way I wanted you. I didn't feature in your life the way you featured in mine. Say it, damn you! Admit it once and for all! You don't want me
Confused, hurt, angered, seeking to strike out at Joanna in any way left him, he took up the plaint. "All right" he lashed. "I didn't want you. I want my career, I wanted that success. I wanted money and power. You were only incidental. And when you got to nagging, got to following me around with that martyr look of yours, I just couldn't take things anymore."
"You started operating," she sneered.
"I started operating. A wife, kids, family ... they get a man all mixed up. They complicate everything. And I don't have the time, damn it! I've got places to go."
"Tell me again. You don't want me."
"How many times must I say it!" he groaned, out of his head with anger. "We're through. You'll get your divorce, we'll both be free. And hooray, damn it, hooray"
And with that he buried his face in his pillow, began sobbing in anguished, racking howls.
Finally he dropped off to sleep.
Joanna, assailed by a million warring emotions and thoughts, lay awake until almost dawn. Then, only because of extreme physical and mental exhaustion, she at last fell into a fitful, haunted doze.
Mayo was gone when she awoke the next morning. She arose sluggishly, saw to her morning toilette, felt like her head was jam-packed with dentist's cottons. Movement seemed to be an effort, her head ached from the nonstop tumble and rattle of thoughts going through it.
At midmorning, distraught, jumpy as a cat, wanting to scream at each little thing that went wrong, Joanna realized she was really in a bad way. That she had to get out of this hotel room, out of Paris, or lapse into a nervous breakdown. She had to go somewhere, alone. Somewhere where she could think, attempt to make some sense out of this tangled web her life had become. She had to come to terms with her badly riddled conscience, decide once and for all what she wanted to do.
Remembrance of the projected trip to Carcassonne came naturally to mind, and she wondered if, by going in advance of the others. That seemed the perfect answer to her quandary.
Even so, she got cold feet at the last moment, called Aimee, asked her to flee early with her. But Aimee was all tied up, she had to beg off. Couldn't Joanna wait? What was the big rush?
Joanna refused to confide in Aimee. After all, how could she trust the very woman at the root of her difficulties? But the idea of flight still burned as bright, the frenzy still existed.
And at 2:10 that afternoon she called the station, made reservations on the night express to Carcassonne.
She left a vague note, gave Mayo the name of the hotel Aimee had recommended. She had to get away, do some thinking, she would be waiting for them at 2:00 a.m.
Joanna packed the things she thought she might need in two bags, called for a cab. She checked her bags at the station, spent the remaining time wandering the streets surrounding Gore de I'Est, she had a small dinner. And at 6:10, Mayo arriving back at the hotel too late to stop her even if he had wanted to-Joanna boarded the night express, found her compartment.
She watched Paris disappear into the distance, saw it become a mere blur of firefly lights. Then they faded altogether, she shook up from her sad reverie, found herself staring into opaque blackness. She straightened, reached for the magazines (English-language) she'd purchased at the station. She sent a wry, distant smile at the rumpled fat man (unfortunately she'd been unable to get a private compartment on such late notice) who sat across from her.
Which he took as an invitation to conversation. "You are English, Madame? Or American?"
"American," she said in clipped tones. "I am here on vacation with my husband."
"Wonderful. You have picked a perfect season to visit France. And your husband?"
"He's still in Paris. He's joining me in Carcassonne later." Her smile was wary. "Business, you know...."
"Carcassonne?" His eyes became suddenly sly. "You will love Carcassonne. The colors are magnificent in the south at this time of year. I would be glad to tell you some things about that noble city. But perhaps I bore you-I intrude...."
Gradually Joanna warmed toward the funny man with the outrageous accent. There was certainly no harm in being friendly. "No, please go on. Tell me about Carcassonne. The more one knows about a city he's visiting for the first time...."
Within the hour they were on amiable terms, they'd introduced themselves. Tonight the swarthy, mustached man called himself Butro Simbel; he was of Libyan descent.
Short moments later he brought out the inevitable box of candy. "A bonbon, Madame Kinsolving? There are very good. I buy them at one of Paris' finest shops." He patted his big belly lightly. "I have a weakness for sweets as you can see."
Without a moment's hesitation, slightly hungry after her skimpy meal, Joanna reached out, took one chocolate. "Please, Madame, take more. Save me from myself."
Joanna chose the drugged bonbon on her third try. It was this piece she brought immediately to her mouth. Biting into the candy she found it bitter. But recalling Monsieur Simbel's pride in the candy's quality, not wanting to offend, she said nothing, finished the chocolate.
Not too much later she became strangely and suddenly sleepy. It was impossible to keep her eyes open. She blamed the lapse on her restless night the night before, suspected nothing out of the way.
When she woke next she found herself lying on her back on the floor of the compartment. Even more amazing she realized she was completely naked. The watery blur before her eyes dissolved, and she looked up to see her traveling companion, naked also, sitting on the bench looking down.
A curious dullness infested her. It was a long time before the sick thing the man was doing to her, registered.
And she realized that he was stirring and pressuring her breasts with his soft feet, one foot on each globe, lazily revolving. Now he saw she was awake, smiled down at her, began tickling her nipples with his toes. Joanna smiled back at him.
Then, the recognition slamming her, the smile was instantly erased, replaced by terror, by wooden confusion.
The pervert giggled softly, his smile stretching his silly face ridiculously. "You are awake at last, my dear," he hissed. "Lovely. We can begin to play now. You are very beautiful, Madame. I am going to enjoy you immensely."
And with that he let his one foot drift upward from her breasts, he poised it over her face. Joanna fought to twist her head, felt searing helplessness as she realized she simply couldn't move. "Kiss, my sweet lady. Kiss my feet, my toes...."
The foot came down, pressured her lips.
Seemingly she heard a scream inside her head. Then she knew that same suffocating feeling all of Sharkawi's previous victims had known. She performed this appalling servility, found herself helpless to do otherwise.
The heavy, brown torpor, almost furry and warm, closed in on her again. In desperation, fighting to remain conscious, she strained, reached for handhold, clamped herself to reality in the only way left her.
Above her, ringing piercingly, she heard the man's wheezed, deranged giggles.
Now, as the lovely, golden-haired woman sank into unconsciousness again, Sharkawi leaned, lifted her onto the bench opposite. For a long time he continued poking his feet into her mouth. But finally, tiring of this, he came to sit beside the limp body, began to fondle and pinch and examine Joanna with fervid fingers. His eyes glowed, a fanatic smile played constantly about his lips.
An American, he gloated inwardly. I've always wanted an American woman. His hands moved more wildly, he shifted and posed the form for more erotic effect.
The Americans, especially the pampered, domineering American woman, own the world. The subjugation of this beauty, this prime example of American womanhood, would be a supreme highlight of his aberrated career. He would inflict vile tortures on this pig, he would make her prime target for some as-yet-untried fantasies of his.
Now, as his hands flitted and probed, as his fingers defiled nonstop, he wasn't sure that this interlude in this compartment would be long enough. He would dearly love to have this spoiled goddess at his disposal for a much longer time. Already his mind reeled, raced ahead.
Then, Joanna stirring, he came more alert, he scrambled over her. As she opened her eyes, saw the depraved way the man hovered over, the abomination he offered now she wished she could instantly be redelivered to that oblivion.
His giggles, as she was forced to this ultimate homage (or so she thought, little dreaming of what still lay in store for her) would echo in the corridors of her memory as long as she lived.
More horrendous-the fact that there wasn't one shard of resistance, one thing she could do to escape this vilification. She could only submit, only pray that the blessed swoon would overtake her soon.
But as the thing went on and on, as the madman crooned a vile litany over her, mocked her without stop, she realized that she was gradually becoming more clear in her head, she realized her spells of unconsciousness would come less and less now, that lucidity would remain longer.
A humming began in her brain, a swarm of black bats wheeled and screeched there. She joyfully surrendered herself to that darkness once more.
She lost all track of time, of incident. She could only vaguely remember now that the obese animal had come over her, nearly crushed her, violated her twice already. And now, some feeling returning to her muscles, she was kneeling before him, valiantly attempting to revive him once more. Every time she faltered, attempted to rebel, he slapped her viciously, pinched her nipples, tore at her hair. There was nothing to do but submit, pray that she would soon awake from this bad dream.
"My little American," he intoned over and over again, "my sweet little American." He seemed to obtain some special joy in calling her this. "You are having fun, are you not? You never dreamed there could be such joys."
He slapped her when she didn't answer.
"Yes," she forced. "Fun, so much fun...."
And now the man was raising her, rolling her onto her belly. He was coming over her. Joanna froze, tried to scream. Surely he didn't mean to-
But he did. His reeking hand came over her mouth, shut off her first maniacal shriek.
The night went on, seemed to last an eternity.
While at the same moment, in the suite at the Palais Royale: Mayo Kinsolving was decidedly not alone. Wrapped in a libertine knot with Aimee De Fonseca, he was in the midst of a variationistic prelude to love. Both of them well liquored up, there was little they stopped at this night.
"Please," Aimee was pleading thickly. "If I can do this for you, mon gallant, surely you can do as much.
"Do not be shy, Mayo. It isn't as if you've never done this before. Remember the last time? How good I was afterward? Come now, don't act like some bumbling provincial. Be a man ... Aimee's wonderful man...."
Bit by bit she wore down his prudish resistance. Until finally, as she became totally aboriginal in her own adoration-
"Yes, darling," she choked, "yes! That's my fine little man. like that. Wonderful, wonderful! That's not as bad as you thought...."
That was wonderful. That wasn't bad at all. Mayo Kinsolving lent himself completely to the excess. At that moment there wasn't the faintest thought of his wife in his mind. Doubtless, had he known of her dire peril, he couldn't have been pulled away at that moment. Except, perhaps, by force.
Aimee squealed, Mayo groaned. Both worked faster, more dedicatedly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NIGHT EXPRESS WAS LATE IN REACHING Carcassonne that Thursday night; it didn't draw into the station until 2:30 a.m. Clambering out onto the platform, expecting to find a sleepy-eyed Joanna waiting, the De Fonsecas and Mayo were disappointed. There was no sign of Joanna anywhere.
Their disappointment turned to dismay when their taxi brought them to the Hotel Calais, and they found that the reservation for Mrs. Mayo Kinsolving had never been picked up, that no woman answering Joanna's description had presented herself at that hotel.
And while the De Fonsecas' attitude was one of bemusement, of mild irritation, Mayo's reaction was completely unexpected. Could this pale-faced, stammering, panicky man be the same male who had occupied the same bed with Joanna some 48 hours previous, the same man who had so vehemently proclaimed his disenchantment with her, had told he he didn't care if he ever saw her again ?
The man who, in bold defiance, as proof of that final disaffection, had installed the spitfire Aimee into his bed only last night? The same man who had worked so long, so paganly?
"My God," he gasped, turning to Roul with horror-filled eyes, "what does this mean?" He leaned against the hotel's desk for support. "I know Joanna was all mixed up in her mind when she pulled out, but I didn't expect her to pull something like this. You don't suppose any thing's happened to her?" In that instant he seemingly aged ten years, he easily matured twenty.
"You're sure Joanna said Hotel Calais?" Roul said.
"Yes," Mayo said. "Here's her note."
"Yes, that's right," Aimee intervened. "She asked me, I recommended this place."
They turned to the desk clerk. He quailed, fluttered his hands defensively, as if he were being blamed for the phantom guest's disappearance. "Perhaps," he suggested, "she might have changed her mind at the last minute. She might have registered at a different hotel. Shall I make some phone calls, inquire for you ? "
"If you will," Roul said imperiously, his expression now as baffled as Mayo's. "Hurry, please."
"That's just like her," Mayo said as the desk clerk began calling, not really believing, but hoping against hope, "to pull some hare-brained stunt like this...."
The trio formed a tense huddle about the front desk, hung on the clerk's every word, Mayo asking Roul to interpret ad nausem.
And when the last call had been made, the last out-of-the-way inn-keeper had been routed without uncovering even a hint of a clue, Mayo turned to Roul, his face ashen, his hands trembling. "My God, what do you suppose could have happened to her ? Where do we begin to look ? "
"There are private pensions, Monsieur," the clerk suggested. "But you would have to wait until morning to call them. At this hour of the night...."
"It's just possible she never left Paris," Aimee said. "She was acting strangely, her talk was all disjointed...."
Mayo Kinsolving knew harrowing terror and helplessness all at once. He knew the deepest meaning of stupidity, of being an egotistic fool. He shambled away from the desk, fell into a chair. "What do we do?" he mumbled. "Where do we begin looking?" His voice broke. "Joanna, Joanna ... '" he called into empty air.
The police detective on duty at the nearest Carcassonne precinct was about to give the rumpled trio short shrift, put them off until morning so he could return to his against-regulations catnap. At least until Roul De Fon-seca's voice crackled with authority, until he mentioned some very influential names. Immediately Lt. Monnier came alert, all but fell over himself to offer service.
A description of Joanna was transcribed, the radio sergeant began putting an all-points bulletin on the air. Patrolmen calling in were given word to be on the lookout for a woman answering her description. Phone calls were dispatched to the railway headquarters, the fact that Mme. Kinsolving had made reservations to Carcassonne were confirmed. A promise to track down the conductors working that run, to obtain further testimony from them, was elicited from the administrator in charge.
"But," the police detective explained unctuously, "that will take time. We won't know until midmorning or so."
"And in the meantime," Mayo groaned, "we have no idea what's happened to her, where she is." He slumped, rested his head against the wall. "It's all my fault. If some harm's come to her ... I'll never forgive myself...."
"Please, Mayo," Aimee comforted him, "don't think the worst. She's all right, I know she is. This is some joke she's playing on us."
In the end, there being nothing more to be done at the police station, Roul and Aimee, frankly surprised at the monumental concern and anguish displayed by a supposedly indifferent husband, took Mayo back to the hotel.
Where, leaving him alone in his room, they went to their own suite, mumbling wonderingly between themselves.
And now Mayo Kinsolving knew the ultimate depths of despair and helplessness. He knew maddening rage at realizing that something tragic had happened, at finding himself absolutely helpless to do anything about it. For the first time in his life he was driven beyond ego, he was forced to look beyond the quick busines deal, he was forced to look into his soul, face the true meaning of his life, of his marriage, squarely.
Now, too late, he realized how desperately he loved Joanna. Forced from his blockage of smug glibness, of fast-buck cynicism, of alienation of true self, he was able to see himself as he truly was.
It was a painful inventory, revelation of an appallingly shallow, goalless man. Revelation of an abysmal fool!
Joanna, he choked into his hands, my darling! Forgive me. I didn't know. I've been sleepwalking. Give me another chance. A chance to forgive and forget-to make things up to you. I love you, love-
He readdressed his plaints of misery. Dear God, give me another chance. Let me have Joanna back.
Again he began to sob. And now, for the first time in his life, knew the real meaning of love, of disenchantment with his empty self. He understood now why he'd cried that last night they'd been together, why he'd been so confused.
His repeated denials of Joanna and their marriage had been, in essence, self denial, denial of his own identity, of his meaning as a man. Small wonder he'd felt confused, mean and worthless. Small wonder he'd demeaned himself with uncontrollable, scalding tears.
God, dear God. How stupid can one man be!
He rocked in his chair, wanted to scream, to ram his head against the wall in futility and frustration.
While at that moment, in another, more seamy section of Carcassonne, on a dirty, odorous bed, in a scabrous room-
Joanna lay in haunted terror on the bed, on her face, her hands tied behind her back, her ankles bound. It was stifling hot in the room, the reek of human sweat hung heavily in the air. Somewhere in the dark a steam radiator hissed nonstop, perfect counterpoint to the hard breathing of the man who slept at her side. The gross, depraved hulk of fat who called himself Butro Simbel.
Joanna was weak, hungry, on the verge of delirium. She longed to walk, to stretch her limbs; she longed to talk, to scream for help from the busy, indifferent world just outside that heavy, barred door. But she could not. Her bonds, the gag made of her slip, precluded that.
So the hapless prisoner merely lay in naked disarray, let the tremors parade over her back in ceaseless waves. She tried crowding the ghastly memories from her brain, she tried to keep track of time. Had it only been 24 hours ago that this fiend had brought her here?
That long since he'd dressed her as their train had neared Carcassonne, had threatened her with death if she betrayed him while they walked from the train, entered a waiting cab? Had she been deprived of the conscience-obliterating drug that long, had she been lucid, able to suffer every torture and abomination in clear-headed resignation, in sober, soul-shriveling acceptance?
Twenty-four hours? It had seemed a dozen eternities had passed in just this one day.
There had been some sleep. But at midmorning the pervert had awakened her in a harrowingly painful way, he'd re-introduced her to hell-on-earth. He'd removed her gag and bonds, had gloried in her shrieks of pain, in the subjugation to which he'd forced her to seemingly by the hour.
Some of these cruelties were unspeakable, had seemingly seared smooth paths into the convolutions of Joanna's brain. She had fought him at first, had pleaded and reasoned with him. Then, thinking she was on borrowed time anyway, thinking to buy her life, she'd feigned cooperation, complied with his demands with a minimum of fuss and repugnance.
But later, when his wishes had become heathenish beyond belief, she wondered if life after this was worth fighting for. She'd rebelled at certain depravities, had been rewarded in an even more sadistic way.
And after he'd tied her arms and legs to the bedposts, had come to her with those long needles, had lit cigarettes, had touched them to her nipples-
He'd had but to light one of the sweetish-smelling Egyptian fags after that, and she'd all but crawled before him, kissed his feet, done his every other bidding.
How many times had she drifted in and out of consciousness from the pain of his repeated attacks, of his ingenious variations on a vile theme?
At mid-afternoon, and again this evening, he'd tied and deserted her for a few hours, had returned with scraps of food he'd reveled in feeding her from his hands, she kneeling at his feet like some kind of dog, begging for something to eat. And for every self-vitiation-
Another scrap.
And for every refusal to play the sick game. The lighting of the cigarette, the veiled threat in his eyes.
Who could be strong against bestial threats like those?
Even now she squirmed, tried to stifle her moans. The pain in her breasts was intolerable now. She wanted to move onto her side. But could not. For the swollen welts where he'd lashed her with his belt shortly after 10:00 tonight still burned like fire. Which torment would be worse than the other?
Joanna stifled her moans lest she awake her captor. She sought solace in her thoughts, wondered where Mayo was at this moment, wondered if he was at all concerned about her. Was he looking for her? Or had he merely shrugged at her disappearance, thought good riddance. The pain in her heart became too great to bear.
She began to cry. Mayo, she pleaded silently, my darling Mayo? After all, how brave can a woman be? How much can she endure? Before she goes completely psycho? Help me, somebody. Oh, dear God, help me-
The breakdown was a mistake. For now Sharkawi awoke, grunted, laughed in that so familiar way again. That way that presaged new indignities.
His hands hurt Joanna anew. She almost died when he turned her on her back, mauled her raw breasts. Even this wasn't enough. Restless, he left the bed, returned a second later. Untying her wrists, pressing an artifact into Joanna's cramped hands, he issued a very vulgar order. Recognizing the item as one of many he'd employed during that endless day, she recoiled, fought him. Only when, his fingers pinched those seared nipples, nearly made her pass out with pain-
She capitulated, did as Sharkawi commanded. She was beyond shame now, all of these indecencies ran into one, long, meaningless stream now. He taunted her, used every filthy word at his disposal as Joanna moved her hands, committed this final profanation upon herself.
Sometime toward dawn Mayo Kinsolving finally slept. But he was awake again at seven, he'd walked miles in his room, had called the police station twice, the main desk once, before Roul and Aimee De Fonseca appeared.
The day was a nightmare. The conductor assigned to the coach Joanna had taken was an elusive man, wasn't located until almost noon. His report was enough to make strong men weep. Yes, he remembered the pretty blonde American. He remembered the fat man who had got off the train with her at Carcassonne. She appeared to have had a fainting spell; she'd leaned heavily on the man. His name? Yes there was a record. A weird thing: Butro Simbel.
All this passed between Roul and Lt. Monnier in rapid-fire French. Which information Roul translated, relayed to the wild-eyed Mayo Kinsolving. All except for one exchange:
"There was something like this in the St. Gervais distrier a week or so back," Monnier said. "Same set of circumstances. Fat man with a mustache, a pretty girl, sharing a compartment. The man got away. But not before he'd nearly killed the poor girl. A teen-ager. She hasn't recovered consciousness yet."
"What did he say?" Mayo said afterward, seeing pinpoints of alarm and revulsion flare in Aimee's eyes.
Roul spared him. "He says," he extemporized, "that they're putting out a bulletin on this Simbel fellow. They'll search the whole city, have a lead on him within an hour."
For the first time in ten hours Mayo felt faintly hopeful. Had he heard the detective's closing words he would have been thrown into a chaotic frenzy.
All through that day the police roved the city, the entire detective force (De Fonseca's importance, plus the fact the victim was American proving vital here) as well as private investigators they'd hired, were looking for Joanna and/or the fat man called Simbel.
But Lt. Monnier had been overly optimistic. The entire day dragged by, and not a single clue was uncovered. Seemingly the psychotic kidnapper had vanished into thin air. Nobody had seen them.
Mayo had never known time to drag so slowly, he'd never known such a sense of misery and despair. He'd wandered the streets by the hour, had gone into practically every bar and cafe and shop in Carcassonne, had flashed Joanna's photograph thousands of times. Always the answer was the same: "Non, Monster. re regrette."
And though the police had pretty much given up by nightfall, Mayo, haggard, unshaven, still roamed the streets, stopped stranger after stranger. Every fat man he saw was immediately suspect; he came to hate corpulence with a savage fanaticism. But still, there were none that answered Simbel's description, they were all French types, not an oriental-appearing one in the crowd.
Roul and Aimee could hardly be expected to feel the same dedication as Mayo. They nagged in the stretch, tried to coax Mayo to rest, to at least stop long enough to eat something. They were finally successful. Afterward they convinced him that he should catch a short nap before they recontinued their search.
At that self same time, in the room Sharkawi maintained in the down-at-the-heels rooming house in Rue Verlaine, a particularly Bohemian neighborhood, the monster was entering into the last dangerous phase of his lunacy.
Having ventured out briefly for rope, tools, giant screw eyes and pulleys, he had surreptitiously mounted same into the wooden beams in the ceiling of his lair. And here, at 8:10 of this Friday evening, after abusing the now lethargic Joanna throughout the long day, he was tying her wrists to the hanging ropes, he was puffing and hauling, suspending the jerking, gagged woman from those beams.
When her feet were three feet from the floor, when she swung idly from her bonds, Sharkawi produced a four-foot-long whip from somewhere. His face a deranged mask, his laughter something out of a horror movie, he began to lash the helpless, hanging form. He gloated, taunted as each stroke cut her-the snake going completely around her body at times-as Joanna shrieked behind her gag.
He was vastly disappointed shortly, when, getting overly excited, he whipped Joanna overzealously. As she fainted, he was driven to further frenzy, lashed her even more ruthlessly, cut her thighs, her buttocks and calves to ribbons.
Slobbering incoherently in his throat, leaving the limp body hanging, he deserted the room. Highly agitated, he headed for a nearby cafe he knew of. If this woman had failed him, he thought. There were other women. There had to be-
Mayo Kinsolving struggled up out of a haunted sleep, knew fleeting guilt. Then he reached for the jangling phone, instantly recognized Roul De Fonseca's voice. "Come on down, Mayo," he snapped. "They've found Joanna. She's at the station now. Hurry."
Mayo felt like falling on his knees right there, thanking whatever gods there might be for his wife's deliverance. But he did no such thing. Instead he flung on his jacket, raced for the door.
Mayo's heart sank, his entrails felt like they were lead-coated all at once when they led him into the room, indicated the prone, small, blonde. "That's not Joanna," he rasped. "That's not my wife. What is this all about, lieutenant? I gave you pictures, I...."
"I know, Monsieur. I received the call at the same time you did. When I got here, I recognized the mistake immediately. But she is American, I had to make sure."
"What's the matter with her?" Aimee asked. "Why does she talk so strangely, why does she twist like that?"
"She's been drugged. We found her in the Rue Verlaine section. Real tough place. We've sent for a doctor. This might be the lead we're looking for."
The blonde woman's story, "A streetwalker," one of the patrolmen sniffed, "free-lancing, from Marseilles, an American really down on her luck"-once her stomach had been pumped, was an illuminating one indeed.
"The fat man," she repeated again and again, "the fat man. He put something in my drink. I tasted it, didn't drink much. I got sleepy, he led me off. He was just taking me into his place when I came awake."
She giggled. "The rat! He thought he had me in the sack already. For free. I surprised him, I hit him, ran like hell. Then I got dizzy again, fell in the street." She flicked her thumb at a particularly choleric policeman. "This stupe found me, brought me here...."
Instantly the police lieutenant pounced on her. "This fat man? Did he have a mustache? An accent? An Algerian or some such?"
"Yes, that's the rotten slug."
"This place of his. Can you take us there?"
She became wily. "What's in it for me?"
"A thousand francs," Roul snapped.
"You've got yourself a deal, sport."
The radioman was going crazy as the six people ran from the station, headed for the waiting squad car. The klaxon started, the red light flashed. Then the tiny auto was in full flight.
The area was crawling with police cars when they reached Rue Verlaine, following the harlot's terse directions. "Right there," she spat. "That crummy two-story deal there."
Lt. Monnier spat orders to his officers in machine-gun sequence, assigned search parties, put others to guarding all exits. Then, within minutes, they were moving in. Aimee was left behind, Roul and Mayo split, accompanied a two-man team of police officers. They began hammering on doors all up and down those warren-like corridors, the concierge frightenedly opening all rooms whose occupants weren't at home.
The entire first floor yielded nothing even closely approximating that which they sought. Now the teams moved toward the second floor. Almost as if telepathic, Mayo felt his scalp bristle as they came to door 65. The officers banged loudly, called for its occupant to open up. But there was silence behind the door, an ominous murmur and no more.
"The key," a patrolman commanded.
And as the door swung slowly open, as the lights were clicked on. As Mayo saw that blood-streaked form, that slumped blonde head, those distended arms. As the form swung slowly on its ropes-
Mayo went insane. His vision blurred, a blood-red haze glistened behind his eyelids. A choking, animalistic howl broke from him. "Joanna ... Oh, my God...."
He ran forward.
But the police officers shunted him expertly aside. "Please, Monsieur. You are in no condition. Let us ... " They fumbled with the knots connected to the radiator, slowly lowered the body. And when Joanna was on the bed, wrapped in a filthy blanket-Mayo hovering over her.
The officers stalked the small room, looked under the bed, behind curtains. Then, finally, they opened a closet door, found the perspiring, quaking Sharkawi cowering there.
Mayo turned, loosed a blood-curdling howl, flung himself across the room in one blurred swoop. "Please," the pervert pleaded in an oily, wheedling voice. "Please, I did not mean to hurt her ... I...."
Then, as Mayo slammed that first powerhouse punch into the middle of that massive gut-Sharkawi began to blubber like a nightmare-frightened child. Instantly the front of his dirty trousers darkened. As he involuntarily voided his bladder.
Sharkawi fell forward, clutched his stomach, screeched for breath. He fell right into Mayo's closed, upcoming fist. A sickening splat sounded in the small room. Abruptly the pervert looked like someone had just squashed a big tomato into the middle of his face.
They claim a madman has the strength of ten normal men. Whether that is true or not is debatable. But the fact is that the two police officers couldn't hold Mayo once he'd started punishing the slobbering, screeching Sharkawi. He broke free, flung them away like they were five-year-olds. He pounced on Sharkawi with maniacal fury, his arms flailing like pistons, his feet kicking, his legs jacking to knee the lunatic again and again.
Sharkawi slumped against Mayo, tried to fall. But he held him away with one hand, bounced him against the wall, kept pouring his fists into that pulp-red face. Sharkawi's shirt was gore-dripping, his mouth was a red, gaping wound from which bubbling outcries came nonstop.
And still Mayo pounded and hammered that imbecilic, pain-distorted face. His own clothes were flecked with blood, his arms were red and runny to the elbow. His howls those of a rabid banshee, he simply refused to let his victim fall.
The fists thudded and tore, there was constant splat of impact, sickening sound of flesh being torn, bones being crunched.
It was only when the other police arrived, helped restrain Mayo, that he finally was pulled off. With a shattery gasp Sharkawi fell to the floor. Where he lay on his back, great blood bubbles forming and popping at his nostrils, foaming like a bloody ice cream soda at his mouth.
Even then Mayo managed to kick him, in the head, one more time.
A crowd had gathered before the decrepit rooming house, police cordons held the curiosity seekers back as the blanket-wrapped female body was brought out of that charnel house. An ambulance inched through the crowds, its siren wailing.
Mayo never let the small, lifeless body out of his sight. He was blood from ears to waist. And yet, shining through that gore-those haunted, wild eyes. The eyes of a man who realizes he has just begun to pay a supreme penance.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The winter had finally passed. And with it all the dark, worrisome days, those times of crisis and constant doubt, those times when it was feared that Joanna would never shake the effects of those 48 hours spent in the madman's clutches. She had been under a doctor's and psychiatrist's care since their return from France in late October.
And now, spring at hand, that first invigorating warmth of April and May investing the world with new life, new hope-
This afternoon Joanna worked in her flower beds. Crouching on her hands and knees, planting, fertilizing, turning over the dark, rich loam, she felt content. The sun warm on her back, she felt safe and calm-totally at peace-for the first time in weeks.
The good times had come and gone, come and gone. And every time she'd thought she was finally on the mend, that the memories couldn't return, couldn't touch her again-
She'd had mental relapses that had plunged her back into the depths again. Both she and Mayo had despaired of ever being truly happy again in their lives. She'd suffered sleepless nights, nightmares, fits of nerves that brought her from restless sleep screaming at the top of her lungs. Those times she'd shivered like a malaria victim, had clung to Mayo with all her strength, screamed and sobbed uncontrollably.
She paused in her labors, looked out at two skylarking bluebirds who were reconnoitering the snug birdhouse she and Mayo had put up only last weekend. Soon they would be mating. Then there would be eggs, baby bluebirds-
A hazy wistfulness filled her. Their frantic, happy antics seemed prophetic.
How could she think such morbid thoughts at a time like this?
Yet remember she did. Dr. Lyon had told her repeatedly that the reminiscences of those grim times were as much therapy as their consultations. For, like a person who is thrown by a horse, never attempts riding again. To avoid those memories, pretend those things had never happened, would leave her crippled for love-love in its truest sense-for the rest of her life.
She could sham love with Mayo, she could go through the motions, she could perhaps fool Mayo, the whole world in the bargain. But she couldn't fool herself. And if this was left unchanged, she would never be truly happily married as long as she lived. In time the repressed memories would form a malignant cancer in her psyche, a cancer that would eventually kill her marriage.
She must understand that the psychotic Sharkawi was a sick man, possessed and driven by demons. An outcast, he'd taken this means to revenge himself on a society that had rejected him. And if Joanna had had the bad luck to be his victim, she still mustn't let this alter her outlook toward the whole world. Certainly not toward her husband.
Joanna had to admit that she'd been able to force herself to those reveries more easily of late, that their after-effect was less deadly now. She could even admit that, as ghastly as her abduction and nonstop abuse had been, there had been compensations derived from that nightmare nevertheless.
For hadn't Mayo proved his love in the long run, hadn't he moved heaven and hell to find her when she'd been kidnapped? Indifferent and selfish he'd been before, but hadn't he been a new man since? Hadn't he forgiven, understood her, hadn't she forgiven and understood as well? He'd stood by her steadfastly throughout her long illness-a rock of strength-she'd never had cause to doubt his fidelity for a minute.
And if Joanna had thought she loved her husband before this tragedy, she was now only first beginning to learn the extreme depths of love. Even with this evil phantom lurking in the background, she was far, far happier with her life than she'd ever been before. She and Mayo shared, they laughed and played together. He'd sublimated that almost pathological drive for success and power, he was now content to earn a comfortable living for them, stop at that, steal more time to be with his wife.
Midland Precast Concrete was a thing of the past. He'd accepted a last bonus as a reward for closing the Paris deal, then he had resigned. He now occupied a low-pressure executive job in a farm implement corporation. The salary was less than half his former salary; but they were a hundred times as happy.
They hadn't heard of or from the De Fonsecas since that awkward day they'd said good-bye to them at Orly Field. A sick, confused chapter had closed in their lives and they'd remained civilized to the last, had parodied a warm friendship.
The De Fonsecas had been forgotten the minute they'd faded out of sight on the visitor's ramp.
And the misfit named Kamil Sharkawi? He was now lodged in the violent ward of a well-known French mental institution. Regressed to a childish level, he had, at last word, become a menace to any other inmate who happened to get in his way. That he had not killed Joanna during that nightmare was a miracle that she, Mayo, the authorities had often marveled over.
So, granted that there would always be bad times, moments when that nightmare would return to haunt her. But they would occur at rarer and rarer intervals; she would learn to live with them. And one day, perhaps years from now. She would awaken and there would be a void where that agonizing memory had once lived.
Joanna rose now, brushed off her slacks, stretched out the kinks. She felt a giddy excitement as she touched her body to realize that a baby-Mayo's baby-grew inside of her. To realize that the child was wanted, to remember how Mayo had humbly begged her to become the mother of his baby. A thing that had done more than anything else to hurry her total recovery. For if Mayo wanted this responsibility at long last. They were well. Their marriage was well. It could only grow and flourish now.
Joanna glanced at her watch, saw that it was almost time for Mayo's return from the office. She put her gardening tools aside, hurried inside to be ready for him.
It was as she showered, anticipated her husband's arrival eagerly, that she was surprised as the shower door was playfully slid aside, and she saw Mayo gravely, yet adoringly watching her. "Darling" she squealed. "You startled me. How come you're home so early?"
"I got to missing you, told the boss I was taking off early. Told him I had a headache."
"That's the second time this week. Won't he begin to get suspicious?"
"So? I'll tell him to get a new boy if he doesn't like it." He darted a hand inside the shower, cupped one of her wet, slippery breasts. "Mmmmm, that looks tempting."
"What? Me or the shower?"
"Both. Mind if I join you?"
"Love to have you. Come ahead."
Moments later, as Mayo entered the shower, she said, "I needed someone to wash my back anyway."
"Slave driver. Talk about sentimental."
"Mmmmm, not so rough. My back, I said."
"Oh. I guess my hand slipped."
"Your hand's always slipping."
"And aren't you glad?"
Joanna arched her body, purred thickly. "Oooh, honey. Am I! You realize what you're doing, don't you."
"What's that?"
"You're jeopardizing your cocktail hour."
"I'll risk, that. I drink too much anyway."
"You do something else to much too."
"I'm an old man, baby. Almost thirty-six. I have to get my jollies while I can." His voice dropped, became serious. "Besides I have to make up for all those times I missed. When I didn't know how to take care of an extravagant, beautiful woman like you. I mean that, baby."
She clung to him, let her tummy slither against his. "Don't, baby. You'll have me melting right here."
"That would never do." His hands became even busier; he laved each of her breasts prolongedly, the sensation of his soapy fingers on her flesh exquisitely exciting. "Honey," she teased, "I washed there already."
"A gal can never be too clean." His hands dove. "Especially here."
Joanna's hands followed suit. "Honey ... " he warned. "Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander ... " Moments later the banter went out of their voices. An ardent, husky affection replaced it. Shortly they were in each other's arms kissing, kissing, their bodies sliding provocatively against each other.
Joanna pulled away. "I must look a mess. I wanted to be all dressed and pretty for you when you got home."
His hand gathered a buttock, used it as a handle to tuck her closer. "Prettier than this you just don't get."
"You mean it, lover."
"I mean it. Want proof."
"What've you got in mind."
"You know what I've got in mind. Okay?" Her voice was breathy, impassioned. "Okay. You know that's always okay with me. Just so long as you.want me.
Really want me. like lately."
"Baby," he growled. "Time's a wasting."
Then they were out of the shower, they were eagerly toweling each other off. Joanna fled from the bathroom first, went to open the bed. The drapes were drawn, she was spread full length on the sheets when he came into the bedroom. The muted sunlight haloed her body, made it a rhapsody of pink and gold. Her nipples were crinkled and erect. Small traces of scar tissue still remained, eternal reminder, but they weren't bad enough to disfigure those lush nibs.
If one looked hard there were other reminders, other faint scars. But no one ever looked, least of all Mayo.
He came to Joanna, that moving look of humble gratitude in his eyes. He leaned, kissed her in that so sensitive moment. An attention that never failed to arouse her. bring her to quick passion. Still there were reservations, grim reminder here too. "Darling," she removed his lips. "Should you? I mean...."
"I should," he said fervently, the gesture supreme testament to the fact that all was forgiven, all was forgotten. She was not tainted in his eyes.
Joanna shuddered. If he can confer this testament, why can't I ? Only she was afraid. Every time she'd ever tried previously she'd been repelled, the reminder had been too strong. But today, in the wealth of this new season, in the strength of her newborn confidence and peace of mind-
Could she see the self-sacrifice through?
She could. At least she could try.
And as she came over Mayo, as she bent to him: He forestalled her gently. "Darling ... are you sure? You don't have to, you know. This is my gift. To compensate for all those years I was so blind, so stupid...."
"I'm sure. This is my gift."
She came to him, kissed him. Continued attending him for a long time. Until Mayo couldn't bear to be a mere bystander. He returned to his original position.
Afterward, in the throes of that fantastic, purgative love, when they pledged themselves wholly, unstintingly to that shattering and simultaneous glory, Joanna quaked, "My darling, I've never felt like this with you before. This is the most magnificent-the most complete. I never thought you and I-could ever-"
"You and I, darling. Forever and ever."
"And baby makes three."
"Another reason for splurging now."
"Will you think me awful if I scream?"
"Scream, sweet. You make me so proud."
"Darling, darling," she sobbed. Now her sobs became shrill mistral.
It was at that moment that Spring was officially launched. A season of warmth and joy and color. A season for love.
