I felt more than saw the bright morning sun streaming in through the bedroom window and falling across my naked body.
It was a good feeling, lying there like that, mentally checking off each part of my body, as if six hours straight of screwing a very active redhead might have left me missing a few pieces.
There was nothing missing, of course, though my cock, feeling small and happy, held just a hint of numbness to it, as if reminding me that there's a sex limit even for a stud like Chuck Morgan.
Eyes still closed, I moved my hand down to my sleeping cock, gently patting it, then lightly squeezing it, waiting for the light swell to assure me that a little numbness wouldn't keep it from getting hard fast if I wanted it to.
And I had a reason to want it to-a redheaded one, lying alongside me. Getting my feet solidly on the thick brown carpet, I swung erect and turned to look down at Hedra.
Nice. Never the kind of girl to be modest about what she had when awake, asleep she was even less so. Her long, smooth legs with that special whiteness only redheads have were wide apart as she lay on her back. And tucked between them, hairy red, tantalizing red like the long soft stuff cradled around her sleeping face, was that remarkable cunt of hers.
Even asleep, it seemed to breathe life, the usual dividing line between fur and flesh obscured by the continuity of the henna shades, all scrambled together, turning the entire valley between her thighs into a blending of memory and promise that lay glistening now as the new sun reflected warmly off it.
My trained detective's eye didn't miss a thing as it retraced from a distance every nook and cranny my fingers, mouth, and tongue had lovingly played over a few hours earlier.
And then I saw it, hanging like a diamond globe from the base of that red lushness-a single drop of her cream. Had it filtered through the presently prim lips during the night, no more than a memory of what had happened?
Or was it fresh, first proof that though Hedra might be asleep, her body was beginning to prime itself for more love-making?
Never one to speculate when the answer was readily at hand, I dropped to my knees, leaned over the rumpled sheet, and brought my head in close to the shiny cunt.
Slowly, enjoying every second of what I was doing, I stuck my tongue out until it just caught the drop at its base, delicately nudging it until it fell into my mouth, then burst, spreading its character over the taste buds awaiting it.
Ahah! It was fresh, with just the slightest salty tinge that meant it had absorbed some of the delicately stewing night juices which had been fermenting inside her hot, heavily muscled hole while her brain and body slept.
Detective though I am, I make no secret of how little I know about physiology beyond what a man has to know to get maximum mileage out of his and other bodies. All I knew right then was that my tongue's taste buds had long roots that went right down my throat, through my gut, and into the base of my cock.
Why else would that tiny taste of pussy juice have made the sleeping small twist of brownish flesh wake up and rise to rock hardness so fast?
And the numbness was all gone, to be replaced by the more pleasant pressure of balls again suffused with my own kind of juice, aching slightly to repeat the motions that would send those two hard, close-coupled orbs slamming wetly into the tangle of flesh and fur just below where my cock would be making its frantic rushes in and out of Hedra's steaming, dripping crack.
Now, the question was-should I awaken her? The best way to answer that was to let her tell me. Carefully, I caught the folds of her tender pussy between my fingers and parted them, eyes feasting on the shimmering pink wetness encircling her tightly pursed hole.
A faint moan. I looked up to see her tongue catch the corner of her mouth, then disappear again.
My own tongue shot out and tickled her tiny clit, driving it back and forth just long enough to establish the fact that the ripe woman who owned it hadn't emerged from deep sleep yet.
So be it. Careful not to disturb her any more than I had to, I caught her by those firm white hips and slid the dripping pussy, legs and all, to the bed's edge. When it was where I wanted it, I brought myself into position and shoved my eager cock into the incredibly hot center of her, delighted not to have to worry about self-control, since this was one hundred per cent my show while the girl slept on.
It was a beautifully rare fuck, that one, and mainly because most dames just don't appreciate morning masturbation for men. And that's what the good pre-breakfast screw is. Sort of a lazy, eyes-closed, move-no-more-than-you-have-to kind of slow-and-easy in and out, just soaking up the lush wetness, letting the juice come when it wants to, nice and easy, and just pumping away in perfect neat rhythm until it blows up inside her cunt and fades away into a few more minutes' sleep.
When it was over, I signalled my appreciation by planting a soft kiss on each of Hedra's big, round breasts, patting her even wetter snatch with one hand, then backing away, noting how my cock had once again gone to hide in the guise of a harmless, soggy sausage.
The sound of the door chimes startled me from my reveries, reminding me that I was naked as a jaybird-not that I give a damn.
One of the things I learned a long time ago was that nakedness was a handy weapon for a man as well as a woman. Once, when I was in high school, some dumb freshman's family had blundered into the locker room where I was in the process of drying off after a shower. Any other time, I would have panicked, tried to cover what couldn't be covered with a towel, and maybe running to hide somewhere.
For some reason, this one time I didn't. Some stubborn instinct made me stay right the way I was, one leg on the bench, my cock soft but big, the way it gets when a man's been exercising heavily.
A bald guy, his potty wife, their scrawny young son and a sexy-looking, older daughter saw me like that, eight eyes to two. And all I did was stay right like that, even smiling a little when I caught the girl's big round eyes looking directly at my big round prick, which was beginning to rise, even in that tiny split second the whole occurrence took place.
Then, the intruding quartet let out a shriek in unison, blushed like fury, and fled, almost falling over each other in the rush to get away.
At least three of them did, though I had a hunch that the daughter, allowed to look a bit more and alone, probably could have been inspired to come up close so I could prove that it wouldn't bite her-she could even have petted it safely.
What the funny bit taught me was that whoever stood his ground in scenes like this had the upper hand.
So now, when the door chimes bonged again, I did what came naturally: lit a butt and padded to the door.
The guy was decked out like an undertaker, and even an inch or so taller than my six foot one. Gray pants, long black jacket, fancy silver-gray tie with pointy collar tabs, and standing tall as a palace soldier.
He was somewhere around fifty. The homburg-covered head tilted slightly to one side, the cool blue eyes avoiding my obvious nudity.
"Ah-Mister Charles Morgan?"
I looked him right in the eye. "Yes."
The man lost a little of his poise right then as his eyes flicked down, first to my cock and its still glistening wetness, then to the brazen red thatch of white thigh-framed pussy on the bed so plainly in view across the room.
"I-" he stammered.
"Come on in, whoever you are," I grinned, tugging at his arm and making sure he was in before closing the door. The man had the smell of business, and business was one thing a couple of small improprieties never got in the way of.
His eyes stared at the sleeping cunt and my wet sausage again, though I could see he wished he could have forced himself not to make the final addition that told him one plus one equaled two, and that he probably had never come closer to a real-live fuck.
"You are the Charles Morgan?" He licked his lips nervously. "I mean, the private detective?"
I assured him I was, so enjoying the scene that I made it a point to lean against the television console, making my prick seem even more obvious than it was.
I caught him looking at Hedra again.
"Nice, huh?"
"I-" he flushed deeply.
"Like some? It's ready and waiting."
There was just a little too long a pause before his scoffing, "Really!" to convince me he was repelled at the idea.
Somehow, he scraped up the strength to say evenly, "I'm here on business, Mr. Morgan."
I grinned. "Sure. But it wouldn't take you more than thirty seconds, I bet, to whip it out, shove it in, get it off, and tuck it back inside your trousers. Right?"
Without realizing how much he was telling me with the gesture, the man took off the gray homburg, yanked a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and mopped the brow beneath his receding hairline.
"Perhaps some other time," was his weak, stuffy reply.
"You mean you're not interested?"
"Not really."
I knew better. Standing up, I crossed over to him and, my eyes holding his, moved my hand in on top of his fly. As I'd suspected, hard as the proverbial rock.
Now that his secret was out, the man seemed to lose all his composure. His shoulders sagged, his breath escaped in a ragged gasp, and his eyes shot back and forth from mine to the lovely red bush beckoning him from beyond.
It was plain that he wasn't sure I was serious. After all, it isn't often that a man offers to share pussy he just crawled out of, especially something as beautiful and soft as Hedra.
"For Christ's sake," I spurred him on, "pull it out and take it, will you!"
He started to mouth another platitude of some kind, then caught himself short. Awkwardly, he unzipped his pants, struggling to free the ramrod straight cock from the white folds holding it.
While I watched, he held his eager rod as if it would fall off, walking close-legged to the bed's edge.
He turned his face to me again, looking worried.
"Will she mind?"
"She's asleep."
"But what if she wakes up?"
I walked over and patted his shoulder lightly, whispering into his flushed ear, "Any friend of mine is a friend of hers."
He put a tentative knee on the bed, his eyes almost popping out from the sight below him.
Hedra moaned. The guy froze like a stone, his cock straight out, poised over the girl's round white belly.
Too panicked to move, he stared in horror as the flawless white body shifted under him, one long-fingered hand rising from nowhere to clasp his cock.
His eyes were almost wet with tears. "Oh, my God!" he whispered, expecting at any moment to hear the girl scream and to feel sharp nails tearing his prick into shreds.
Nothing of the sort happened. Hedra was still asleep, only her sharp nose had picked up the scent of hot meat, and now she was out to get it.
Unable to resist, the stranger let himself be pulled low to the girl's side, his eyes wide as he finally understood the reason for her open mouth.
A scream wasn't going to come out. He was going to be drawn in.
I envied him that. Her full, crimson lips puckered to a most inviting round hole, wet with saliva, traced by wild tongue, and then went out of sight as the big prick went in almost to its roots.
It was too much for the old guy. He fell on his side on the bed, rolling and groaning as the redhead bobbed back and forth in her sleeping trance, sucking the life out of him, biting, circling, pumping with an expert hand, until, with one last powerfully deep thrust, she drained him of all he had and didn't let go until he lay there, panting, pale-faced, a dim smile on his thin lips.
The same kind of dim smile was on the sleeping girl's shiny lips. "What a dream she must be having," I remarked to myself.
Later, when he was all neatly tucked in again, I poured him a cup of coffee, lit his cigar for him, and let him tell me what he'd come for.
He was all business again, though the timely fuck had decidedly mellowed his cat-like features.
"My name is DeGrooning, Mr. Morgan, of-"
"Praetoria?" I interrupted.
He was about to ask how I knew when he must have realized that a private eye can be expected to recognize the name of the second biggest diamond combine in the world. After the DeBeers organization, this man's company was the only other real competition in the entire world, and rumors had it that the DeGrooning unexplored and unmined reserves were even greater than the Number One outfit's.
He leaned across the coffee table, dropping his voice a notch or two.
"This must be in the strictest confidence."
"I'm as likely to repeat what you tell me as you are to repeat to anyone else what you did in this room."
That cleared the air, and reminded him to throw a fleeting glance back to Hedra's up-thrust pussy.
It was with some difficulty that he forced himself back to business.
"You are highly recommended by this country's largest insurance firms."
I nodded because it was true. Whenever there was a chance of recovering stolen gems, sometimes even in the bag they were originally heisted in, Chuck Morgan was most often the man they went to see. No better detective than lots of private snoopers, I did have two special virtues hard to find among the lovely breed. First, I was totally honest. And, second, my price list was so goddamned high that they automatically assumed they had to get the best for that kind of money.
"I do wish you wouldn't do that, Mr. Morgan."
For a moment, I didn't know what he was referring to. Then I did. Naked like I was, and naturally nervous on top of it, I was playing with myself unconsciously. Hell, every man knows it feels good to rub and toy with his cock, even when it doesn't get hard, even when he's in no mind to knock off a piece. It simply feels good, like scratching your ass.
I threw him a boyish grin. "A bit envious, huh? Every male on earth gets his ass chewed out from the first day his mother catches him playing with his wienie, and for ever after, he has guilt feelings about it."
He flushed. "Well, really! Not everybody wants to do it all the time!"
My grin was less boyish now. "I bet you'd like to pump yourself up for another shot at the redhead, though, wouldn't you?"
Another deeper flush told me I'd hit the nail right on the head.
"I-" Almost, defiantly, he dropped his left hand into his lap, palm down over his fly.
"Shall we proceed with the business at hand?" he said as his fingers began massaging. "I'm sure we can wrap this up fairly fast."
Spurred on by some new-found enthusiasm, DeGrooning laid out his company's problem. Six months earlier, some extremely clever thieves had managed to bore from below into the main holding vault in Amsterdam, getting away with nearly five thousand diamonds ranging in weight between one and five carats.
"That amounts to about eighteen million dollars, Mr. Morgan."
"I'll keep my eye out for them," I answered, slightly amazed that I hadn't heard so much as a word about what must have been the biggest diamond robbery of the century.
"It's been kept out of the papers," DeGrooning explained, "not so much to protect our reputation, but to assure the wholesale prices of stones. As you know, the diamond has very little intrinsic value, and is kept valuable only by carefully controlling the number of stones allowed on the market."
"And the dumping of eighteen million bucks' worth at cut-rate prices could hurt the whole industry, right?" I asked, knowing the answer already.
The son of the man who discovered the fabulous Praetoria Stone in Africa, and went on to mine a fortune around the original claim, DeGrooning made no effort to hide his fears from me.
It was bad. The very delicate supply-demand balance of the diamond market depended on total cooperation from all parties, and this cooperation was recognized as essential by everyone. Even the Russians during the world Cold War days never marketed one stone except through the old-line dealers in one of the West European cities. Stalin could have broken the diamond business by "dumping," yet he was unable to resort to this device without permanently wiping out his own nation's profits from its southern diamond fields.
Now, DeGrooning went on to say, I was being called in to help them solve their biggest headache: stopping the diamonds from getting into market channels.
"You mean, whoever stole them is selling them off."
"No. We think not yet. However, we do know that they are somehow managing to get into the United States, despite the best efforts of Interpol, U.S. Customs, and virtually every police and intelligence unit on either side of the Iron Curtain."
"Any idea how?"
The aging man shook his head despairingly. "None at all. In fact, we wouldn't even know smuggling is taking place but for an accident."
He explained how the fatal heart attack suffered by one of New York City's most reputable independent jewelers had turned up the first clue to the fate of the DeGrooning gems. The man had dropped dead on Fifth Avenue, and a routine search of his clothes at the city morgue had turned up a peculiarly shaped diamond of about two carats.
"As luck would have it," the gem heir told me, "that stone was the only one of the whole assortment anyone of us could clearly identify. It had deep inside it what one calls in an emerald a "flower"-a rather attractive flaw that adds more than detracts from the stone's appearance, though it does, of course, affect its dollar value."
But there the trail ended. The stone had been brought across the Atlantic "by person or persons unknown," as the legal boys put it.
Hardly my idea of a good, solid lead to follow up on. I didn't say so, of course, preferring always to have my paying customers assume a good private dick needed nothing at all to go on.
"And you want me to find out how this pretty rock of yours got here, and how many others are here or on the way? And get all the stones back, of course."
"Precisely. And we're willing to pay extremely well."
"You can be damned sure you will," I remarked brightly, never able to resist hurting when I can because, despite the money, I've never been able to convince myself that I'm in a respectable line of work.
My eye caught the movement in DeGrooning's lap. His cock was plainly awakening again. I realized I'd better wrap up our business dealings quickly before he blew his mind.
It was time to be discretely tactful. "I assume you brought an advance?"
Wordlessly, DeGrooning slipped a fat white envelope from his inner jacket pocket and held it out to me.
Too much the good businessman to count the money there and then, I contented myself with the knowledge that, even if it were filled with single bucks-a highly un-likely possibility-there had to be three hundred worth inside, which meant the usual thousand or two show money had lots of green company for this job.
That settled, I allowed myself the luxury of a stare at the hard-formed lump inside my client's neat trousers. Ready to go. Another look toward the bed disclosed that Hedra was spraddle-legged, either again or still. Something in that girl's primitive subconscious kept her thighs open to the breezes as much as possible, though the extra ventilation did nothing to keep the temperature of her cunt down.
DeGrooning being a gentleman, however, was never one to assume things. "It may be fun-as you say-to play with oneself like this, Mr. Morgan, but it does tend to get a wee bit frustrating." It was a half-hearted complaint I was sure, for the guy must have been tickled silly to find out his tired prick could get back up so fast for a man his age. No doubt his wife's ancient, dried-out and lifeless old pussy would never inspire him the way Hedra's did.
"Help yourself," I smiled, nodding to the girl, delighting as always at the way that red cunt hair made it look as if she were a dish of flaming nooky a la Milanese.
DeGrooning's cock-extracting prowess hadn't increased, and once again he had to strain to get the thing out through the narrow fly front. Once that was done, he felt better.
As I watched closely from my comfortable chair, one hand holding a smoke, the other my smoking, itching cock, the gentleman carefully caught up his trouser knees so as not to ruin the crease, then kneeled between the creamy white thighs. A long, rough tongue lapped up and down a few times, and whatever that did to my girl, it did more to him. Suddenly, he leaped to a half-crouch, got a good grip on his stiff cock, and rammed it home into the blood-red thatch.
Now that he felt among friends, he probably saw no need to rush, and his strokes were slow, even, a stupid smile radiating across his sharp old face.
I couldn't stand it. I jumped to my feet and clambered up on the bed, pointing my hot, ready cock right into his face.
DeGrooning stared at the pink head, frowning. "Oh, I couldn't!"
"Why not?" I asked in return, whispering so I wouldn't awaken the girl who somehow managed to withstand all the activity without batting an eyelash.
The question got him, leaving him speechless, his mind so churned up by what Hedra's hot pussy muscles were doing to his rod that he couldn't care less about propriety.
Like a frog going after a fly, his head ducked forward and caught my cock in his mouth, sucking on it so hard that I couldn't tell whether the guy was eager or just inept.
Not that it mattered. As his tongue spun around the hard ridge of my prick, his own rocks were ready to drop, and the gasp he made as he gushed his juice into my girl was softened by the same kind of hot, sweet sperm flowing from me into him.
After a couple of nitwitted polite remarks, DeGrooning pulled his insides back into his pants, smoothed his rumpled clothes, and silently left the apartment.
Me, I was a little groggy. Not totally groggy, just a little. Happy about diamonds, money, and a cock that was temporarily at rest, I lay down between Hedra's waiting legs. Soon I'd have to awaken her and do it the right way. For now, I needed a nap. Just before I fell asleep, I saw a lovely, shimmering drop of love dew hanging from the red curls of her first-class pussy. Would it be fresh and new? Or tinted with age and its fragrance? I had to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
Ever since I got my first taste of professional snooping while working for Army Intelligence during the Korean War, I've taken it serious as hell, though I'm the first to admit my way of doing things always has been something less than conventional.
Like most nobodys, I was drafted into the infantry during those dark days when the communists were pouring down into the southern part of the peninsula like locusts on their seven-year cycle. As far as the army was concerned, I was just another kid with a high school diploma, 20/20 vision, and enough brains to learn which end of a gun was which-and not so much brain that I might object much to getting my ass shot at in some Korean rice paddy.
So I went through the whole bit, from the rifle to the scene where we learned how to dig handy dandy toilet trenches with our mess spoons. At no point did it look as if I'd be able to avoid ending up in the mud, and by the time I arrived in Pusan, I was pretty much reconciled to spending my tour of duty getting shot at, bombed, marched to death, and all without so much as a chance for a little fun and nightlife.
And then it all changed. Where there's war, there's corruption, and somehow my records got yanked and I found myself at division headquarters south of Yungdungpo, facing a skinny major who wanted to know if I'd be interested in police work.
Which is how I got into the Criminal Investigation branch, with the better rank of sergeant, lots of good food, a semi-private room in a brand-new quonset hut, and a chance to see more of the mysterious East than a trench.
Which brings me to my first job, being the tracking down of forty-eight cases of penicillin that had somehow disappeared between the docks at Inchon and the big base hospital two miles up the road.
One thing led to another which led me to one of the quaint Korean whorehouses ringing the waterfront and catering to the GI's. This particular one, the CD boys had found out, had some devious North Korean ancestry, and so I was dispatched there to look around.
I did what any smart guy would have done. There were twelve girls in the paper and wood house, most of them kind of cute. I began with the first one and worked my way through the whole dozen, alternating between shoving my eager young cock into professional cunt and asking innocent questions. At eight bucks a shot, this would have bankrupted a normal sergeant fast, but us undercover boys had expense accounts, so it was all free fucking.
It ought to have been. None of the twelve moose told me a thing worth knowing. That left one female-the owner, a fortyish, stout woman who still bore the traces of damned good looks.
Though I'd learned the screwing art at a typical New York City high school, I'd learned along the way that older women like something more than just cock and cunt games. So I gave her more. I remember how scared I was that first time I forced my smooth young face down between a pair of legs and got ready to put a tongue where I'd only used my prick before.
I had a right to be scared, though. Any guy who has ever taken a good whiff of exploring fingers after having poked them inside some young virgin's canyon knows that the big problem with eating pussy is less a matter of taste than aroma.
But I had nothing to worry about. The mamasan was, like the fried chicken people say, "finger-lickin' good," and once I discovered this happy fact, my tongue and lips were in her crack just like that, soaking up the love juices and generating more.
The lapping and chewing was so enjoyable, in fact, that I almost forgot I was supposed to be gathering black market facts. Then, while I rested before attacking her waiting clit, I wriggled up to where her face was and began hemming and hawing about social diseases, playing the corn-fed GI who worries about catching the clap, and how he's too shy to go on sick call with it, and what will he do?
Meanwhile, my thumb was rubbing her clit a little, turning it from a tiny grain of flesh into a swollen bulge the size of a pencil eraser. I could tell from the way her eyes bugged and her hips hung loose in a half-smile that she wasn't having too easy a time of it in the thinking department.
Which was why she said smoothingly, afraid lest I stop my playing, "No worry, GI. Mamasan have plenty penicillin...." and her glance flicked involuntarily toward the wall to my left.
Seconds later, I was back between her skilled thighs, chewing, nipping, sucking her nub until the cries coming from deep in her throat got so much I was ready to come in my pants long before I got my cock out and into play.
Not eager to waste a good shot, I freed one hand, worked the about-to-explode rod into the open, and shifted my position on the bed so skillfully that I didn't drop one stroke of my tongue as it lapped at the lightly furred and heavily creaming cunt..
Far gone though she was in the ecstasy of the moment, her eyes saw the hot meat, round and hard, shoved toward her, and her mouth, half-open anyway, opened just a bit further and sucked me in.
That was it. All it took was the touch of her tongue and lips to make me let go, and I felt punchy as pulse after pulse of hot spume shot from my cock to disappear deep in her throat.
If I thought I was bushed, the mamasan really was. Panting like she had lung trouble, her head tossing from side to side, she didn't notice how I quickly freed myself from her clutches, and without even bothering to cover my dripping cock or wipe my deliciously wet face, I staggered to the wall her nod had indicated, gave the flimsy paper covering a whack with my hand, and looked beyond to see what could only be many cases of penicillin.
That particular bit of detective work got me another stripe, though I wasn't allowed to wear it, restricted, like all the undercover boys to wearing two bits of collar brass sporting "U.S." on them; that and no more.
Still, it taught me a number of things, the least important of which was the fact that I could fuck thirteen women in one short work day without passing out from exertion. The most critical lesson, though, was that I discovered the most hardened and blase woman almost twice my age could be gotten so sexed up that she acted as stupid as any male stud in heat.
As events later showed, the mamasan, with a couple of killings to her credit, was famous throughout the southern end of Korea for being a cold-blooded bitch. Still, when the right guy got between her legs and did the right things with her clit, she was just another human being who could be made to climb the wall with passion and need.
That was all a long time ago, of course, and by the time clients sought me out with fancy retainers, I had a long string of successful cases behind me, and about as long a string of burned-out women who had learned what cock was really capable of.
Now, with DeGrooning's visit behind me, I was facing another lucrative assignment, one that gave all the indications of having women tied to it. Wherever there were diamonds, I told myself, women couldn't be far away, and wherever there were women, I grinned wickedly to no one in particular, Chuck Morgan would be even closer than that.
The South African diamond tycoon hadn't exactly supplied me with buckets of facts to go on, not that it worried me much. Like the cops, I had my string of informers, gossips, tipsters, and stool pigeons, some of whom I swapped favors with, others of whom supplied what they could for cold cash.
To get this underground network rolling took no more than a series of fast phone calls, which I made as soon as Hedra, her pussy aching from pleasurable use, got dressed and went off to her job as a receptionist at one of the city's biggest banks.
To each of my informants I passed on the little I'd gotten from DeGrooning: Franz Michel had dropped dead with a diamond in his pocket. Where did he get it? In response, the assortment of men and women at the other end of the line almost invariably asked the same question: "Is it big?" Meaning, "Can I get more than ten bucks if I come up with the facts?"
Naturally, I was able and delighted to tell them it was big, and that anyone who hit pay dirt could figure on at least a couple of hundred for his pains.
It was close to ten a.m. before I'd placed all my calls, all but one that is. The one remaining was to the only guy among them who was on the right side of the law-Arlie Samuels, detective lieutenant at the 44th precinct. This cigar-smoking, dirty old man barely thirty years old and I had a first-class working arrangement that began about three years earlier when I happened to beat on an unemployed two-bit Broadway punk who supplied me with information of no use to me but of great value to the cops.
Never one to let pass a chance to brownnose the cops, if it might do me some good, I'd hotfooted it up to the 44th, dug up the highest ranking cop I could find, and told him what I'd learned.
Arlie had been more than a little suspicious of the gridiron type stud grinning and insolently perched on the battered desktop, pouring out fascinating crime data unavailable by the civil service route.
Sure, Arlie had been suspicious, maybe even a little envious the first time he saw me. After all, I was one of those weirdos entitled to carry a gun without having to put up with the lousy municipal pay schedule, the long hours, and all the bureaucratic horseshit that goes with being on the public payroll.
But he took the information I gave him, and before too long he woke up to the fact that I was a handy guy to have around to lean on guys he couldn't touch without having to worry about being charged with police brutality.
In exchange, I got occasional access to the computerized and quite complete files of the New York Police Department. It was a nice working arrangement, if lacking the paperback and television dreamworld situation of the private eye hero who always solves cases the nitwit cops can't handle. The truth of it was that we hit it right down the middle, fifty-fifty. He made lieutenant faster because he broke several cases with my help, and I moved up the private eye pay scale faster because he did likewise for me.
When I heard the gruff voice at the other end, I gave my name, detailed the bit about the dead jeweler and his remarkable stone, winding up with, "The diamond company wants to know how the stone got here, and where in hell the rest of them are."
After a moment's silence, the balding, beefy plainclothesman replied, "Off the top of my head, I don't know of a thing. But give me some time to think on it. How about lunch at Kelly's at noon?"
Kelly's was one of those dilapidated-looking saloons on Sixth Avenue, nestled between a pawn shop and a noisy, dirty penny arcade. Because of the green paint running halfway up the store front windows, the casual passerby could see little of what went on inside, other than being able to tell that the television set over the bar was one of the first models.
But what the place lacked in atmosphere, it more than made up in its clientele.
One of the last holdouts to the presence of women, Kelly's Bar and Grille catered to a wild assortment of elbow benders who didn't drink quite heavily enough to be unable to appreciate good steaks, chops, and lobster. The pot-bellied, gruff proprietor was a former newspaperman from Boston, which may explain why the place attracted the news types, along with the odd cop who felt at home among men who made their livings exposing other people's secrets-or trying to.
About the only concession the joint made to the times was the occasional presence of a rather hefty go-go girl, who did her stuff on the far end of the bar, though the regular customers knew she was more expert at throwing her body around when there was a man over her than when a dozen or so watched her from their stools.
While I gnawed my T-bone and shoveled in the fresh salad, waiting for the lieutenant to show up, my eyes stared on blonde Dawn, Miss Go-Go of Sixth Avenue, whose skimpy gold sequined costume hardly covered her ripe curves. No great rock and roll fan myself, I still appreciated what its rhythms made a girl's body do. I was old enough to remember when that much breast wagging, ass swinging and cunt thrusting in public would have brought the cops and their paddy wagon. Yet here we were, only a few years later, watching the female body doing everything to music except actually taking some guy's prick between weaving, inviting legs.
"Greetings," the cop's rough voice said, his eye on the remains of my steak, his hand motioning to the waiter to dish him up an order of the same.
"I see you managed to find a booth facing Dawn," he smirked.
"There's more to eat in life than just steak," I smirked back, not objecting to the thought of having some Dawn for dessert.
Arlie lit a small cigar, inhaled deeply, took one last look at the blonde, then leaned forward on his elbows, raising his voice to be heard above the din passing for music.
"Tried getting a lead on your jeweler pal and his diamond. Zilch. Nothing!"
That was about what I'd expected, adding, "Anything funny going on that might give us a lead?"
The broad-shouldered detective leered crookedly. "Hell, this goddamn city is full of funny things going on. But the only weird bit that has me wondering-oh, hell, it's got nothing to do with your problem."
I had to urge him on, reminding him that sometimes the least likely details connected up to help crack a case.
"Well-there's been a rash of sort-of rapes uptown."
"Sort-of rapes? I thought rape was rape. A girl either had it stuck into her without her permission, or she didn't."
Arlie explained as best he could, somewhat annoyed because I kept letting my eyes wander over to where Dawn's tits were spinning around maddeningly.
"Okay," he said when he thought he had my attention for a moment, "let's put it this way: three women in my precinct, as well as close to twelve others elsewhere around Manhattan, have complained about unidentified men who talked themselves into their apartments, knocked them out, and maybe played sex games while they were unconscious."
"Maybe?"
Patiently, he explained that each woman had been drugged, slugged cold, or chloroformed, and when she came to, the guy was gone, leaving almost everything undisturbed.
This Samuels was a tease, refusing to say another word until I asked what he meant by "almost everything."
"Simple. The girls' apartments showed no signs of burglary, no open drawers, missing jewelry, that sort of crap." The smile on his face told me he knew Dawn wasn't getting any of my attention right now. "Go on! Go on!"
"Well-I take back part of what I said. The part about the opened drawers. Actually, you might say some drawers were opened. The ones the girls were wearing. In fact, they were not just opened, they were removed."
Arlie went on to tell how each of the female complainants had come to with her panties gone, and with a terrible soreness in her cunt.
"Naturally, the first thing they figured was rape. But when our police doctor examined them, there were none of the usual signs of some guy having shoved his tool in. You know, no sperm tracks, no foreign hairs, none of that sort of thing."
All the most careful examination had turned up was that the women's cunts were what the doc called lacerated, which meant sore as hell, as if their private parts had been subjected to what is impolitely called a dry fuck, with the fucker failing to drop his cookies.
"So what does it all add up to?" I asked.
"I don't know. Unless we're dealing with some kind of sex pervert who gets his kicks shoving rough things-maybe bananas or even broom handles-into unconscious females. That type isn't unheard of, you know."
Deep inside my subconscious, some kind of a germinal idea was forming, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. These reports of semi-rape held a vague implication that they might in some way be connected to the case I had just started on.
"Look, it probably isn't anything, but could you get me a list of all the females-their names, addresses, any other background you have on them?"
Never one to question my motives, Samuels could be expected to satisfy my whim, though I was surprised when he reached inside his suit coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of yellow paper, dog-eared and folded.
"Here. I had a hunch that anything to do with cunt would be of interest to you."
Now that this particular topic of discussion had been concluded, my eyes swivelled back to Dawn, whose lithe body was shiny with sweat from her gyrations.
"For Christ's sake," Arlie hissed, "can't you keep your mind on business for more than ten seconds?"
I studied him carefully. "You mean to tell me you wouldn't like to bury your face in those big boobs and maybe shove a little something under her belly?"
The detective flushed deeply. "Not now. I'm on duty. Besides, I know these entertainer types. They look like they're hot and ready, but they seldom are-at least not for free, and certainly not without a lot of buttering up."
With any other go-go dancer, I might have agreed, but Dawn was different. Most often, when a girl makes a buck displaying her body in public she gets a thing about men always wanting it. She gets very much on the defensive, suspicious of any guy who so much as says a word to her.
Not the blonde, though. Her big delight in life was knowing that men perspired watching her dance, knowing that she could get their cocks hard with no more than a twitch of her pelvis and a shake of her big breasts.
And, after that, she got about as big a charge out of being able to take that hardened cock between her thighs and make the man attached to it come so fast and so powerfully that it was all he could do to stagger to his feet again after he came.
Besides, I was an old customer at Kelly's, so I knew Dawn like few other eaters and drinkers knew her. When she looked my way, I nodded to her.
As the record ended, she hopped down off the bar and swayed over to our booth, coming to a halt with her sequined, smooth-looking hips only an inch from the table's formica top.
"Hi, Chuck," she breathed, reserving her probing glance for the collegiate-looking cop with the big baby blue eyes that were mentally undressing her.
"This is my good friend, Arlie Samuels."
She smiled lightly, staring deeply into the man's eyes. "Hi. You look like a cop."
Arlie was slightly discomfited. One of his proven assets to the department was the fact that he looked so uncop-like, and here was a girl who spotted him right off.
"What makes you think so?" he parried, unwilling to admit the truth.
"I can smell dick a mile off," the blonde grinned, totally aware of the double entendre.
It was time to get the show rolling. "Arlie here thinks you're all talk and no play. Says girls who show off their bodies seldom use them."
The dancer frowned theatrically, moving slightly to one side so that her right hip was no more than half a foot from Arlie's interested face.
"Pull this, lover boy," she breathed softly, a long slender figure pointing to a tiny gold metal tab at the top of her left hip.
I could tell Arlie wanted to ask a question, but she was calling his bluff and he knew he had to play it out all the way. With no apparent hesitation, he reached up, caught the tab, and pulled it across her belly, his eyes popping as the gold fabric parted diagonally, falling low to expose all she had between her legs.
"A natural blonde," he managed to say, eyeballs straining at the welcome, if unexpected midday sight of lightly furred snatch before him.
The detective craned his neck, looking around the half-filled barroom.
"Don't worry," the girl reassured him. "Nobody can see, not as long as I stand close like this."
My cop pal's eyes came back to stare at the blonde triangle, his fingers opening and closing as if itching to do something men don't often get to do sitting in restaurants.
"Well?" Dawn asked pointedly.
He took the hint, leaned forward, and shoved his tongue between the furry lips, seeking out her clit, catching it, and sucking on it until it got so swollen that it stuck out from between the hairy cleft.
Pleased with his daring, Arlie drew back, licking his lips happily.
"Nice."
That was the understatement of the year. Dawn's clit was so large that it looked like a small prick, hard and straight out, pink and alive.
I could tell from the girl's bright, wide stare that she was as hot as a two dollar pistol, though I hadn't any idea how she was going to carry out her desires in this place.
I needn't have worried-she had it all figured out. She leaned forward and unzipped Arlie's fly, deftly yanking out his rock-hard cock, looking eagerly at it for a second before she turned back to me.
"If you'll take care of me, Chuck honey, I'll take care of your sceptical pal here."
Never one to turn down an offer like that, I reacted automatically, sliding low on my side of the booth to disappear beneath the table, on my knees, able to see only two things: Arlie's big hot cock and Dawn's inflamed clit, both at eye level.
As if we'd rehearsed it, the three of us got to work at once. She stooped low to swallow the cop's cock with one wet-lipped plunge, careful to keep her body in place for me as I also plunged forward and sucked her clit in, really enjoying its demanding erectness, able to feel how her lovely white body began to tremble and twist from my expert technique.
Like any guy, Arlie was but a few seconds removed from blowing his valve, but she was there with him. Just as I saw his knees vibrate back and forth, proof that she had brought him to the peak and was now sucking him dry, I felt her clit twitch violently. My tongue beat harder on it, my lips exerted maximum pressure, I pulled as hard as I could, and then she was on top of it too, a molten, hot stream of honey juice soaking into the golden fur as she blew apart, feeling inside her own gut the same delicious sensations of coming that were making Arlie act like something a little less dignified than a detective lieutenant.
No sooner was it over than the go-go girl recovered her composure, pulled the zipper shut and stood up straight, all signs of passion gone except for the flush on her cheeks.
"See you fellas around," she smiled wanely, and walked away, not too worn out to sway her ass provocatively for the benefit of the other paying guests.
"Well," I said to the drained man across from me who was awkwardly tucking his cock back where it belonged, "you still hold to your theories about girls who don't?"
"You win this round," he nodded with a crooked grin. "But what about you? I got mine and she got hers, which leaves you sort of hung up, huh?"
Digging two crumpled bills from my pants pocket, I stood up and dropped them by my coffee cup. "Don't worry, friend. My prick is so hard I could drive it through a brick wall. But an obliging pussy is never difficult to find, if you know where to look."
The plainclothesman wrinkled his sweaty brow. "Let's hope you are as proficient at uncovering diamond smugglers as you are at screwing."
His words came out gruffly, but I knew he was really wishing me luck. We had an unwritten, unspoken agreement of long-standing that assured him first crack at any information I got. Now, as I'd also proven, he was welcome to share any stray pussy that came my way.
"I'll be in touch," I said, patting the yellow sheet tucked in my pocket.
"There's just one thing," he cut in with. "What's that?"
"Those dozen girls have got damned sore snatches, and I mean sore. Some of them are real raw. So take it easy, huh? We don't want them coming back to us complaining about private dick brutality."
I told him not to worry. If their little cunts were too tattered for my eager cock, there was another wet place a man could stick it and get pretty much the same effect.
"You're the filthiest old man I ever met," Arlie Samuel grinned.
"You haven't seen anything," was my offhanded reply as I shook his beefy hand and went to pay my bill.
CHAPTER THREE
AS I walked over to broadway, letting the impersonal crowds and street noises serve to act as a cock softener so my pants wouldn't look too bulgy, I read over the list of names Samuels had had the foresight to bring along for me.
What I was looking for was some common denominator, some one thing that would tie the bunch of them together. Without knowing exactly what had happened to these girls who recovered to find their snatches lacerated, I was pretty sure that the party or parties responsible for the outrages were in all cases connected.
Samuels had been thorough indeed. He also had been hunting for a common denominator, so the list supplied me with more than just the girls' names, addresses and ages. Appended in a scrawled, almost illegible hand, was the information that each of the wenches had only recently returned from vacationing in Europe, each was single, and each lived somewhere in Manhattan.
The smell of a clue was exceeding strong, so strong, in fact, that my next step laid itself out in my mind and I discovered my feet leading me down Broadway, out of the tourist-trap section, down through the wholesale district, until I was in the teens.
My subconscious had directed me to Abrahms and Arnett's, one of the city's most successful theatrical supply houses. Once the purveyors of make-up, costumes and props to the uptown playhouses and vaudeville joints, the company had more recently gone into catering to the television studios, and now had the biggest assortement of rental properties this side of Hollywood.
I'd done business with them before because one of a good detective's stocks in trade is the ability to deceive, and deception often calls for odd disguises and possessions. Once, I'd rented a bearskin from A & A, needing the soft white item for a girl who had expressed a secret desire to feel one under her back when a man was feeling along her front.
The ancient clerk who waited on me recognized my amiable puss immediately, busily chatting about the Old Days as he dug around in the welter of dusty cabinets and shelves until he found what I'd asked for.
"Here-standard doctor's black bag." He snapped the latch, peered in, and nodded approvingly. "Complete with everything a modern doctor ought to be carrying on house calls."
From the pocket of his baby blue frock he withdrew a gray rag and carefully brought up the dark luster of the wrinkled bag.
"One more thing. I'll need a speculum," I said.
"A who?"
"A speculum-that's the snatch stretcher a gynecologist uses to open up a customer so he can look at her tonsils from the bottom up."
With a knowing "aha," Max rummaged some more and soon enough came up with the chromium-plated device I'd requested. There was a questioning look on his leathery old face, but he was too polite to verbalize his curiosity.
By the time I'd returned to my East Side apartment, showered, and slipped into my most conservative suit, it was getting close to six p.m., which meant that the girls on my list should be home from work or play.
While I munched on a home-made ham on rye sandwich, I hunted through my messy desk until I found the battered tin box holding my phony credentials. Among them I found the plastic-coated wallet-sized ID card that certified me as a licensed physician attached to the New York City Police Department.
Thus equipped, I memorized the first name on my list and went forth to play doctor.
Woman number one was a tall, skinny secretary who wore her hair pulled tightly back, no make-up, and answered my knock on her apartment door wearing a shapeless woolly bathrobe.
She had a cold, her round gray eyes were watery, and her manner was one hundred per cent sickroom, not the sort of thing to inspire a hot-blooded male. Avoiding my black bag, I concentrated on asking her a few medical-sounding questions, wrapping the chilly and short interview up with a couple of queries about her European tour. I committed most of her replies to memory, writing down just enough to make my visit appear thoroughly official.
Next on the list was a Marge Kruger, who lived on Sutton Place, which meant at least she had money. I had to identify myself over the tinny intercom before I got into the Victorian sandstone apartment house, then had to hold my ID card up before the one-way glass peep-hole set into her metal-clad apartment door before she finally unhooked the chain, flipped the tumbler lock open, and hesitantly let me in.
This one was a live wire; I could tell. She looked like the better grade of fashion model who was too meaty for dress poses, but great for bathing suits.
Wearing a green silky two-piece lounging outfit, with straight black hair falling over broad shoulders, she made it difficult for me to act like a stuffy M.D. intent on doing municipal anti-crime business.
I gave her my best professional smile, noting that the girl's wide greenish eyes, straight nose, and ripe naturally red lips added up to a full-blown beauty.
If she noticed the way I kept staring at her large breasts, more than hinted at by the tight green fabric and the low cleavage of the jacket, she didn't let on, motioning me to a seat on a straight-backed Louis XIVth chair.
The offer was politely enough put, though I saw it for what it was. The beautifully spacious and richly furnished modern apartment was loaded with comfortable-looking stuffed chairs, sofas, and settees. So what I was getting was the standard cool treatment. I was, after all, no more than a lowly civil servant come to snoop, so why should I be comfortable?
I sat, holding the black bag in my lap.
The brunette shoved a thin cigarette into a long silver holder, lit it, and deposited her shapely ass on the edge of a flowery printed easy chair.
"Now-exactly what is it you want, Doctor-Doctor Martin?"
"Morgan, Charles Morgan," I corrected her mildly. "Well, I'll try to take as little of your time as possible...."
Patiently, I explained that Arlie Samuels had contacted me because he was very puzzled by this sort-of-rape complaint, especially since hers was the third that very day.
"The third?" the brunette gasped. "You mean this lunatic has attacked other girls too?"
"I'm afraid so."
"So why haven't the police gone after him? I would think a man who makes a regular habit of this sort of thing would leave enough clues for a bloodhound with adenoids and cataracts to follow."
Sensing the hostility of the woman, I tried placating her in my best bedside manner.
"That's why I'm here, Miss Kruger. You see, this man-whoever he is-is no ordinary sex fiend or pervert. With each of his more than twelve victims, he has been extremely brutal in one area of her anatomy, and yet the usual signs of rape are totally absent."
I went on to outline how tests to date failed to establish the presence of pubic hair, semen stains, or any other sign that a foreign pecker had been introduced into any one of the girl's vaginas.
"So what do you want from me?" she asked with a noticeable chill in her deep, sultry voice. I pretended to be slightly embarrassed. "Well
-first it seems you are the latest victim. Second, according to the examiner's reports, your
-ah-body-was more severely treated that the others. So we're hoping you might allow further checking to see if some clue can be found.
Grinding her cigarette out violently in a heavy gold ashtray, the woman shot to her feet.
"Here? You want to examine me again? Isn't that a bit unusual?"
I admitted it was, slyly pointing out that, where rape was concerned, most females preferred to stay as much in the background as possible.
"In a word, Miss Kruger, the department wants to take your own sensibilities into account. If you prefer, you can be looked over at the hospital. It's just that we thought you'd much prefer this inquiry to take place in total privacy."
She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. Of course. It was stupid of me to get excited like that. It's just that-well, you know-when an ordinary citizen gets enmeshed with the law, he tends to feel sort of uncomfortable."
This was an acceptable explanation for her frosty behavior, I knew, although I had no intention just yet of letting on that I was aware of at least one more reason why she would act that way.
I hardly qualified as a medical authority, of course, not that this kept me from having absorbed a fair amount of knowledge here and there, so that now, when I had to play doctor, I was able to throw around some learned language. Besides, I knew that women were kind of funny about having their sex organs looked at by a doctor of either sex.
Most females are brought up feeling at least slightly ashamed about the hairy thing between their legs. They go through life keeping it covered up, out of reach of prying hands. In fact, they are often inclined to ignore this part of their anatomy themselves, except on those occasions when some attention is required by nature.
As for being uncomfortable whether male or female physician poked around her hole, one expert explained to me that a woman doesn't like another woman looking at her cunt because, in a way, the "competition" is getting access to her deep, dark secret.
And when the male doctor pokes, quite logically the thought that the guy may not be entirely professional in his interest seeps into the female patient's noodle.
So sexy-looking Marge Kruger had a couple of reasons to worry, plus one other.
"Shall we get it over with?" I asked kindly, trying to help her relax a little by pasting on a friendly, professional smile.
She nodded, walking over to an ornate carved and gilded sideboard. A quick movement of her hand and the drawer front fell down, to be held by two gold chains. The booze locker, I noted.
"Will a little alcohol in me upset your examination, doctor?"
I shook my head, careful not to make any motion to stand up just yet. "No. Go ahead. I suspect a drink will relax you and make my work less bothersome for both of us."
She hardly needed my approval, having already poured a double shot of bourbon into a fancy cut glass, adding an ice cube from the sterling silver bucket alongside the cluster of bottles. She stared into the amber-colored liquid, studiously avoiding looking my way. Then, with an audible sigh, she made up her mind and gulped the drink down.
After another cigarette, during which she temporized with small talk as the booze began to loosen her up, she finally accepted my presence and the need for doing what I wanted to do.
Protectively, she clutched her jacket's neckline, closing the gap between her heaving breasts.
"Where do you want to do it?"
For a second I didn't know what she was asking. "Oh." I swept my glance around the big room, mentally sorting out this and that, wondering if maybe another room might be better. No, the girl was shaken up enough, so it would be smartest to require as little transition as possible.
"Well, now," I said almost gaily, hoping I sounded like a good doctor trying to keep his patient calm and relaxed, "perhaps that chaise lounge would be adequate."
She looked over at the yellow satin-covered piece, studying it as if she'd never seen it before. I could tell she was sizing it up, comparing it to a real examination table. She must have seen how close it actually came. Headrest at one end, none at the other, its scroll shaped back shallow enough so that she could spread her legs wide on it.
As if fighting herself, she got to her feet, stubbed out the butt, and walked tightly to the chaise lounge, not looking back as she sat down on it, feet on the floor, hands hard on either side of her.
I pretended to busy myself looking into my black bag, noting that she sighed to herself, cut off something she was about to say, then stretched out full-length, soft white hands balled into fists at the ends of her straight, rigid arms. Plainly, she wasn't happy about what was to come.
The picture of medical efficiency, I removed my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and inquired for the bathroom, adding that I wished to wash my hands.
When I returned, she was as before, motionless, head slightly uplifted so she could look at what I was doing with the implements in my bag, now resting on a French Provincial end table.
When she asked hesitantly if so many lights were necessary, I shook my head silently and went around the room turning most of the lamps off, leaving just one going, and that by the foot of the chaise.
That done, I brought a wooden chair up close to the end table, moved the lamp to its edge, and turned the switch until the double bulbs were running at top brightness.
Marge Kruger's eyes were tightly shut, her jaw rigid, as if I were about to inflict pain upon her. A laughable thought.
"Your slacks, please," I said softly.
"Oh, of course...." She must have forgotten that no doctor in his right mind would presume to remove a conscious woman's garments for her.
I was rather surprised at how awkward and stiff she seemed as she pulled the side zipper down, caught the waistband of the slacks, and raised her neat hips, wiggling them low, over her knees, down over her ankles, until she was able to kick them free.
Silence. No motion. I waited a long minute, studying her promising legs, but she did nothing else, merely returning to her former corpse-like rigidity.
"Ah-your panties, too, please...." No matter how I said it, it sounded dirty to my ears, though she couldn't have been thinking along the same lines I was.
Once again, she started to say something before catching herself and slamming her jaw shut. The hands returned to her waist, caught the low-cut black panties by their elastic, and with agonizing slowness, they followed the slacks route until they lay on top of them.
Nice, I thought inwardly, admiring the rich blackness of the soft-looking fur on her cunt. Unlike some women, Marge Kruger possessed a quite tiny thatch of hair, a neat triangle covering a discreet, tight hole.
Again I waited for her next move, though I was more than positive that I'd have to talk her along each step, since she was too shy to do anything of her own accord.
After a respectable pause, I touched one finger to her shin. "Would you please move your legs apart as far as you can?"
As if in a slow-motion film, the white, flawless limbs began to part, a fraction of an inch at a time until the right one went as far as it could against the low chaise back. A neat, wide "V" that my eyes were automatically drawn to.
"It-you won't hurt me, will you?" She asked it in a little girl voice trembling with repressed fear.
"I'll be as careful as I can," was my reply as I barely swallowed a smirk, knowing from Arlie Samuels' brief notes that this girl differed from the others in one crucial respect. The medical report on her injuries had mentioned a ruptured hymen, which meant she had been a real, genuine virgin.
In fact, she still was a virgin, unless it could be proven that one or more cocks had gotten into her cunt during the time she was out cold the evening before.
Her eyes went wide as I extracted the speculum from the bag and held it in my hands so as to warm it up before inserting it.
"What a horrible looking thing!" she gasped, probably remembering the previous times when some M.D. had shoved an ice cold one up her snatch.
I threw her a warm, fatherly smile. "Please try to relax, Miss Kruger. It'll be better for both of us."
Somehow, she forced herself into a relative calmness, closing her eyes and losing some of her stiffness.
It was time. My eyes feasting on the virgin cunt with its slender pink lips swathed in rich black fur, I reached out, spread the cleft with one hand, and slowly slid the speculum in about half way.
If the sensation of that maneuver was familiar to her, another one was not, I felt pretty certain.
She got the message that I was having trouble.
"Something the matter, doctor?"
"Well, yes. I'm afraid that you are very dry, and I neglected to bring the proper lubricant with me so that the speculum can go in without irritating the delicate membranes.
"I have some petroleum jelly," she volunteered eagerly, as if delighted at the idea that something might interrupt this embarrassing scene.
"Never mind," I soothed, "I think we'll just rely on nature to do the trick for us...."
With that, I began sliding my open palm gently and slowly up and down, up and down over the arid clit and cunt, the speculum once again back in the bag, from which it might not reappear for some time to come.
Artfully, I made sure the heel of my eager hand thumped into her small clitoris each time I got to the top of the rubbing arc.
"Ah," I said after awhile, "your glands are performing quite nicely, young lady."
They sure were. Cream that had most likely never before wet her tasty-looking cunt was beginning to flow like water, dampening my hand. Sure my method was succeeding, I shifted to my other hand, directing its thumb to catch her clit with each pass.
Now she began a low, soft moaning in unison with the hardening of the tiny passion button I was nipping at with my thumb. The damned thing was coming alive, probably for the first time in the girl's twenty-five-odd years.
"Is it-is it lubricated enough yet?" she whispered brokenly, and I thought I detected a certain sorrow in the question, as if she were worried that I would stop what I was doing and shove the impersonal steel gadget into her again.
My instinctive reaction was to calm her with the remark that I'd have to take a closer look before I could answer her properly.
Of course, I did, without stopping the beating of my thumb on her clit. It took but a couple of discreet tugs on her hips to bring her cunt to the chaise's very edge, and as soon as it was there, I stared closely at it.
Beautiful in its shimmering wetness, the bright, clinical light illuminating each tender fold of flesh nestled in the curly hair.
Her clit was as big as it felt, a solid knob perched close above the sweetly puckered hole no man had probably ever entered. As my thumb moved away, my mouth went to it, catching the deep red lump between my teeth, biting it lightly, bringing explosive gasps of delight from my patient.
"Does that hurt?" I stopped long enough to say, afraid that she might catch on that I wasn't exactly medical in my exploration.
"Oh, no! Not at all! As a matter-of-fact...." the words trailed off.
"Yes, Miss Kruger?"
"In fact, it feels kind of good."
That was my cue to bite and suck and chew and lick more than ever, all my attention riveted to the delicious hot, dripping cunt that would have totally surrounded me had I been able to satisfy the insane desire to plunge headfirst into her.
Faster and faster I toyed with that clit, adding the careful thrusting of four of my fingers into her slippery hole to the thrill I knew she was experiencing.
The body that had been so inert began to toss and turn, neat knees that so recently had been too shy to part now closing fiercely on the sides of my head, holding my face close to the straining, eager cunt.
She was coming, I knew, and sped up my motions, happily drinking up the love honey pouring from the pulsing crack.
"Oh, my God!" The cry burst from her lips in a loud spurt, a vocal accompaniment to the physical spasms wracking the soft white body thrusting itself down on me.
When she finally came, it was a wild series of pumping spurts, one after another, wave after wave, the silence filled with the most awesome gut moans from her slack mouth. Only when I felt the last wave of release fade away did I stop my attentions, planting one last affectionate kiss on the drained cunt before rising to my feet to look down at my so-called patient.
She lay there, legs apart, head swaying from side to side, chest heaving mightily, the red gash of her black-laced cunt shining wetly like some wild, living thing.
I smoked a butt, washed up, and helped myself to a drink while the brunette slept the short, deep sleep of the fucked out unused to the joys of screwing.
An hour passed before she came back to earth, opening her shining eyes to look intently at the muscular, brown crewcutted man who was her doctor, now sitting close by on the straight-backed chair, looking at a book of New Yorker cartoons.
"Doctor?"
"Yes?"
"What did you do to me? I never felt like that before from an examination." There was awe and pleasure in her deep voice.
"Nothing special, Miss Kruger. Nothing, really."
"You must have done something special!"
I smiled graciously. "Well, you must remember that I examined and tested you for more than an ordinary gynecologist would have. Hence the difference."
Her hand came to rest on mine. "Whatever it was, doctor, it felt indecently good. So good, in fact, that I wish you'd examine me again-like that."
I pasted a stern look on my face. "Miss Kruger, I'm very well aware that you are still technically a virgin, despite what your assailant did, and I am in no position, either as a physician or as a man, to overlook that fact."
Her hair falling softly over her still clad shoulders, the girl sat half-erect, her fingers tightening on mine.
"Is that what it feels like when a man-when he-I mean-when a man and a woman make love?"
Wonderful! She's waking up, I thought to myself, though careful to keep my face neutral and calm. "Not really. You were subjected to digital manipulation-I didn't want to bring up how I had sucked her off-and, as you must know, genuine heterosexual lovemaking involves more than that."
"What? What does it involve?" She was breathless from excitement, the craving to have newly discovered mysteries explained to her.
I was glad my legs were crossed so my hard, big cock wouldn't give its condition away-as if she would have recognized the signal for what it was.
"Ah-it involves the insertion of the male sex organ into the female one, among other things. Without insertion, sex cannot be totally satisfying."
Marge Kruger let a crooked smile lighten her beautiful features.
"That's funny, you know. All that's ever been stuck into me is those terrible cold gadgets and the cotton things I use during that time of the month."
I wanted to fuck her then and there, but I knew that the excessive caution I'd used so far had to be kept on with a bit longer. Anyway, I was getting a big kick out of this, teaching the facts of life to a career girl who had the body and face a thousand men must have creamed in their pants for.
I had to laugh then. "Rest assured, young lady, the male organ is nothing like either of those."
Her green eyes were really glued to mine now as she sat bolt upright. She was so absorbed in the topic being discussed that she made no attempt to do as much as slip one leg up to conceal her pussy. Quite a change already.
"What is it like, doctor?"
Now what was I supposed to do? Draw her a picture? I played for time, hoping my reflexes would supply a good answer fast. "Uh-haven't you seen a picture in a textbook?"
A tomboyish glint lit her eyes. "Sure. But let me ask you this: Would you ever have anything to do with a woman's-thing, if it looked like the pictures in those books?"
I had to admit she had a point.
"Well, I want to see one in the flesh, a real live one."
"I wish I could help you...." I interrupted.
Marge swung into a sitting position, bringing her knees together, though not enough to hide the fur of her. Her stare was even, deadly serious.
"Let me see yours."
"Miss Kruger!"
"Are you afraid, doctor?"
"It's not a matter of fear, young lady. It's a matter of ethics, of propriety."
"But you had your nose right up mine, didn't you? And if you can see mine like that, and touch it, and everything, then what's wrong with my doing the same with you?"
"But I was examining you professionally! Don't you understand? I did that to learn something."
Then she had me, and I knew it before the look of pure triumph spread across her face.
"And I want to learn something!" She stood up defiantly. "Come on! Don't be an old poop. A man of medicine should be accustomed to nudity-even his own!"
I let her coax me a bit longer, pausing to sip on a martini she made for me, then fencing some more verbally, knowing that my resistance was increasing her stubbornness-and her need.
After what seemed like a half hour, I duplicated one of her early sighs and admitted defeat.
"All right. Have it your way. Now you just sit there on the chaise while I undress...."
She did as she was told, her eyes riveted to my every motion as I slowly tugged off my tie, removed my shirt, slipped off my trousers, socks, and shoes, then turned to face her in only my T shirt and jockey shorts.
All of a sudden, some twinge of doubt and guilt must have caught her in the middle of her delights. First, her eyes went to the big lump of my shorts, then swept away, unable to meet my eyes.
I knew I had to keep the action going before she frosted up on me. In four long strides, I was standing with my shins touching her knees.
I forced myself gently between her legs, to close the gap between us a little more, not close enough, of course, to get into firing position since she was sitting far back on the silken chaise.
Quickly, I yanked the shorts off, having to struggle a bit to get them down over my stone-like prick, "Look...."
My hands reached out to catch her shoulders and pull her closer until her nose was but an inch from my hot cock.
The green eyes went wide, bright, the crimson mouth hanging open, shock mixed with pleasure, disbelief, and God only knows what else.
"My God," she moaned, "it's so big! Can a girl actually take a thing like that without it ripping her insides to bits?"
"Yes," I reassured her, deciding to say no more, now that her attention was entirely on my cock. Let her study it, lose her fear of it before going on, I told myself, though my nuts were already so loaded that unmistakable discomfort was numbing my legs.
Marge slumped lower in her seat so her eyes came almost on a level with my meat.
"How cute!" she giggled, "It's got a little mouth!" Acting on some impulse she couldn't have known she ever had, her hand moved tentatively forward, retreated a foot, then moved forward again, finally coming to rest with her fingers lightly on my aching meat.
Emboldened, she leaned forward, hesitated again for a second, then swooped in to plant a fast kiss on what she referred to as the little mouth.
It felt good, but I just stood there, motionless. This was her moment, not mine. I knew it all. She had yet to learn it-in her own time.
Like a blind man stroking a sculpture to learn its shape, the brunette let her hands wander softly over my cock, her eyes feasting at the same time. An index finger circled the hard, rough ridge of my cockhead and I shuddered with pleasure.
She looked up into my face. "So that's the real sensitive part, huh?"
"It sure is."
Some primitive instinct got hold of her then, for it couldn't have been book-learning that prompted her to lick the tip of that finger before running it around the ridge again.
Another shudder came from me and she smiled wickedly, beginning to understand how a woman could affect a man.
"Tell me-I know this sounds damned stupid-but what happens?"
I frowned uncomprehension.
"I mean, when you-what's the word?-when you come. What happens?"
I couldn't resist grinning at her naivete. "My little mouth shoots out cream."
"Lots of it?"
"Lots of it." I saw no need to explain that right now there would be lots, but other times, after one or two wild fucks, the amount would be skimpy indeed.
Her smooth forehead grew wrinkled with concentration and thought lines. She caught her chin in her cupped hand and struck a thoughtful pose.
"Tell me-what's it like? The cream, I mean? Has it got a taste?"
I grinned again, hoping her aimless fondling with my cock wouldn't set it off before I was ready for her to do so.
"The textbooks say it's slightly alkaline in taste, if that helps."
Suddenly, she looked wiser than she ever had before, her green eyes meeting mine openly. "How does my cream taste?"
"Wonderful."
I could almost guess at her next question, so I wasn't taken aback when it came. "Tell me, doctor, can a woman make a man come the way you made me come? With her mouth?"
"Try it and see for yourself," I shot back, needing no more than her agreeing nod to quickly lie down across her naked lap so that my cock was pointed straight up at her face.
Without another word, with no more hesitation, she opened her mouth, almost swallowing my prick.
"Ouch!" I laughed. "Watch those teeth!"
She learned fast, I have to give her credit for that. The initial roughness and pain of tooth against tender flesh faded as quickly as it had come, and her tongue, a wild, darting thing, circled the ring of my cock like her index finger had done.
I felt it rising up in me. I felt I had to warn her. "I'm coming." I prayed the shock of getting a mouthful of my hot juice wouldn't make her draw back before I was finished. Lots of girls did that and ruined an otherwise classy blow job.
I needn't have concerned myself. My warning served only to make her suck me in more powerfully, and as the boiling spasms of white cream pumped out of my cock I could feel her swallowing deeply, savoring each drop, not letting up on her efforts until it was plainly obvious that it was all over.
Wiping her pretty face on her arm, she smirked down into my flushed, sweating face. "Child's play, doctor. It's really fun!"
I stayed in her lap like that, recovering my strength, and so it was logical that we talk, though it was less conversation than question and answer, with Marge Kruger doing the questioning.
"All of a sudden, doctor, I feel I need to know the real words men use. The gutty, down-to-earth words, the ones that tell it like it is."
So I told her, all the four-letter terms, all the gutter phrases, the wild and wonderful dirty slang men use to describe and talk about the most wild and woolly of all human activities.
When I was done, she leered down at me, then hastily unbuttoned her green jacket, letting her magnificent full breasts spill out like two melons.
"Okay, doc," she smirked, "now that we're both rested, I want you to fuck me, but good."
There was no way of avoiding the slight thrill that shot through me. Men seldom hear a woman talk like that, and there is something very exciting about hearing such words from her under the right circumstances. And the circumstances were right.
"Glad to oblige," I grinned back. "Anything else I can do for you?"
Her hand went to fondle my sodden, sticky cock. "Yes. I want you to suck my tits, suck my clit, and lick my cunt until I scream. While you're doing that, I'm going to learn how to be the world's best cocksucker."
It occurred to me just then that I'd come to this girl's pad for more than just sex. To hell with it, I told myself. The night was young, my prick was loaded for love, and I had with me a girl who had to catch up for twenty-plus years of sexless living. The questions could wait until later.
Around two a.m., we finally lost most of our steam, deciding that it was time to quit for awhile when neither clit nor cock got completely hard no matter what was done to it.
So we had scrambled eggs, black coffee and orange juice, cooked and served by one naked beauty to one not so beautiful but equally naked private eye.
And we talked, mainly about the weird attack on her body. She tried to come up with some new facts for me, but failed, unable to do any more than repeat what she'd told Arlie Samuels.
"The lieutenant told me that some sex perverts never really have intercourse-nuts! I mean never really fuck-a girl. They just do other things, like cutting her cunt with a knife, or beating it with something, and sometimes they shove foreign objects into her, like ball bats and bottles.
I nodded. "That's true. Only, in the case of you girls, there wasn't any sign of external damage, and the internal abrasions didn't fit what one would expect from a bat or bottle."
I went on to add that the way each girl was drugged or knocked out first also deviated from the pervert's typical method.
"The sex screwball usually wants the victim conscious so he can see her suffer, hear her cry and react to the humiliation and pain of it."
But we got nowhere with the topic, so I went on to find out about her vacation, learning that she'd taken the 21-day excursion trip via Air France to the French Riviera, to Monaco, to be exact.
That rang a small bell, and I padded to the living room to fish the yellow sheet from my clothes. Back in the kitchen again, I mulled over the list.
"I'll be damned!"
"What is it, Chuck?"
"Did you know that each of you women took the identical kind of 21-day trip, and to the exact same country bordering France?"
She didn't know, any more than I had a moment earlier. Not that this bit of news was of much help right then, but it did speed up my pulse, knowing that at least I was on to something, no matter how small.
Marge listened intently as I explained how each victim was single, a Manhattan resident, between twenty and thirty, and living alone.
"Hey!" she suddenly yelled. "That reminds me! Georgina Holmes!"
"Who the hell is she?"
Quickly, Marge told me that Georgina was an old college chum of hers who had also gone abroad around the same time, and that she also fit the age, place, and living habit descriptions of the semi-raped girls.
"Where's the phone?" I cut in brusquely. "If that girl hasn't been attacked yet, she's about due for it, I have a hunch."
Marge dug Georgina's number from the book, dialed it on the phone in the bedroom, then sat quietly by as I talked to the sleepy voice at the other end.
After the brief call was over, and I knew what I needed to know, I hung up and accompanied the brunette back to the chilling eggs and coffee.
"Thank God she's not been bothered yet," I breathed, "although I can't figure why she hasn't been."
Marge brightened. "I think I know why. Right after she got back from her vacation last month, her daddy who lives in Wyoming had a heart attack. Georgina was out there until a couple of days ago."
That explained it. "Look, I have a creepy feeling that something's going to happen to your pal if she doesn't get some help. If you don't mind, I think I'll buzz over there shortly and do what I can for her."
"At half past three in the morning?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday," I retorted, so busy thinking that a hunk of egg slipped from my fork and plunged into my lap, to hang sod-denly on the side of my curled up cock.
"Let me clean it up," Marge said quickly, already on her knees before I could say a word. Not that I wanted to, really, because when she got through eating the bit of egg, she kept right on eating the sausage that lay beside it. Only it didn't stay small for long. By the time her mouth really began to work on that best part of our breakfast, I decided that no meal could ever be complete without some delicious cunt as a side dish.
Not the kinds of people who have to screw in any special place, we lay right down on the red all-weather carpet covering the kitchen floor. Obeying some cuckoo impulse, Marge reached up and brought down a half-filled coffee cup and the sugar bowl. While I watched with amusement, she dunked my prick in it, then sprinkled it with sugar until it looked like a cruller.
"Two can play that game!" I shouted, pouring the brown remains over her cunt before powdering it with sugar too.
We had, as they say, one sweet fuck then. Lots of calories, sure, but most of them were quickly enough burned off in the activity.
CHAPTER FOUR
The first light of dawn was filtering down through the concrete canyons of the city when the cab dropped me off two blocks west of Columbus Circle.
The neighborhood of brownstone houses formerly had been a lower middle class refuge for working girls, who doubled, tripled and quadrupled up to meet the rents in the three and four story converted homes lining the streets clear over to Riverside Drive.
Now, though, people had awakened to the fact that there was something attractive about living close in to the downtown area, and most of the working girls had been forced out, their places taken by the prosperous upper middle class who could afford rents of better than $250 a month.
So Georgina Holmes was a hold-out, not an easy thing on the salary of a dental hygienist. Luckily for her, her daddy was a well-to-do retired cattleman, and kicked in most of her rent, so she was able to swing a really lush pad with no worries except meeting utility payments.
Once past the intercoms and the buzzers, I had no trouble getting Marge's friend to open up for me. After all, nobody had semi-raped her yet, and the neighborhood was classy enough to keep muggings and that kind of antisocial behavior to a minimum-for New York.
This girl was a study in contrasts, platinum blonde instead of dark-haired, willowy and tall instead of meaty and lush, a wise-ass look on her face instead of the initial frightened one of Marge before her defenses came down.
Apparently the lounging suit was big that season in Gotham, for Georgina also was decked out in one of the two-piece things, except that hers was bright, shiny silver.
Since I didn't have to play doctor very much with this woman, I shed my former reserve and caution, frankly appraising her attributes as I settled comfortably into a horseshoe-shaped white chair and waited for the proffered drink.
This girl was no virgin, I knew. Obviously she wore nothing under the lounging suit, and the damned thing was tailored to hug every curve and crevass tightly.
The styling of the jacket was such that it served as a brassiere for her small but up-thrust and firm breasts, holding them beneath and shoving them forward.
The pants were hellishly tight, snuggled firmly to the graceful swell of her cunt mound, just as the two perfect cheeks of her ass were deeply cleft by the material wedging itself between them.
Georgina knew I was assessing her openly-and she got a kick out of it. Coming to stand before me and hand me my drink, she looked into my face with her purplish, wide-spaced eyes.
"You sure look a girl over, doc."
"Only when there's something to look over," I replied.
She moved one foot back at an angle, bringing the arm holding her drink over her head, striking a silly, artificial pose. "Well, what do you think?"
Where caution and understatement had been the right approach with Marge, I knew this wench preferred frankness. She got it. "Nice. All of it."
She sat down cross-legged in front of me, looking intently into my face. "Spell it out, doc. Don't beat around the bush. I'm the type of woman who likes to hear it out straight."
I smiled tolerantly, liking the game she had begun. "Okay. To put it in blunt language, Georgina, you're what us men call 'eating stuff.'"
A small crack showed in her composure and the beginnings of a blush rose into her classic features. "I-I'm afraid I never heard that term."
I had the upper hand now, and we both knew it. "Would you like me to be even more to-the-point?"
She nodded, the silvery strands of her smooth, lush hair tossing lightly around her pretty features.
I took a sip of my drink, stalling for time, building up her suspense. " 'Eating stuff is a girl a man wants to get really close to, the kind of female that stirs the impulse to spread her legs wide and bury his face in her snatch."
The puzzled look on her face told me she still didn't understand, not that this was unusual. The world is full of guys who never stick more than cock and finger into a girl's cunt, mainly because what is called the Puritan ethic makes them feel guilty about anything as intimate as eating pussy. So there were just as many girls unaware of the delights of having a man's mouth playing in their holes.
"In other words, honey, you stir the desire in a man to suck your clit and lick your cunt and drive you crazy wild before doing the standard cock and cunt bit."
She'd been sitting cross-legged, and now she unconsciously hugged her knees together. I could tell her cunt was tingling as her imagination dwelled on what it must feel like to have a knowing tongue lapping the juices down there.
Her face got thoughtful as her fingers quickly unbuttoned the tight silver blouse. I stared unabashedly as the jacket fell away, exposing sharp, pointed breasts, the kind that weren't very big, but made up for their skimpiness by being solid and firm.
The nipples, set in dark brown circles, were rough and up-tight, proof of her arousal. "Nice tits," I said evenly.
A look of small anger crossed her face as she began tugging at the zipper on her hip, a tough job in the position she was sitting.
"You know," she said with a frown, "a lot of guys have begged me to use my mouth on their-their things-but not one of those sons of bitches ever made the slightest move to do the same for me."
Patiently, I explained that men tended to be egocentric, self-centered, less concerned with the girl's pleasure than their own. That, plus their natural hesitancy about cunt lapping, too often made all-out sex a one-sided thing.
Georgina fell onto her back, shoving her long, slim legs up into the air so her slacks could be pulled off easily. There were no panties under them.
I was looking hard, waiting to see the color of her cunt hair, wanting to know if she was a real blonde. I wasn't to learn that way, because what I saw when the slacks were down and she was leaning on her elbows, her legs slightly apart, was a totally bare and hairless cunt.
"You have it," I breathed with no little admiration.
The blonde grinned. "Yep. I decided a long time ago that it was silly to keep legs and pits smooth and have the center of my body all covered with hair. It seemed crazy. And then, after a bout in the hospital for what we call a female ailment, when a nurse shaved me clean, I learned how good it felt to be hairless there, too."
The muscles in my crotch tightened and my mouth began salivating. I'd run across hairless nooky before, but not so often that I didn't consider it a real rarity and treat.
I must have been staring hard at her smooth crack.
"Would you-eat it for me?" she asked, almost as if afraid that I might not.
"Bring it here, honey. Bring it here."
That was all she was waiting for. Like lightning, she leaped to her feet, eyes sparkling, lips stretched in a broad happy smile.
"Let's do it big, huh?" she said, ducking behind the chair I was in to lean over my shoulder as my hands, hot and trembling, moved up to catch her hard, waiting knockers as our mouths met and our tongues clashed.
Then, like a beautiful snake, she slipped down over the chair's back until her flawless hips were alongside me, her face down by my lap. I knew what to do then, catching her around the waist and helping her straddle my head so that my vision was completely taken by that smooth fleshed cunt of hers, warm, damp thighs bruising my cheeks.
My hands deftly parted the pink lips, my tongue immediately moving in to lap her slit from top to bottom, softly at first, then more and more roughly with greater and greater pressures as her body began twitching and turning on top of me.
I felt hands working on my fly, struggling to open it, but then those hands ceased their efforts as I caught the tiny, reddish clitoral lump in my mouth and sucked hard on it. I knew she'd never be able to concentrate on getting my cock out now, not while flashes of uncontrollable passion were shooting through her as they had never done before.
Suddenly, she arched her back, pulling her cunt out of reach.
"Enough! Now I want it the usual way."
I was only too glad to oblige, quickly stripping off my clothes to lie beside her on the orange shag rug before the chair, our bodies joining face to face, tongues lashing each other as hands fondled my cock, tickled my balls, and otherwise stirred me to fever pitch, even as my hand, wet and hungry, pounded her clit and drove into the tightness of her slippery hole.
"Now!" Georgina screamed thinly, spreading her legs wide for me.
Without hesitation, I rammed my pulsing cock into her hole, thrilling at the wonderful tightness of it and the way she moved it up and down and from side to side, teasing me unbearably.
For a second or so, I toyed with it, shoving my meat in no more than an inch or two. Then I moved my hand from her clit to let the pounding of my pelvic bone work on her suffused clit.
Damn! I felt a sharp, annoying pain hit the sensitive end of my cock. Something sharp stabbed it, draining the passion from me.
The girl noticed my hesitation.
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know," I gasped. "Something in there-hurts like hell."
"Oh! Don't stop! For Christ's sake! Don't stop!"
Too much the gentleman to leave a girl hung up like that, even if it wouldn't be very good for me, I used my finger once again to stroke her inflamed clit, shortening my strokes so I never got in more than halfway.
With that technique, she came quickly enough, the muscles of her snatch hole tightening spastically on my cock, screams of delight tearing from her quivering mouth.
Cheated as I was of total penetration, I came weakly, my cream pumping without the usual thrills.
Too soon, it was over, and what I had missed, the blonde had more than made up for, so at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that she'd just had about the best fuck of her life.
When she'd recovered slightly, I suggested I take a look to see what in hell it was that had jabbed the head of my cock.
Believing I was actually a doctor, as both Marge and I had told her, she assented, lying passively as I retrieved my black bag, inserted the speculum into her dripping, hot hole, and peered in with a flashlight.
I had never looked into the depths of a snatch before, so I hadn't the foggiest idea what I was seeing. Using the mirrored flashlight I found in the bag, I poked the beam around, and then my untrained eye caught sight of something even I could tell wasn't female flesh.
It was white plastic of some kind, and a thought hit me.
"You wearing one of those birth control loops?" I asked.
"No. I'm on the pill. Have been since I was fifteen."
That ruled that out. I tried to grab the thing with my fingers, but it was too far in. No problem. The black bag offered up long-nosed plier-like things, and with those I managed to catch hold of the white thing, gently drawing it out into daylight.
"I'll be damned!" I exploded, staring at the prize. It was a curled plastic device, looking much like the interuterine loop doctors install to keep women unpregnant, only this was slightly different.
Halfway up its two-inch length was a four-pronged bracket. And in the center was a diamond, a big, round one, the size of a peach pit. I'd never seen one so big up close.
If I was stunned, the blonde was even more so. She stared incredulously at the device, glistening wet and sparkling with its precious contents, that had been pulled out of her hole.
"I don't believe it! Would you believe that I haven't the slightest idea how it got there?"
I could tell she was worried that I was mentally accusing her of some crime. I knew better as my mind quickly began to assemble the loose pieces of the puzzle DeGrooning was paying me to solve.
"I believe you," I said, leaning forward to plant a big kiss on her hairless cunt. As we dressed, I briefly out-lined my theory of how the stone had gotten into that strange place.
"Now, tell me," I asked her over my second breakfast within two hours, "how it could have gotten into you? It's obvious that it was done during the twenty-one days you were on the Riviera. And obviously somebody was close enough to you to be able to stick it in there.
It's funny how women act when their private lives are discussed. She'd admitted openly earlier that she's sucked men's cocks and had screwed many of them, yet, now, when asked about one single event in her busy sexlife, she was blushing.
"Well-I don't know...." she stumbled, unable to meet my glance over the dining room table.
"Come off it," I urged her gently. "We're grown-up people! I know and you know that I know that you use that cunt of yours for more than just pissing out of it. So let's have it. What guy was in a position over there to shove the stone into you without your knowing it?"
After a deep sigh, Georgina apparently made up her mind it was foolish to act virginal and coy with a man who had so recently sucked her cunt.
"All right. I think it must have been a good-looking stud named Marcel. I met him at one of the gambling casinos in Monte Carlo."
Describing him as a darkly handsome, athletic type with brown eyes and curly black hair didn't help much because I had a hunch that description would fit eighty per cent of the predatory males who made a living off single girls vacationing in Europe.
Prodding her for as much information as she could provide, I got precious little more useful data. She didn't even know Marcel's last name, where he lived, or what he pretended to do for a living.
Finally, after I showed at least a little irritation that a girl could let a man get into her pants without knowing anything at all about him-though Georgina plainly knew no more about me-she brightened abruptly.
"I just remembered! I took a picture of his car. It was a metallic blue Ferrari." She added that Marcel himself was unwilling to have his snapshot taken, but didn't mind her photographing his car, since he was proud as punch of it.
A moment later, I had the picture in front of me. It was a three-quarter shot from the rear. All that showed of Georgina's temporary stud was the back of his head. But it didn't matter, because something else just as useful caught my eye: the white Monaco license plate with its black numbers: 3477840.
That was all I needed. Feeling measurably better now, I relaxed and was able to enjoy my meal, drinking several more cups of excellent espresso as we chewed the fat. Although I wasn't willing to tell the blonde all the details of the case, I did explain how she was part of a diamond smuggling ring, and that only her two-week sojourn to Wyoming had spared her the indignity of being rendered unconscious and of having some anonymous slob lacerate her cunt as he ransacked it, looking for the gem his European accomplice had artfully shoved in there.
"My God!" Georgina cut in. "I suppose I've got to worry about this creep showing up now. Sure as hell they haven't forgotten about this rock!"
She had a point there. I had to admit the likelihood was strong that very soon her cunt would be the target for whoever it was that had dug into the other women.
"I don't suppose you could go back out to Wyoming for awhile?" I asked. "That would keep you out of it without tipping them off that someone was on their trail."
The blonde shook her head. "I wish I could, but I'm not lucky like Marge. I have to work for a living. Hell, the dentist I work for was put out enough because I went to see my sick daddy right after my three-week vacation. He wouldn't hear of me taking more time off. Besides, I couldn't afford it. That trip cleaned out my savings, not to mention the nasty fact that I bought my airline ticket on time. So I've got that hanging over my head. Daddy's got money, but not that much."
I thought about this for awhile, neither willing to have her subjected to unnecessary mistreatment by whoever, and equally unwilling to let go of the promise her present condition offered.
She would make damned good bait, was the thought that slipped up out of some dark recess of my head, even if my gentlemanly side insisted no girl should be exposed, no matter how much it might help solve my case.
Nuts, I finally mumbled half-aloud, deciding on my course of action. I looked Georgina in the eye steadily. "Look, I've got an idea. I'm going to present it to you. Just present it. There'll be no pushing, no trying to twist your arm. It's a proposal that would benefit some people while putting you out considerably."
It was impossible to read the expression on her face as I out-lined my tentative plan, and when I'd finished, I sat back to get her reactions.
For the longest time she just sat there, chewing her lower lip, looking up occasionally and then staring down into her lipstick-stained coffee cup again.
Finally, she spoke up, ever so softly. "If you think it'll pay off, I'm willing to go along with it. I guess I can stand a sore pussy for a day or two. And, as for the indignity of it, shit! I have to admit my cunt isn't exactly untrampled by men. So one more poke won't matter that much."
A heavy weight fell from my shoulders, and I headed for the phone, dialed the 44th precinct number, and waited for Arlie Samuels' voice.
An hour later, the downstairs buzzer sounded, and the detective's tired voice filtered metallically through the intercom when Georgina flicked the button set into the brass plate by the front door.
Soon, the three of us were sitting in a tight circle in the living room, none of us looking especially trim and chipper. Samuels had a heavy growth of beard after having been on duty since eight the previous morning, Georgia's usual neat beauty was slightly disheveled because of the screwing we'd done, and I must have sported a fair stubble myself, along with clothes wrinkled and tired-looking because they'd been on and off so much during the past eighteen hours.
Arlie was peering hard at the plastic spiral I'd retrieved from the hairless snatch. He turned it this way and that way in his hand, squinting at the very valuable stone clasped in the device's center.
"What a way to smuggle jewels," he mumbled, half to himself. He looked up at me as if itching to ask how I'd managed to recover the stone from such an intimate place. But he knew me and surely could figure that one out for himself. He did have a question, though.
"So what's your plan?"
"Simple, Arlie. How about fitting a micro-circuit radio into the coil and putting it back where I found it? Dollars to doughnuts the smugglers will be back to clean Georgina out before long, and when they do, your boys will be able to follow its path from its signals."
I could tell the idea appealed to the cop as he studied the device again. "Probably would work. The base around the stone looks thick enough to hold one of our tiny transmitters-I think." That last remark jolted him to action, and he almost ran to the phone.
Ten minutes later, he was back, a pleased grin on his face. "Our lab technician is on his way over with a transmitter. He bitched about it being Saturday morning and his day off, but he agreed to come anyway."
It was around nine when the stoop-shouldered, bespectacled professor-type showed up, clutching a small square black box in one skinny hand.
After formal introductions and accepting a cup of warmed-over coffee, the technician took the plastic coil from Arlie and furrowed his brow over it.
"What, may I ask, is it? Never saw anything like it in my life."
I had a hunch the less said about what it really was, the better.
"It's-uh-a hunk of way-out Italian jewelry. You wear it like a brooch, you know."
The man didn't look as if he quite believed my lie, though he was too timid to dispute my word, especially since the lieutenant nodded agreement to my tale.
"I see," he sighed. "Well, let's try out your set, shall we?" He opened the small box and poked around inside with a pair of surgical tweezers, coming out with a tiny cylindrical chrome thing that looked much like a hunk of nail that had been cut very short and rounded at both ends.
While the three of us watched carefully, he extracted a battery-powered hand drill from his bulging coat pocket, holding the tip of the twist drill carefully to the thick plastic at the diamond's base.
"Ahhhh," he breathed, as if the boring of the tool was giving him an orgasm. A second later, he pulled the drill out, examined the hole he'd made, then shoved the implement back into his pocket.
Seconds later, the tiny transmitter was deeply burrowed in the new hole, and he used the tips of the tweezers to carefully cover over the opening.
That done, he held the coil out to Arlie. "That should do it, sir."
"It won't fall out-I mean, it's reliable, unaffected by heat and cold, and that sort of thing?" The embarrassed look on his stubbled face told me he had almost put his foot in it by asking if the transmitter would do its job deep inside a hot, wet cunt.
When the technician had gone, our trio sat silently again, all eyes on the gimmicked white coil and its precious stone inset. Arlie held it between two powerful-looking fingers, no doubt thinking a long time about whether or not to ask the next question. Eventually, he came out with it.
"Now-how are we going to get it back in place?" He didn't have the guts to look at either of us as he spoke.
Georgina laughed wickedly, licking her lips teasingly. "Easy, lieutenant. Chuck here will put it back in the way he took it out."
As he stared open-mouthed, she quickly shucked off her silver slacks, standing tauntingly before us a second before dropping onto the carpet, facing us, long, neat legs demurely held tightly together and slightly pulled up so the smoothness of the swell above her cunt didn't show-yet.
"How about it, Chuck?"
I gave Arlie a haughty look, dug the speculum out of my bag, along with the long-nosed forceps. "Watch this," I grinned, more than a little tickled at my new profession.
The plainclothesman was completely bug-eyed, as if unable to believe what his eyes saw.
And what they saw was a luscious platinum blonde spreading her equally luscious legs, exposing her naked, inviting cunt to two eager spectators.
Quickly, glad for the juices I had gotten percolating earlier, I slipped the shiny instrument in, then followed it with the forceps holding the transmittered coil in its slender jaws.
The whole operation-maybe I should say the hole operation-took but a few seconds, now that I had the technique down pat.
If Arlie expected the girl to close her legs and get dressed again, he was sadly mistaken. She just lay there, in that wide-open, inviting way, a half-smile on her beautiful, sultry-looking face, watching me with a familiar, knowing tilt of her head, then at the other man with a sort of taunting, "What are you going to do about it?" expression.
For my part, I knew what I intended to do, not worried much about my pal, aware that, shy and inexperienced though he might be, it wouldn't take very much to get him involved in the activities.
"How do you like it?" Georgina suddenly asked him.
He was stunned, probably shaken up-by the knowledge that the woman knew damned well where his eyes kept going for still another look.
"Huh?" he flushed, forcing his glance to the ormalu clock on top of the ornate fireplace mantle.
The blonde wouldn't let go. "I mean, how do you like my pussy? Think it might be fun to play with?"
Arlie was too addled to reply, though both the girl and I knew he was thinking a strong yes. But he just sat on his chair, as if afraid he was going to fall off, strong hands held tightly to its sides, keeping himself upright.
Georgina wasn't the kind of wench to withdraw from the attack because a little passive resistance resulted. The smile still on her lips, she rose gracefully to her feet and walked over to the pensive-looking cop.
He looked up at her, first at the face, then down to her wonderfully pert boobs, down over her flat belly, coming to focus on the clean cleft of her cunt.
Not a word was said by anyone as she bent over slightly to put a hand on his crotch. "My, my," she said as if scolding a naughty child. "Your cock is slightly excited."
At this point, Arlie gave up trying to play the I-don't-screw-around-on-duty routine, letting himself grin up at the intent, demanding face.
"My balls are itching, too, ma'am." I knew he said it just to see if he could shock her, aware that some women, even those who threw dirty words around with abandon, were taken aback when the same words were said to them.
He picked the wrong pigeon this time, though, because all Georgina did was knead his crotch slightly, saying, "Let me suck them for you. That'll stop the itching, lieutenant."
Still not quite believing what was happening, he just sat there as she gently slipped off his coat, removed his tie, undid his shirt, and helped him out of it.
Next, clever fingers opened his belt, pulled down the zipper tab, and got the pants and shorts off with just the tiniest amount of help from her victim.
To say Arlie's cock was excited was less than totally accurate. It was more correct to say it was inflamed, standing up ramrod straight, looking longer and thicker than it probably was, rising like a ready rocket from the black-haired roots of his crotch.
"How nice!" Georgina hissed, dropping to her knees so she could study it closer, long, fine fingers going to skin it back, exposing the wet pinkness of the cockhead, a startling contrast to the brown wrinkled skin ensheathing the rest of his rod.
"I bet you come fast," she teased openly, deliberately licking her soft lips until they glistened wetly.
It would be natural to expect a man to be at least a little uncomfortable sitting stark raving naked like Arlie was, being sexed up by a woman he had only met a short time before, especially when a male friend was standing by watching the whole scene.
Only he wasn't-not now. I could see that the mere touch of Georgina's hands on his straining cock made him forget time and place, all his mind centered on the sensation flooding through him.
Somehow, he managed to look at her defiantly and say, "I have some control, ma'am."
This she had to disprove, and like a cat, she ducked in close between his hairy, white legs to swallow his cock deeply, her blonde tresses tossing up and down and from side to side from the vigor of her movements.
The raw flesh of his pulsing prick couldn't stand it more than a second or two, and he came, his body rising and falling so I could almost feel the spurts of cream as they gushed hotly into the sucking mouth encircling his prick.
It was over, and she retreated a bit to admire her handiwork.
"I figured it for about ten seconds," she remarked with self-satisfaction, "and I sure was right."
She sure was. Arlie's cock lay curled up on one leg, still long, but very much lacking any fullness, the wetness of saliva mixed with cream making it look as if it were sweating from the pounding it had just received.
The detective looked down at the loose organ wryly. "Shit! I wanted to have it come off inside you, ma'am, and you went and blew it."
We all laughed at the pun then and, after a whispered word from the blonde, I quickly peeled off my clothes, to show that at least my prick was ready for action, pointing like a flagpole.
Arlie leaned way over and did something with his pile of cast-off clothing as we watched, not knowing what he was up to until he sat up with the wide black belt from his pants held in one hand.
"Here, ma'am, give me a few with this and your cunt will get a taste of hot Samuels' cock in one helluva hurry."
My eyes must have popped from my head. I'd never figured my cop pal for any sexual hang-ups, least of all masochism. Still, like one headshrinker said, there's some perversion in the purest of us, so why should Arlie have been an exception?
While I watched fascinated, he got down off the chair, falling to his hands and knees while Georgina towered over him, the belt dangling from one hand by the buckle end.
She bit her lip, as if unused to this sort of thing.
"Go ahead!" Arlie urged her, "And hard! Don't be afraid you'll hurt me. That's the idea."
She hesitated as if frozen to the spot, and not until I gave her the nod, saying with one tilt of my head that she might as well do it if Arlie wanted it.
Her arm shot back, then came forward in a streak, the belt whistling through the air to whack fleshily on the broad, mole-specked back.
A red welt formed, then another and another, as the belt retraced its vicious, driving arc over and over.
Amazingly detached from the pain Arlie must have been feeling, I squatted down alongside him, staring at the prick hanging down flaccidly, swaying each time he jerked from a stinging blow. Damned if the pain wasn't working on him! After the fifth or sixth slash, his prick began to swell up, growing and growing, more and more rapidly, until it ceased swaying as his body wrenched beneath the savage blows.
"Stop!" he croaked just then, telling us that a few more whacks and he would have wasted his cream on the carpet.
Georgina was only too glad to, dropping the belt then and there, her eyes refusing to look at the lightly bleeding welts on her victim's back.
She did see what she'd done for his prick though, and that brought her normal happy smile back. "Well, I'll be goddamned!" she gasped.
She repeated that same phrase a few seconds later when the cock she had revived buried itself between her smooth legs, filling her aching cunt.
There wasn't much else for me to do except watch, so watch I did, standing slightly to one side and so situated that I could get a clear view of Arlie's shiny, driving cock sliding in and out of an equally shiny and dripping pussy.
Just before she got so caught up in her bit that she lost all contact with reality, Georgina looked my way, first at my hard, friendless cock, then into my eyes.
I read compassion there, along with a clear-cut message that sent me close to her, down to my knees, then across her chest so that my sorely needful prick was at her mouth.
She was about to suck it in when I felt a hand on me. Instinctively, I twisted my body a little, to see Arlie, a big shiteating grin on his face, swoop down and draw my prick into his open mouth for a brief, delightful second.
But it was only a game, I knew. He wasn't the boy type, and quickly enough my prick was back facing Georgina so she could suck it in and do her wonderful tricks, even as she found the energy somehow to bring a hand up and lovingly stroke my balls until, all of a sudden, the three of us came in virtually perfect synchronization, our sensations joining so nobody knew or cared who was doing what to whom.
As we lay around recovering from our exhaustion, I made a mental note of the pain bit with Arlie. I told myself that it was very likely that the knowledge of what suffering can do for one's sexuality might come in very handy at some point in time. When, I didn't know, but this was my first exposure to this sort of sex play, and it made one helluva impression on me, even if it didn't convert me to that form of activity.
Thank God it's Saturday, I recall thinking to myself, beginning to feel the effects of my wild games during the past hours. I was grateful for the coffee and doughnuts Georgina made for us, soon enough feeling more like a man, slipping into my clothes while Arlie, still bare-assed, telephoned the precinct house.
That done, he said to me, "It's all fixed. The lab boys are putting a UHF converter into one of the unmarked squad cars, and it'll be staked out in front of Georgina's place from here on out-until our man pulls his act. Then, they'll be able to tail him at a safe distance-up to a mile, in fact-and let him lead us to wherever their drop or hangout is."
Georgina, meaningfully running two fingers down into the bare cleft of her cunt as she spoke, told me to drop in again soon. I knew she didn't mean too soon, because I had a strong hunch my cop buddy was going to keep that hairless nooky pretty damned occupied for at least a day, or until he had the duty again.
The thought irritated me, but not for the obvious reason. Hell, he was welcome to use her. I've never had any pangs about sharing pussy with a pal. Only in this case, I knew that whoever it was that wanted the diamond hidden deep in her lovely hole wouldn't come around until Arlie was gone. This meant that every suck and every fuck between those two hot-to-go nudies postponed the time when Chuck Morgan could wrap up his latest case and collect his just reward.
"See you, pal," I grinned at Arlie, startling him as my hand shot out to shake, not his hand, but his cock.
The beautiful blonde laughed, opened the door, and pecked my cheek as I went out. My response was pretty fast, if I say so myself, and as I walked down the carpeted hall to the elevator, I savored the taste of the index finger I'd managed to get wet with some of this world's finest passion honey-and all in the twinkling of an eye. Or should I say cunt?
CHAPTER FIVE
With Georgina Holmes' lovely body bugged in a very original way, it was plain that at least one part of the whole smuggling puzzle would be taken care of by New York's finest. My knowledge of police methods and the resistance of the real professional criminal led me to believe that very little would be accomplished by tracking Georgina's violator to his nest.
The guy, most likely a very small link in a very big and clever criminal organization, would know just so much, and even that dribble of information would be difficult to extract now that the Supreme Court had forced law enforcement officials to treat criminals with proper respect for their rights as citizens.
This added up to the fact that if I was going to earn my money, I'd have to spend a little less time playing with the girls and a little more sniffing for clues.
Not particularly liking this prospect but seeing the inevitability of it, I went back to my pad for a four-hour snooze, a shower, shave, and a fresh set of clothes, the whole process leaving me feeling as if I hadn't had any sex for a month.
Thusly refreshed, I tucked Arlie's list into my pocket, along with my coded address book, and headed back uptown to check in with one or two of the likely informants I'd phoned the day before.
As much as I've always disliked fairies, Johnathan Brainard was an exception. One of the city's most high-priced hair stylists, he ran a basement beauty parlor near 59th and Fifth Avenue. It was a classy joint, complete to deep red pile carpets, piped in music, and a bar, looking more like a cocktail lounge than a place where high-priced women had their hair fixed.
I'd run into Johnathan two years back, when a broad-hipped television bit actress I'd been spending some time with decided to get her hair fixed at three in the a.m., right after the two of us had engaged in the kind of sport that often leaves a girl's hairdo something less than neat.
So she'd dialed Johnathan, telling me he charged so much he didn't care what time of the day or night his services were demanded. Shortly thereafter, while I cooled my heels watching a stupid movie on the late, late, late show, the girl was propped up on the toilet seat, with the muscular, good-looking fairy wrapping her curls up in rollers, totally oblivious to the promise of the lush, big-breasted nude so close to him.
Done with his chores, he was repacking his flowery sachel when I happened to call an ex-wino stoolie to check on what he'd been able to dig up for me regarding a payroll heist.
I must have talked too loud, especially when my informant didn't pan out and I got sort of mad. When I hung up the phone, the hair-fixing fag had coolly made a remark about having heard my conversation, and before I even had time to get mad at him, went on to supply me with some very useful underworld data.
Since then, I'd used the man frequently. Not only did he have access to the homo world and its secrets, but his establishment was the hangout for dozens of hoods' girlfriends. They, like all dames, talked freely among each other, often giving away things their boyfriends would never disclose even under torture.
Now, as I thumbed the gold-plated bell button beneath the discreet house number plaque that was Johnathan's only sign, I wondered if he'd come through this time.
His Armenian wrestler-type masseur opened the heavily lacquered black door, escorting me down a softly lit passageway that led to the plush private office where no woman, I'd heard, had ever been.
When we reached the steel-clad door, the Armenian, barrel-chested and not given to talking, hit the buzzer a few short and long pushes in some sort of code. Then he shuffled off to go about the business of pounding the wobbly flesh of overweight women.
Within seconds, the door slid open, and I stepped in, aware of the sweet perfume smell filling the room. There was an aroma of something else, too, the scent of anxiety's sweat, and I was immediately on guard.
Not that it did much good. No sooner had I set foot into the harem-style room with its Chinese-style furnishings and brass trim than the door slid shut noiselessly, and I sensed more than saw the two burly muscle types on either side of me.
Behind the fancy carved desk sat Johnathan, his handsome face puffed and bruised, a look of stark terror in his eyes. My instincts told me to play it very, very cool.
Calmly, I fished a butt out of the crumpled pack I always carried in the breast pocket of my jacket, lifted the heavy brass lighter off the desk, and slowly lit my weed.
The motions gave me a little time to study the goons standing wordless, threatening, and close, as if unable to figure out what to do with me.
I threw the two a weak smile, wishing they weren't so broad-shouldered and fast-looking. "Hi, fellas!" I lisped, hoping I was putting on a good fag act, rolling my big blue eyes and flicking my lips.
Battered though he was, Johnathan wasn't too far gone to speak up. "It's no good, Chuck.
They know you've been asking around about the jeweler."
So that was it. I'd asked the hairdresser; he'd asked around, and one thing led to another, until these two silent bone-breakers worked him over, probably delighted to have me drop into their laps.
Trained to watch for the smallest sign of things to come, I caught the imperceptible nod the one closest to me, the one wearing the loud checked suit, black shirt and white on white tie, gave his companion.
Plainly, checked suit-greasy black hair and all-was as close as this pair could come to brains.
His cohort, with a short-necked head that looked as if it had been pounded down into his purple turtle-necked sweater, had a flat-nosed face radiating ape-like stupidity. Dumb as he was, he caught the nod, leaving me with a small fraction of one second to make up my mind about what I intended to do.
Usually, since I'm a good loyal American, I try to let the other guy strike the first blow, because then he is automatically the aggressor. Under those conditions, anything I do is purely defensive, which makes me feel very virtuous, even when I'm laying some punk's head open and should be feeling guilty about being so mean to a fellow human.
The cigarette lighter, still in my hand, decided the answer for me. Weighing almost as much as the lovely hand grenades I'd heaved at Gooks who'd played games with me near the front lines, the brass cylinder lacked only an explosive charge to be totally effective. As it was, I could count on only one victim with it, but rather than worry about that, I straight-armed the handcrafted gadget, sending it straight as an arrow into the temple of the swain in the cheeky suit.
He went down like someone had reached up through the floor and yanked him below. His fellow-assassin didn't react to this even at all. I'd nursed a small hope that he'd at least pause a moment to reflect on his sudden solitude, but he was so dumb, that the only message rattling around in his pea brain was the one that had been triggered by his now-defunct partner.
He was surprisingly fast for all his beefy bulk, closing the three yards between us before I could line up my next brilliant attack. I took the course of least resistance and stepped, or rather, virtually tripped, backwards, trying to avoid the ham fists coming at me and the sharp edge of the heavy desk to my rear.
I half succeeded at both, taking a grazing roundhouse right on my cheek and getting a nasty poke in my ass from the desk. Now I was mad, risking a plaintive look at Johnathan as I began absorbing a flurry of hard punches that came too fast to let me slip in a judo trick or two.
Johnathan seemed in a daze, as if unwilling to believe that two men would beat each other's brains out when they could be lying in an inverted fashion, sucking each other's cock, or lying front-to-back, with one guy's cheeks passing for what would be thighs on a girl.
Then, abruptly recovering some of his steam, his hands began sweeping over the top of his cluttered desk. I no longer could afford the luxury of watching this scene, having to concentrate on applying Morgan's first law of dirty fighting: balls are balls.
Application of this law required that I raise a knee at the right time and join it with the slobbering goon's crotch, a task made no easier by the fact that he was trying the same tactic.
How the kneecap duel would have come out, I never did know, except that the blood on my face and the aches in my body suggested I would have lost. But luckily, something happened just then. The goon's wide-spaced, dull eyes glazed, he sighed as if he'd come in his size 44 shorts, and slumped to the Persian rug.
There wasn't much need to ask about the whatfor's of this happy conclusion to an otherwise nasty episode. Sticking out of the sweatered back was the hand-carved handle of a Schaeffer desk pen. Johnathan, usually tanned-looking, was white as the proverbial sheet, his bright eyes staring hard at the small ooze of blood making a dark circle on the dying punk's purple garment.
"Thanks," was all I managed to say just then, dropping into a shaggy green chair so my weak knees wouldn't have to support my sweating battered carcass.
While the still-shaken hairdresser nursed his psychic wounds and I my physical ones over hot rum, we discussed the tender nerve he must have hit to bring these two thugs down on him. But all my informant could tell me was that he'd asked around here and there, getting no particular response anywhere. And then those two showed up.
"So you can't tie them to anyone or anyplace, Johnathan?"
"No, sir, I can't. Whoever is running the show is real professional, so I'm willing to bet that there'll be no meaningful identification on either of them."
I agreed. A record check would most likely turn up their prints, not that we'd be able to go anywhere from there. My "whoever" would never leave an easy track like that to follow, I was sure.
Responding to some signal I missed, the Armenian padded into the room about then, paying barely any attention to the two forms lying on the floor.
"Get rid of them, Tarto," my helpful fairy friend said hopefully, as if not at all sure his helper would be able to.
The chunky blubber pounder caught the worry. "I do it," he grunted, caught up one body under each arm as if it were no heavier than a newspaper, and gracefully carried them out into the hall.
I knew better than to ask what was going to be done with the punks. My hunch was that the one I'd slammed with the lighter was still alive, not that it mattered a rat's ass because it was certain that he was already officially dead, probably to turn up face down in the East River, victim of what the police would list as "homicide by an unknown party."
Maybe their mothers would shed a tear for their departure. Nobody else would, though their boss might get a slight chill until he was sure no one was able to follow the spoor to him.
Now that the rum had taken off the worst bite and the room was no longer cluttered with unwanted guests, Johnathan started reverting to his old, amiable self.
He never gave up, even though he knew damned well I was strictly a woman's man. Now, he gave no warning as to his intentions, and the next thing I knew he had opened the fly on his beltless, hand-tailored gray wool slacks and had taken his cock out.
It was half-erect in his big hand. I'd never seen it before, so only now did it dawn on me why he often boasted about how much he was in demand among his male friends.
Under his gentle squeezing, the cock grew. And grew, and grew, until it stood up bigger than any prick I'd ever seen before. At least ten inches long and looking as thick through as my wrist. I was astounded. Not interested, understand, just astounded.
My ass twitched at the uncontrollable thought of having that rammed into me. Ouch! I winced inwardly, following this painful speculation with a tightening of the throat as I couldn't help thinking of how I'd gag and choke if that living salami were tickling my tonsils and dislocating my jawbone.
"Sorry," I said, really meaning it, since this man had saved my skin, after all, and I did owe him something. Not this, but something.
He sighed, leaving it out in the open as he fixed another drink, hoping that continued exposure of it would sooner or later change my mind and that I'd succumb to the temptation of making homo love to and with perhaps the biggest cock in the world.
By this time, my cuts and bruises were beginning to get to me, and the thought of a hot shower appealed to me more just then than sex of any kind. As soon as I decently could, I drained my cup, made my apologies, expressed my heartfelt thanks, and hobbled out into the cold fall sunshine.
Back in my apartment, I stood nude before the full-length bathroom mirror, assessing the damages. Actually, they weren't too bad visually. I did have one bad hurt, though, and that shot through me when I peered down at my cock, which was virtually the only portion of my anatomy that hadn't been chewed up in the brawl.
Always before I'd been sort of proud of that cock, knowing it was twenty per cent longer than average and a bit heftier. Now, though, it looked like a tiny cocktail wiener.
My God! I complained to myself, why does a guy with a pecker the size of a loaf of French bread have to be a fag? Well, there's no explaining Nature, I told myself, trying to content myself with the realization that my prick might not be the biggest, but it sure was about the busiest.
With that, I showered again, put on my second set of fresh clothes inside a few hours, repacked my list and address book, and went forth once more to play top-ranking private detective.
CHAPTER SIX
I'm one of those types who should never be self-employed. Back in my job days, like most wage slaves, I had dreamed about being my own boss, keeping my own hours, maybe even having an office in my hat.
It seemed like such a great way to live-no one to take a lot of shit from, no orders to follow, and with the opportunity to knock off work whenever you felt like it. Only that kind of business demands a guy who has lots of self-discipline, and that's something I have not much of.
This is why I forgot all about Arlie Samuels until I was four blocks from my apartment, already over halfway to the first address on the list I wanted to check.
I ducked into a drug store that smelled like the Center Street Morgue, wasting a good dime to do what I'd been too dumb to do at home for free.
Georgina giggled throatily when I identified myself. "Arlie? Hell, he about dried up and blew away."
She detailed the extreme activity that took place after I'd left, laying it all on a bit thickly, so I got the strong impression she was trying to make me jealous.
"After only four times I couldn't get it up for him," she complained, not too unhappy, in s fact, only slightly so.
I could have told the blonde that the detective probably could have done it more than four times-especially with a girl like her-but he was the worst kind of a dedicated cop. I was willing to bet that he'd given up only because he was beginning to feel guilty about having such a great piece of ass when the rest of New York's bluecoats were pounding the beat or otherwise trying to keep the place at least partially safe for the taxpayer.
After some mild chit-chat centering around when I'd be back to play some more games, I hung up, amazed as always how a woman has to be physically present to be at her best. Over the phone, when all that existed of her was her voice, few dames could come across strong with me. Georgina was no exception.
I hung up and went back into what writers refer to as the press of humanity, mulling over the thought that Arlie's departure meant the girl was now wide-open in more ways than one to the anonymous crook who wanted the gem scrunched way inside her cunt. I sort of pitied Mister Whoever for a second, wondering what kind of jerk would be so wrapped up in his jewel lifting that he couldn't even pause to dig his wick into that most delightful of pussies.
You'd think the most hard case hood would take a shine to a clean-shaven snatch attached to a dame with a great body and a face to match. Well, I mused to myself, it takes all kinds. I didn't know then how true my observation was.
Fifteen minutes later, after a refreshing long-legged walk, I was at Isabella Street in the Village, picking my way around the trash littering the narrow brick building-lined streets, ears hurting from the racket of noisy kids playing street games like stick ball and skate hockey.
A pair of seedy bleached hustlers who looked like they'd lost most of their charm twenty years ago loitered next to a Kosher meat market, giving me the eye.
If I'd been a slightly different guy, I would have turned my nose up, but I didn't. Actually, I favored them with a smile as I sped by. Hell, I knew what kind of appetites I had, and while I much preferred the Georginas, Marges and Hedras of the world, when I got hard up and needed something fast-well, the tired-looking, worn-out floozies might find some utility after all.
I'd about drained this brilliant thought to the bottom when I spied the house number I was looking for. Three green-streaked brass numbers nailed to a dirty whitewashed brick wall made me stop, searching for the door in.
There wasn't one as such, merely a rusty, scrolled iron gate about chest high that closed an entrance into the building.
I peered down a long, dank-smelling tunnel, barely able to make out the edge of some kind of small house that sat in the front building's rear courtyard. The gate was unlocked, so I shouldered it aside and headed for my target.
Standing on the slightly rotten, dirty gray wooden steps leading to the equally crappy looking front door, I laid knuckle to wood, hearing my pounding echo through the rooms beyond.
Nothing, so I slammed on the ancient wood again. Much to my surprise, the door swung open silently. For a moment, I thought some remote control thingamajig had been activated by someone elsewhere in the angular clap-boarded house, and then I happened to look down slightly.
There, standing in front of me clad in the smallest black bikini was a very short girl, maybe twelve years old, to judge from the seminal nature of her boobs and the straightness of her legs.
Long mouse-colored hair flopped to her narrow shoulders, cuddling a snub-nosed face that promised remarkable beauty in a few years-like maybe six or eight.
"Yes?" The voice was childish, bell-like.
I stumbled for the right words, ashamed that I could be reacting so grossly to the sight of so young a girl. "Uh-is this the home of Charlene Vallier?" I had to recheck my list to make sure I had the last name right.
"Why, yes!" baby boobs smiled warmly. "Come on in. She'll be-uh-right back."
All I heard when the front door clicked shut behind me was-yep-a click. Had I been clairvoyant, I would have heard a lot more, like maybe the roar of the voice of doom, or perhaps mystery, intrigue.
Now, among my typical masculine traits is a complete inability to make polite conversation with teenage girls. Once, when I was a teen myself, lissome twelve and thirteen year old baby dolls were The Thing, Hot Stuff items to be admired, drooled over, and causing frequent blushes and filthy fleeting images as I lay in my boy's bed, doing you know what to my you know what.
But when there's a chasm of almost two decades between man and girl, that's a different story, particularly when the girl looks like she's barely on the approaches to puberty.
So we hemmed and hawed for awhile until I agreed to a cup of tea. Not that I wanted it, really, but it would at least leave me alone for a few minutes, time I could use to look more closely at the surprisingly expensive furnishings filling the big, high-ceilinged living room I was holed up in.
Everything was strictly modern, from the clamshell shaped fuzzy white chairs to the sectional electric blue sofa. I was ogling a heavy wooden floor lamp whose shaft reminded me very much of what a petrified elephant cock must look like when the girl glided back into the room.
"I'm back," she smiled, carrying a silver tray laden with tea pot, cream, sugar, and a plate heaped up with tollhouse cookies.
I had to look, unable to avoid comparing the girl's black-covered baby tits with tollhouse cookies, comparing the chocolate dots atop the one with the black ones atop the other.
The little female was wiser than I suspected. "What are you staring at?" It wasn't asked in a nasty way. More teasing flashed in the steady brown eyes.
A flush heated up my face as I realized she'd caught me in the middle of thinking: I wonder if there's any hair on that cunt of hers. On top of the flush, I felt lousy for allowing myself such primitive thoughts about a mere infant, a half-grown baby who could get me thrown into prison for five to ten years if anyone nailed me for playing with her hairy or hairless pussy, now not so modestly hidden behind a tiny triangle of black material.
"Oh, nothing," was what I actually replied. "Just noting how fancy you get for someone you don't even know."
She laughed, coming closer, moving her young body expertly so that she emphasized, either deliberately or not, all those sexy features I was trying so hard to ignore.
"Oh, you mean the silver tray?" The brown eyes twinkled. "It's our everyday stuff. For fancy we use solid gold." She deposited the tray on a low marble-topped coffee table, asked my preferences, then spooned the fixings into my cup. "My name is Nancy," she said as she handed me the cookie platter.
"I'm a friend of Charlene's."
Her juvenile nature asserted itself as she sat down on her shapely haunches, placing her cup and cookies carefully between her drawn up and also shapely legs.
Damn! I muttered to myself. That position I didn't need because she was below me now, and tight as the bikini top was, I now had a good vantage point to see even more of the slight swell of her small breasts.
Besides, her legs were apart, and my eyes kept being drawn to the narrow black band ducking low under her flat belly, to shield her virgin hole from my view.
I told her briefly who I was and then fell speechless.
Silence. Deadly, shirt-collar-tightening silence as I groped for conversation, wishing to hell that Charlene would appear so I could ask about her French boyfriend, and so I would stop ogling the jail bait at my feet.
She finally shattered the calm. "Would you like to fuck me?"
I about fell off the chair with that, my mouth flopping open as I studied her, trying to decide if she even knew what the word meant.
Why not ask? Kids were often put off when a grown-up questioned their knowledge.
"Do you even know what the word means?" I queried in my most grandfatherly voice.
Nancy screwed up her face, wrinkling her nose. "I-uh-well, I think I do-sort of."
While I watched with no notion of what was going on, she leaped to her feet and dashed from the room, heading for the splatter painted stairs I'd noticed in the front hall.
Seconds later she was back, standing in front of me, her breath coming fast from the exertion of running upstairs and back so fast.
She held something out for me to look at, saying, "Isn't fucking when a man sticks this into a woman?" She placed her cute ass on the sofa.
She was half right. The wobbly, odd shaped device hanging limply from her hand was a very realistic copy of the immodestly hard tool nestled in my pants. I'd seen them in Japan, where their sale was open and unrestricted.
It was called a dildo in the trade, and was sold specifically for women to use on other women, after they'd strapped it around their waists, using the belts and buckles supplied.
When I asked where she'd gotten it, I was ill prepared for the long tale she told me, a story that got wilder and seamier with each sentence.
It seems that Charlene Vallier was something less than a pure young maiden. Somehow able to conceal her peculiar appetites from the social workers who pried into her habits, she'd managed to get Nancy as a foster child, receiving a few bucks a week from the City of New York in return for caring for the child whose home had been adjudged unfit, with the result that the courts had separated her from her drunken parents and cheerfully farmed her out to a foster parent.
"She's real good to me, honest," the girl almost pleaded, seeing the skeptical, worried look on my face. "She buys bonds for me and is putting lots of money into an account that will be mine when I'm eighteen."
She was fourteen now, which meant four more years of strapping on the dildo and shoving it into Charlene Vallier's cunt. Quite a setup, I reflected, feeling queasy about the fact that this kind of sex play had a way of warping humans who partook of it too young.
"And all I have to do is use this rubber thing, that's all. Heck, I don't even have to clean house or do dishes-a girl comes in for that three times a week."
There wasn't much I could say.
"Now will you fuck me-please?"
Again, there wasn't much I could say. To be honest, I wanted to, having never had a girl so young when I was so old, though my law-abiding, more sensible side reminded me sternly that this would be playing with the worst sort of fire.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't talk that way, Nancy. You're too young a girl to be involved in what you're doing."
"Charlene won't be back for hours. She's gone to Jersey to look at a used airplane."
I didn't rise to the promise or comment on her earlier lie about her guardian being back soon.
"And nobody else will come either. We're alone until at least six."
I kept my face expressionless.
Damned if a tear didn't form at the corner of her eye! One tiny tear that ran over her pink cheek to disappear beneath her small chin.
"You've got to! You don't know what it's like, you don't!" Interrupted by fits of sobbing, the girl poured out her woes, most of which hinged on the fact that she'd been shoving the phony cock into her foster parent for two years. And in all that time, she herself had never gotten so much as a moment's thrill, not even a trace of pleasure.
"It's all her fun! She screams and carries on and I feel the hot juice flooding out of her, but I don't feel anything else! I even tried sticking it into myself, but it wouldn't go in."
She leaned forward from her perch on the blue sofa, her face serious and sad. "I may not have another chance, Mr. Morgan. So I beg you-please fuck me!"
Patiently, I told her some of the other facts of life, like the ones about what the law does to male adults who have intercourse with under-age females. I also had to throw in a small reminder that girls who didn't know all the facts of life occasionally got more than they bargained for. "You could turn into a parent, too, you know. And I don't mean a foster one."
Nancy grinned at that, slapping her small hands emphatically on her slim legs. "I'm not that much of a dummy! I'm safe today and tomorrow...."
She was in a real bind, that I knew, praying for a chance to enjoy some of the passion she'd been arousing and satisfying in her companion, faced with the fact that there were few enough days in the month that she could do so with impunity, and even fewer, when you considered that Charlene seldom left her alone like this for so long.
"Nope," I breathed with real regret. "I can't do it. Maybe you've learned a lot, young lady, but you're still basically innocent."
At that she laughed, bounding to her feet again, to dig under one of the thick sofa cushions, coming up with a bulky red leather-covered book.
Without another word, she crossed to me, sat on the arm of my chair, and dropped the book into my lap.
"Go ahead. Open it. You'll see how innocent I am."
It was a photo album, page after black page covered with snapshots-and what snapshots!
My eyes almost fell from my head as I studied them, soaking up the revelations. The first discovery I made was that Nancy looked damned good totally nude, with just a trace of fur on her cunt.
Easy enough facts to acquire because the photographs were all of her, wearing that rubber obscenity. The shots and poses differed only in one significant detail: in each one, Nancy was fake-fucking a different woman.
Here, a slightly bloated-looking, frizzy-haired dame in her fifties; there, a skinny twentyish thing with the proverbial clock-stopping face. On the next page, there was Nancy on her back, the dildo up straight as a thick hipped redhead rode up and down it and another woman, looking much like the wife of a public figure, squatted over the girl's mouth, getting her cunt licked while she smiled like an idiot.
A public figure's wife! I looked closer. Hell! I knew that bitch, though I'd never seen her like that. A couple of hard thinks and I had her placed. My God! The spouse of one of the biggest, most powerful politicians in the whole state!
With shaking hands, I looked for more women I knew, not exactly sure what good this information would do me, though harboring a strong hunch that I'd be able to make use of it one way or another.
My hunting was rewarded. There was a view of a rather horsey-looking woman around forty on her hands and knees, as poor Nancy rammed the rubber cock into her from the rear. This woman I recognized as the wife of the top Manhattan party chairman.
And there were others whose faces were familiar to me because my work got me into many bigwig offices, often getting me invited to cocktail parties, receptions, and dinners, where these wives were.
As my request for another cup of tea was being honored I took the opportunity to slip three snaps out of their transparent envelopes, quickly hiding them in my jacket pocket.
No, I had no blackmailing intentions whatsoever, only the strong desire to protect myself. It was self-evident that a large percentage of the city's administration was represented on the female side by the contents of Nancy's album, and I had a feeling that if anyone ever tried to nail me for what I was pretty certain now I was going to do, it would require no more than a look at a picture or two to convince whoever my foes were that it would be better to forget my transgressions. After all, if mine weren't, neither would Mrs. What'sis's be, and her mate had far more to lose than I.
Nancy explained the meaning of the album's contents after some prodding. It seems that my assessment of Charlene's wealth was fairly close to the mark. She was loaded, deriving her substantial income from supplying New York's jaded and bored uppercrust women with a delectable delight in the form of young Nancy.
Hardened as I was to the nutballs floating around in this world, I was nevertheless taken aback by the discovery that there could be so many solid, respectable middle-class wives who got a kick out of offbeat sex. The knowledge was really hard to swallow because I'd always assumed that the wives of wheels played it extra cool, so that even if they did have some wayout inclinations, they'd be un-likely to try satisfying them as long as their husbands were in the public eye.
So I was wrong, half wishing Charlene Val-her would come home so I could see firsthand what kind of woman was responsible for all this.
Nancy went on to add that each of her performances was worth fifty dollars in her own private bank account, the other hundred going to support Charlene's high style of life.
A hasty guess supplied the information that the little girl had strapped the dildo on for close to eighty women, many of whom, she said, were repeat customers.
To my question of whether Charlene took part in these games, Nancy nodded, explaining that Charlene also took the pictures-"insurance" she called them-which accounted for her being absent from all of the poses.
If I'd thought the teenaged nymph was embarrassed or ashamed of what the album depicted her doing. I was off base. She wasn't exactly proud of it, but rather noncommittally matter-of-fact, as if it were no more than a way for a semi-orphan to assure her future.
While I listened fascinated, she detailed her activities with the upper crust dames her foster parent dug up. Not only did she fuck them with the rubber cock, but also delighted many with her tongue.
"The funniest thing, though," she said, "is how those women like to feel me. I don't mean between my legs, but all over. It's as if they're remembering what their own bodies must have been like years ago."
That remark prompted me to look sideways at her own young bod. Nice.
The sight of all that scantily-clad smooth young flesh made my balls tingle pleasantly. Hell, every man knows, even if few will admit it, that the male animal can be as aroused by some very young chick as by an older one. Law and custom may insist that he restrict his sex play to those over eighteen, yet no rules can stop what a man feels when faced with an attractive face and body, no matter what its age.
"Now will you fuck me, Mr. Morgan?"
Don't be too anxious, I scolded myself, knowing damned well that a bit of teasing and withholding served to stir a girl up better than almost anything else.
So I replied with an even, thoughtful, "I don't know. It wouldn't be right...."
That did it. She got to her feet and came to stand before me. Her eyes met mine as small hands went behind to undo the halter knot. I couldn't help myself, having to stare hard at the budding breasts that sprang into view when the black ribbon fell away. It was funny, I recall thinking, that I could be so affected by such tiny boobs, as if they had as much or more magnetism as the big, lush kind I was used to.
The brown circles at the ends of the pointy tits were large, the nipples erect, rough-looking, bringing my tongue unconsciously to my lips. She was getting hot. So was I for that matter.
The hands paused long enough for me to get my fill before slipping down to unfasten the bow on her left hip, and then the second black ribbon fell off, over smooth belly, past the lightly furred cunt, to catch between her perfectly creamy thighs. A slight movement of one leg and the cloth lay on the floor.
My breath must have sounded funny escaping the way it did.
"You like me?" Nancy smiled worriedly.
All I could do was nod.
Now it was my turn. While the girl ran to lock the front door, I got down to shorts and T shirt, my cock making the jockeys really lumpy up front.
Without further ado, she ran back to me, clumsily yanked off the shirt, then kneeled to pull down what remained, her eyes wide as she got a good look at my prick, which was pointed right at her.
She giggled, touching it experimentally. "Gee! It looks just like a rubber one!"
There's something tantalizing about a young virgin, the way she stares and oohs and aahs over what other females take for granted. Like the kid she was, Nancy made me lie down on the sofa, then proceeded to study and touch my body from top to bottom, stroking my limbs, fondling my balls, but always returning to caress my cock, which hardly needed it.
Finally, when I couldn't take the inaction any more, I said, "Come lie on top of me, on your back."
This is a great position for exploration. With her on me like that, I could run my hands up and down her, thrilling at how hard and solid her small nubbins were, enthralled with how perfectly smooth all of her was.
I'd forgotten about that smoothness, somehow. I knew that, as girls get older, their skin roughens a little, developing blemishes, losing that slight transparency it once had.
And the soft down on her pussy, like angel hair, not coarse or rough.
Obviously, the rubber thing had never been shoved in here. The entrance, brimming with wet, was tight, barring my finger.
She was panting now, trembling slightly, offering no comment or resistance as I got out from under so I could kneel by the sofa and study her full-length.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I stroked her body from top to bottom, pausing occasionally to plant an open-mouthed, gentle kiss on her eager young lips.
My cock was burning with want, and yet I forced myself to go slow, slow, slow. When I felt she was totally relaxed and receptive, I touched the downy cleft of her cunt again, lightly probing her cherry.
Under my prodding, it gave slightly, proof that this wouldn't be too difficult a job, much as I disliked it. Some guys like ripping the cherry out of a girl. I never did.
Never let a dame associate prick with pain, a smart-assed Army medic had told me once when we were discussing virgins, meaning that if a girl's first fuck was painful, her subconscious would" carry the memory forever-and that could cause a hang-up.
So I had to do it another way. When my left hand was good and wet from slipping up and down in the molten flesh of her inexperienced pussy, I gradually began exploring her hole, ever deeper, ever farther in, increasing the penetration gradually, using one finger first, then two, then three.
Suddenly, I twisted my hand carefully yet firmly and Nancy gasped once. It was done.
Wondering if people-spit had the same healing powers as legend says dog spit does, I shoved my head between those still unformed legs and let my tongue lick the slightly sore area. It tasted good, brimming over with youthful pure cream my mouth eagerly sucked up.
Quickly, I located the tiny clit between the smooth lips, tickling it with my tongue, trying to get the tiny germ of a thing to grow.
Would it? I didn't know about girls this young, a recollection stirring in me that kids her age either felt nothing at all or were really ripe for it. Damned if I could sort fact from fancy.
So I asked. "Feel anything?"
"No. I mean-it feels good, I guess."
So the clit was not yet alive. Instantaneously, my brain clicked into gear, bringing up the scene of Arlie getting his back lacerated under Georgina's belt blows.
Would it work on Nancy? Would pain get her going? I had a hunch it might. Hoping for the best, I raised the trim leg nearest me and slid my head in underneath it, putting my face really tight up against the welling, bubbling cunt that no man had ever seen before.
My tongue found the little clit again, serving as a guide for my mouth. And then my teeth. Hesitating more than I should have, I held the tiny lump of woman's essential passion between my teeth for a second or two, afraid to do what I had to do.
And then I bit down, not too hard, but hard enough to feel the girl's body jerk like a puppet on a string, my ears filling with her thin, startled scream.
"Sorry," I said, as if it had been an accident. "Let me kiss it and make it better."
I licked and licked the clit over and over, knowing that the pain I'd inflicted had made the girl totally conscious of that special part of her, driving in a new awareness.
The cream flooded out between her cleft, my tongue growing sore at the roots from my strenuous working at the clit, and then it happened. I felt the tiny grain lose its flabbiness, taking on a new form, swelling to a definite roundness, suffusing with blood, giving Nancy her woman's version of a hard on.
"Golly!" she gasped. "Oh, golly! That feels so good! Golly!"
Her small fists began beating on my back, her spine flexing upward until her whole being twitched so much I couldn't keep my mouth on target.
"Fuck me now! Fuck me now! Please!" she started screaming, supplying me with the little urging needed. Immediately, I was on top of her, thrusting her neat legs wide apart, not too far gone to be able to enjoy the way her eyes bulged at the sight of the real human cock poised below her belly.
Without further ado, I guided my prick into the young cleft, letting the thrilling feeling of wet love flesh tingle its sensitive head. Then, hoping my fingers had paved the way properly, in I went. Damn! Was she tight! And that's the one thing a hot cock can't stand, not a really tight hole that grabs and strokes and drives away all self-control.
"Harder!" the girl screamed, as if that advice was necessary. I had thrown away all reservations and control, hammering hard into the luscious hotness of her, knowing that each deeply penetrating blow was also slamming into her aroused clit.
It came fast for me, a series of frothy, pumping, boiling spurts that shot my cream far into her flexing, grasping hole.
"Aaaaaah!" I heard a fourteen-year-old girl scream violently, telling me that for the very first time in her few years, she knew what it was like to be at the receiving end of a first-class fuck.
Temporarily fagged out, I lay down alongside her to rest. She didn't need that, I guess, because she sat up, her face shiny wet, flushed, happy. Without saying a thing she leaned over my used-up cock and licked it softly, like a cat cleaning its paw.
"I wonder why those friends of Charlene's prefer a phony one to this?" she speculated half-aloud. It was a question she asked three more times, and for three damned good reasons.
When her young cunt was so pleasantly sore that it made her decide to stop for the time being, we talked, lying naked on the pink oval rug before the sofa.
Idly, I ran my hands over the smoothness of her, ever amazed at how much natural beauty real youth has, a kind of perfection that flees as the pages on the calendar are torn off. I asked about Charlene, despite my sexual interest, feeling the tug of duty, much like Arlie must have felt it when he tore himself away from Georgina.
No Nancy didn't have the slightest idea what men she'd been with in France. She herself had been sent off to an exclusive girl's camp for the three weeks her foster parent was gone, and Charlene hadn't spelled out any of the more personal details of her vacation.
"Oh, wait a minute!" she said, struggling to get up with very weak legs. She half-tripped to the bookcase flanking the high curtained window, pawing among a stack of magazines to come up with another thick, bulky photo album.
"I think she stuck a photo in here that might help."
This album was harmless enough-shots of aunts, uncles, other people's babies, that sort of crap. Then, toward the back, I found a bunch of pics that plainly were taken recently. A view of the Eiffel Tower, another of the beach at Cannes, and then another very familiar one. It was the park in front of the Monte Carlo Casino.
And smack in the center was a long, low Ferrari. Once again, the male behind the wheel had his face turned away from the camera's lens. But I could read the license plate number. It was the same as the one on the car used by Georgina's one-night stand, the curly-haired Marcel. On impulse, I removed the photo from its mount and turned it over. "Gregoire and his divine car," was all it said. That meant the Ferrari was most probably a company car, the smuggling ring's studs taking turns using it to impress the American girls they were going to plant.
Sure that I had collected the last bit of information I needed to plot my next move, I closed the album and patted the naked girl's hand.
"Thanks a lot, Nancy. You can't know how much of a help you've been."
She looked querulously at me. "Are you going to wait for Charlene?"
There was no mistaking the meaning of her words. She liked me and wasn't delighted at the prospect of having her foster mom get her hooks into me, and I had no doubts that Charlene wouldn't let a man leave her house before she'd gotten some service out of him.
"No," I replied reassuringly. "She can't tell me anything you haven't already, so I'll skip her, if you don't mind."
Of course she didn't mind, grinning broadly, looking more her age than ever. The grin faded quickly as it had come to be replaced by a frown.
"You've spoiled me, you know."
Damned right I knew. Never again would she be willing to settle for no more than money in return for giving others sexual delight. From now on, she'd crave it herself. The image of her lying lonely and frustrated in her bed, flicking her clit for at least a little relief didn't sit very well with me.
"I'm sorry about that. Of course, you know that I can't come back, at least not right away."
She was realistic enough to understand how risky a continued liaison could be for both of us. I could lose my freedom and she could find her ass back in court, to be remanded to an orphanage in upper New York State.
"I understand," she whispered. "But I was wondering if you could maybe arrange something for me. I've got to have more now that I've learned how wonderful even a little of it can be."
That was funny. The girl had been fucked over and over until her pussy was raw. She'd come a dozen times, and here she was talking about the "little bit" she'd had. Plainly, here was one female who would demand much from her men.
But what could I do to help her? An idea came to me, not much of one, though it was better than nothing.
Telling her to get dressed again, as if the bikini was much cover, I explained that I'd only be gone a short while.
Boy, time had flown. Outside, the sun was growing faint, its disappearance bringing the fall cold in extra measure. I pulled up the collar of my jacket, heading back to Isabella Street.
Two blocks down, I found the coffee house I was looking for. It was a shabby, sparsely furnished dump, boasting of not much more than a homemade bar with the inevitable espresso machine and coffee urn, plus an assortment of cheap-looking pastries.
But it was the people I was interested in, the ragtag assemblance of young kids, most with long, stringy hair, lounging around, reading poetry to each other, here and there one strumming a guitar, while others had their noses buried in books.
If my civilized clothes and clean-shaven face jarred in the beatnik atmosphere, it didn't show. Nobody more than gave me a passing glance as I stood by the front door, staring around for what I was looking for.
I found him. I didn't know his name or who he was, only that he had the right look about him.
"Okay if I sit down?"
The twentyish boy with the long sideburns and baby-pink cheeks looked up from his novel, alert brown eyes sizing me up.
"Sure, man. It's a free world."
Slowly, I wormed the basic facts out of him. He was a sophomore at City College, majoring in history. His folks lived in Trenton, so he had his own private pad-half a block away. Good.
When I felt I was on a good enough basis with the boy, whose name turned out to be the un-likely one of Horace, I indicated the few girls in the room. "How's the sex around here? They tell me you Villagers have it pretty wild."
"Huh, don't I wish it!" he snorted. "That's a lot of crap, Chuck. One hung-up chick tells a reporter she lives with a guy in the unmarried state and the papers say sin is rampant. Hell, the busiest guys down here are the fags."
He went on to explain that most of the stringy-haired, gaunt-looking girls in the neighborhood were more interested in such things as the psyche than the body. Many would let a man in their pants, though not with any great relish. It was as if they were fulfilling an obligation, doing no more than helping out a guy who had hot pants and a hard cock.
"They just lie there, is that it?"
That was it, Horace sighed. "Somewhere there has to be a girl who craves to get laid, a chick who grabs for a guy and who yells when he's shoving it to her...."
His voice carried uncertainty, as if he wasn't quite sure if he wasn't expecting too much out of life.
The conversation had come around the way I wanted it to by now, so the boy didn't ask too many questions when I paid his small tab and led him back up Isabella Street.
Nancy studied Horace and Horace studied Nancy when they came face to face at her front door. I stood aside, watching hopefully.
The kid was open-mouthed, seeing that trim young body in an un-likely bikini smack in the middle of New York on a cold September night.
Both of them took time out from their staring to look at me, as if I were expected to referee this event.
If that's what I had to do, I told myself, I better do it.
"Nancy, Horace here tells me the girls he knows either hate sex or barely tolerate it."
She smiled softly at the flush rising in the young man's features. He was nervously fiddling with the ragged brown scarf wrapped around his neck, partly concealing the black pullover he was wearing.
"I love sex!" she told him, looking him right in the eye.
Horace couldn't believe it, to judge from his hesitancy. Maybe he suspected some kind of elaborate trap.
When I checked my watch just then, the girl broke in with, "Don't worry. Charlene called while you were out. Told me to fix my own supper because she ran into three old girlfriends and they were going to have a quick-uh-party. Said she'd be here at eleven, the earliest."
That was welcome news.
The boy's obvious discomfort got to Nancy, worry lines wrinkling her forehead. "Say, you haven't got a hang-up, have you?"
"No. Oh, no!" he blurted. "It's just that I-" He lapsed into silence.
"Maybe you'd better prove your interest to him," I remarked meaningfully.
She got the message, quickly reaching in back to undo the bikini top, then the bottom, until she stood shimmeringly nude and desirable in the center of the large living room.
Horace gulped audibly.
"Now you," she commanded lightly.
That took some time to register in his mind. He turned to me, as if wanting to ask a question.
My answer anticipated it. "She means you should take your clothes off too."
Somehow, he doffed the scarf and got out of his pullover.
Bare-chested, he stopped, unable to do more than stare hard at the promise of the nude body before him.
Understanding a great deal for a kid so young, Nancy moved close to him and undid his belt buckle and fly. A zip and a tug, and he was in his boxer shorts.
Hell, I grumbled almost aloud, he hasn't even got a hard on! Had I goofed and picked a fag or a momma's boy for the desperate girl?
She didn't seem to notice this lack right then, decisively pulling down the shorts until they, too, lay around his ankles.
Both of us eyed the boy's cock. It looked normal enough, maybe even bigger than some, but it just hung there like a tired rope end.
Now his blushing had turned his young face beet-red. He was frozen with anxiety compounded with desire and bashfulness.
It took only a nod from me to get Nancy to her knees in a flash. With a lack of hesitation that was remarkable for a fourteen-year-old girl who had seen her first real prick so recently and was not yet totally recovered from having her cherry broken, she slipped the soggy prick into her mouth.
Aha! That's better! I grinned, seeing the surprised cock swell suddenly until it was too big for the mouth inflaming it.
"I guess it's time for me to go," I sighed, half wishing I'd be invited to stay and at least watch, if not to partake of the wild activities sure to come.
I might have saved my breath. Neither boy nor girl paid me any attention. It was as if they were alone and I didn't exist.
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" Horace sort of moaned as he realized fully that here really was a girl who wanted sex.
And Nancy. She was so deliriously happy that she was crying as she fell to her lovely round haunches and pulled her new-found lover down with her.
"Oh, fuck me, Horace! Fuck me!"
Try as I might, my eyes refused to pull themselves away, even though my legs were dragging me to the door. The last thing I saw was Nancy's downy cunt, dripping wet as the boyish, probing tongue shot out to savor its tasty juices.
I'd done my good deed. Now, if Nancy could manage to get Charlene out of the house a few times a week, the girl would make out all right. It was most likely that she'd have to continue strapping the dildo on and screwing frustrated bags, but at least she was having money salted away for her. In a few more years, she'd be well enough off to go her own way, free as a bird. In the meantime, that fascinating sweet cunt of hers would not have to go without the necessary thrills that only a real, live man's prick can supply.
Consoling myself with the thought of my kindliness at the expense of my own desire, I went through the tunnel, closed an iron gate behind me and tried to relieve the ache in my cock by concentrating on what I was going to do next to keep DeGrooning happy and my income safe.
Despite my denial of Nancy's offer, I was a lucky bastard. The girl must have been out shopping or something when the diamond plucker came to clean out Charlene-which was his bad luck, for I guessed he'd have been unable to turn that kind of wild pussy down. I had been lucky, no doubt about it. I whistled to myself as I headed home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back in the tranquility of my apartment, I cooked up a skimpy supper and called the airport to make reservations for the next day's flight overseas.
That done, I debated the evening's activities, thinking Hedra would hit the spot right now. She was mature, ripe, wise and very skilled with her whole body, from mouth to cunt, and she would make an enjoyable contrast to the newly-awakened Nancy of earlier.
But the phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. Slightly irritated, I picked up the receiver to discover woefully that the voice at the other end belonged to the fortyish woman across the hall from me.
A sharp-tongued if good-humored old bitch, she had run a whore house in Panama until the late fifties, when she'd retired to the States, bringing her young daughter with her, her common law husband having died five years before from malaria-or so she said. I always suspected he'd killed himself sampling the merchandise at his wife's establishment.
It was the daughter she was calling about now.
"Honest, Chuck! I can't do a fucking thing with that kid! I brung her up to play it cool. Shit, I don't care if she gets laid, but I warned her time and time again to play it cool. Instead, she talks it up all over her high school, and people are all the time calling me up, like her principal, telling me what a filthy mouth she has, and I should do something."
I knew the girl. Martha, a sloe-eyed, lanky wench with a body much too lush for a high school junior. She always chewed gum, threw her boobs and hips around, and talked out of the side of her mouth.
Most mothers would have rather died than discuss such a nasty subject with a male neighbor. Mrs. Arthur and I had an understanding, though. The old fleshpot proprietress had taken note of the steady stream of dames coming to my apartment at all hours of the day and night. This struck her fancy, maybe even reminded her of the old days, so she kind of warmed to me, sometimes too much so, as when she tried a grab at my cock in the elevator one summer's night.
Now what could I do to straighten her girl out? She was too hard-looking and stupid to ever appeal to me, that was certain, so I couldn't fuck her into submission.
No, I needed something better than that.
"Hell, she boasts about what she does!" her mother continued into my ear. "When I suggested she get a hobby to take her mind off boys, you know what she sassed me with? She says she has a hobby: finding the biggest cock in the world to hold between her legs. Imagine! Talk like that from a seventeen-year-old girl! And to her mamma!"
An idea came to me. "Is she home now, Millie?"
"Yes. In the tub, maybe trying to scrub the filth off her."
"When she's dressed, call me again. I think I may have a way to cure her."
I hung up on profuse thanks. Seconds later, I dialed a familiar number, crossing my fingers as I waited for a response. Would he cooperate, considering his likes and dislikes? Probably yes. He did have a sense of humor....
Millie Arthur buzzed back about an hour later. I got dressed, killed the light, and went over to push the buzzer by her door.
Martha, bleached blonde hair in an elaborate high hairdo, sat on the flowery lavender and white sofa, not even looking up from her comic book when I came into the room.
With one prayerful look, her mother closed the door behind me and slipped silently into the kitchen, not wanting to get in the way of whatever I'd planned.
"Martha?"
She looked up sullenly, deliberately throwing her shoulders back so I'd be sure to notice that her nice round breasts were braless.
"Yeah?"
"Stand up. We're going out."
Her expression remained blank. "You kidding? I got a date coming."
She decided to stand up anyway, probably assisted by the hard hand I wrapped around the nearest wrist and pulled with.
"Say, what's the idea?"
Her skirt barely covered her cunt, making me suspect that was probably uncovered also. Not bad legs either.
Instead of letting myself luxuriate in looking over the fairly neat, if chunky hunk of female flesh, I brought my face down close to hers.
"Look. You're going with me, so shut up. If you resist, I'll beat the shit out of you; if you yell, I'll slap your fucking teeth out, and if you try kneeing me, you'll learn that my kneecap pounded up into your busy little crotch doesn't feel so damned hot either. Now move!"
Nobody, but nobody had ever talked to her like that before. She turned meek as a lamb, shoulders slumping, face going blank, feet shuffling across the floor to the door.
She huddled on the far side of the cab during the ride uptown, not asking where we were going, not looking around as I paid off the cabbie on 59th and held her arm tight, heading for the lacquered door.
Minutes later, we were in the oriental-style office. Now Martha woke up, eyeballing the luxurious furnishings with an evident hunger that told me this kid probably hoped to fuck her way into a penthouse and mink coats.
Johnathan, handsome and tall in snow-white Nehru jacket and slacks, came around the desk to smile down on the blonde.
"Well! Well! So this is Martha!"
She didn't reply, merely throwing the big man what was intended to be a withering look.
Ignoring her, I dropped into my favorite chair, waiting for the drink the hairdresser was thoughtfully making for me.
"Martha here has a hobby, Johnathan."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. She told her mother her hobby is finding the biggest prick in New York so she can shove it up her crack."
"Well! Well! Well!" My friend smiled, disclosing his white teeth. "What do you know about that!"
Martha felt she had to react to the implied scepticism, I guess.
"It's not funny, Tiny Tim, so whyn't you go play with the boys?" She turned to me, a sour, surly look on her otherwise pretty face.
"Now, what the hell did you bring me here for?"
In the brief moment she had her back turned to Johnathan, he whipped out his prick. Even soft it looked huge.
Her eyes almost popped out when she saw it.
"Watch, young lady," Johnathan said expressionlessly, wrapping a big hand around his meat. Slowly, he stroked it, both of us watching as it grew and grew and grew.
There was no doubt in my mind that Martha didn't tie up this scene with the vainglorious remark she'd made to her momma. She simply stared as the brown cock jutting from white pants expanded to its monstrous size, so big, in fact, that its owner's hand couldn't circle it entirely.
Though I'd seen it before, I was impressed.
Martha bit her lower lip uncertainly. "You some kind of a goddamn exhibitionist?" she snarled. "I heard about guys who do that in front of girls!"
The two of us men laughed at that. It was time to set her straight.
"Martha, you said you were looking for the biggest cock in the city. That's it right there, you can bet your ass."
"And I," Johnathan's deep voice boomed firmly, "am going to satisfy your wish and bury it between your legs."
The blonde backed to the door, eyes wide, mouth open. "That? Like hell you are! That thing would tear me open! It'd kill me! Keep away!" She waved her lumpy green plastic pocketbook over her head threateningly.
Ducking under her nailing arm, I grabbed her around the waist, got behind her and pinned her arms tightly to her sides.
"Okay, Johnathan. Do your stuff."
I knew he had no enthusiasm for using his prick on a girl. What did amuse him was being able to frighten a thoroughly obnoxious one with it, and that was his motivation as he stepped in, tore Martha's skimpy brown leather skirt off with one pull, then ripped the tiny nylon wedge that was her cunt's only cover to pink shreds.
Strong knees parted hers as I dragged her backward a little so she half-lay at a forty-five degree angle.
"No! For Christ's sake! No! You'll kill me!" she squealed.
Closer and closer the huge cock came until it rested on the hairy lips of her cunt.
Jonathan threw me a questioning look, as if to ask if he should go through with it.
I nodded.
With one powerful lunge that made a shrill scream of intense pain tear out of Martha's wide mouth, the solid hunk of prick ripped into her, right up to its hilt.
Lucky for her, Martha passed out, at which point Johnathan withdrew his glistening weapon.
"Huh! Just a tiny bit of blood on it, so I guess she ain't a going to die after all!" He grinned wickedly, looking sort of silly, standing there with that giant tool, dripping wet and inflamed, sticking forward.
A sheepish look crossed his tanned features. "You know, I suppose, that I can't come inside a woman?"
I had suspected as much, so it came as no shock when the Armenian came in through the sliding steel door, shoved down his baggy sweatpants, and turned his back to Johnathan, bending over until his elbows were nearly on the floor.
The hairdresser had dug up a jar of yellowish goo from his desk and had already coated his big cock with it. Without further ado, he strode up to the masseur, parted the hairy buttocks, and rammed his meat all the way home.
The Armenian grunted a couple of times, Jonathan gasped a bit, and then he came. The whole scene took no more than half a minute.
Alone again, the two of us had a second hot rum, waiting for the girl crumpled up on the floor to come to.
When she finally struggled into a sitting position, her only audible response was to groan sorrowfully.
The groaning hadn't ceased when the girl and I got back to her mother's apartment.
Mrs. Arthur studied her daughter calmly. If she wondered what had happened to make her look and act as if she'd been drained of all life, she didn't ask.
More gently than I had to, I guided the girl into the living room and dropped her onto the sofa.
"She said she wanted the biggest cock in town, Millie, and she has had her wish granted."
The dumpy woman's once-lovely face lit up. "Really? I'd love to see it."
"Sorry. It's not usually available, though its proud owner did let me make use of it."
"How big?" Millie couldn't let go of the idea.
I made a big "O" with my fingers. "God damn! The kid must be slightly ripped up, huh?"
That made me laugh. "Yep. I have a hunch her hobby has stopped for good."
"You think she'll behave herself now?"
"That's impossible to say. It's damned certain that her cunt won't be much good for anything except to pee out of for a week, though."
Suggesting that she tell her daughter that the treatment would be applied again if she didn't straighten out, I threw one last amused glance at the groaning, humiliated blonde and went back to my place.
"Hi, lover!"
It was Hedra, who had let herself in with the key I artfully keep hidden under a neighbor's doormat.
Not one to waste a moment, she'd already opened the sofa into the queen-sized bed, had laid on the sheets and pillows, and was now nude and smiling, legs apart as usual, advertising the flaming appearance of her delicious pussy. I stopped long enough to kiss her wetly, then quickly stripped off my clothes.
She held something out to me. "Here."
I squinted at the tiny white tube with its long, thin nozzle.
"What is it?"
"Never mind, lover. Smear it good on the end of your cock."
So I did, wondering what the cool grayish ointment was for. The label was one of those paste-on things that said nothing but, "For external use only" and the name of the drugstore.
Careful not to touch anything with my hard, gooey prick, I sat down beside my lovely playmate.
"Where did you get it, and why?" The man at the pharmacy recommended it after I told him my problem."
"What problem?"
"Never mind; lick me a little, huh? And then stick that marvelous cock of yours into my cunt. It itches something awful."
Never one to turn down a damsel in distress, I followed the orders, sucking, licking and chewing until Hedra's clit was nicely firm and ready for the next scene.
Taking one last lap of the sweet juices flowing out of the red-haired well of love, I climbed into position, poised over the hot hole soon to drive me berserk.
"Go!" Hedra smiled, shoving her tongue into my mouth as if to reenforce her demand.
In my cock went. Only it was different. The intense rise of passion I expected was lacking, to be replaced with a mildly stimulating sensation that felt a lot like it does when my cock is soft and asleep and a girl sucks lightly on it.
This was great! I drove in again and again, not having to hold myself back by thinking cold, distracting thoughts. Each thrust of my funny-feeling rod pulled down on the wet pink sheath of her clit, driving her further up the wall of passion.
I drove and drove and drove, endlessly, feeling my come rising ever so slowly in my balls, the intensity of climax building up over a long, slow span instead of in the usual fast way.
Five minutes, eight minutes, then ten minutes sped by.
By now I felt the rake of sharp nails on my back, the tearing of wild teeth on my shoulders, neck, and upper arms. Hedra came again and again, each spasm making the deep recesses of her brimming hole twitch and grab my cock so hard I had to add extra steam to keep it moving.
Naturally, this was having its effect on me, too. The build-up was slow, and yet it was better, maybe because of the wild tossing,, biting, screaming, and clawing of the slippery white body beneath me.
Now I knew that the ointment had been a mild anesthetic, killing the grossest sensitivity of my prick, making it more attuned to the cunt it was massaging and pounding.
My balls twitched then as I felt the end coming in the middle of a flurry of Hedra's orgiastic reactions. Like a maniac, I increased the rate and vigor of my driving, consumed by her burning body, sucked into the mystery of her magnetic hole, swimming in the cream of love, first hers, then mine as my cock could take no more, threw off the last effects of the ointment, and let go, shooting what seemed like gallons of my white charge far, far inside the girl.
Our screams mingled, slowly dying out until we collapsed into a heap, arms tightly around each other. My cock was still inside. It felt good.
Just before I drifted off into welcome sleep, I peered at my wristwatch. My God! I'd lain down with my wench at exactly ten o'clock. That meant I had just experienced the longest fuck of my whole life-forty-five minutes.
Determined to keep a supply of the ointment on hand at all times, I snaked around until my face was between Hedra's damp thighs again. I planted an affectionate kiss on her tired, red cunt, made sure my prick was close by her face so she'd be occupied when she awoke, and let myself drift off to sleep, lulled by the imaginary sound of jet engines winging me across the Atlantic to where the heart of my current case lay, and where I knew I'd wrap it up-or get killed in the process.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS late as I'd phoned to make them, my reservations for the flight were confirmed, probably because the heaviest tourist season was past, now that Labor Day was history once again.
Flying in the off-season had its merits and demerits. The fare was less, but so was the selection of pretty girls. Most of the real lovelies-usually college girls or teachers-were back to school.
When I checked in at the Air France desk halfway down the row of similar booths crowding Kennedy Airport, the only nice faces and figures I saw immediately were those belonging to the stewardesses, neatly decked out in well-tailored light blue uniforms, their jaunty caps atilt. I had no doubts that the young misses were totally aware of the fact that their headgear was familiarly known as "cunt caps" among ex-Army men.
Well, that's old Morgan for you, I snorted into the good Scotch and soda warming me in the airline's cozy upstairs lounge. Even in the middle of heavy people traffic, I always managed to get my thoughts around to that four-letter word.
After awhile, a Gallic and charming voice burbled over the public address system. A two-minute spiel out of which I could sort no more than the fact that flight something-or-other, mine, was loading at gate something-or-other.
Wise to the ways of air travel, I gulped down the remains of my booze and followed the gaggle of motley men, women and kids beginning to file out the back doors and down the stairs.
Guarding the doorway out onto the field was a stately looking guy, all dark blue serge and gold braid, who checked each passenger through. Plainly, leaving the country was a serious business, not to be entrusted to the pretty girls who would take over the second we boarded the 707 itself.
Sure enough! A bright, toothpasty smile and a warmy welcome from chick number one, aluminum clipboard in one hand, pencil in the other. Liking to see what lay below, I took a seat behind the wings. That was also the safest place to be if the big oil burning albatross decided to conk out and come down without benefit of power or wheels.
Now began the routine of oxygen mask drill, inane explanations of where the puke bags were, the location of the Johns, and all that dull crap familiar to anyone who has flown and boring as hell to anyone who's done it many times.
Finally, after numerous delays, endless waiting at the end of the taxi strip, and soothing remarks from pilot and the girls, the big-assed tin bird flopped aloft and I got loose from my seat belt. Try as I might, I couldn't study my fellow-riders too well because of the high seat-backs, forced to limit my immediate attentions to the grumpy looking salesman type sitting to my left and the two over-painted bridge party type aging bags across the aisle from me.
Ah, well, I consoled myself, you'll just have to keep your pecker in your pants until you hit land again. To sidetrack that dismal thought, I tried calculating the driving time to Nice, getting hung up because we were traveling east, adding on time. Besides that, we were going to cross the International Dateline. That meant we would be flying anywhere from four to eight hours, depending on how lousy your math was. And mine stunk, though I was smart and seasoned enough to know this kind of time-losing travel really loused up a guy's biological mechanisms.
Disgusted with the whole business, I thumbed back the lever by my seat and fell asleep, immune to the seductive announcements that drinks, snacks, magazines, chewing gum, and all that was available from the snug-hipped blue chickies wandering up and down the aisle.
The touch of a hand brought me back to life.
"Sir?" It was the tall flying waitress with the ironed light brown hair.
I looked up into her attractive, professionally-smiling puss.
"Would you like something?"
That made me grin, and the girl was sharp enough to get my meaning.
She pursed her lips. I was being naughty, they said wordlessly.
So that's the way it went, endless boredom to the tune of the roaring engines that made me feel I was hanging around a wind tunnel. When it got bad, I lurched from my seat to make a quick trip to the can.
Ironed hair was pouring a pot of tea in the tiny stainless steel galley built into that part of the long plane reserved for cooking and crapping.
Throwing her a hopeful if faint smile, I was about to slip past her when she held up her hand, indicating I should halt, which I did, always alert to the smallest sniff of promise.
Ironed hair looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then ducked hastily into the men's cubicle, assuming I knew what she had in mind.
It was easy to figure out. As quickly, I was through the narrow door, clicking it shut behind me.
What a beautiful sight! In front of me in the cramped quarters were two silky white cheeks of a most delightful-looking ass. The blue skirt was high on her hips, black panties around her spike heel shoes.
"Be vairy queek, pleeze," she hissed, emphasizing her message with a thrust of her ass that dropped her cunt lower and easier to get at.
I'll be queek, was my mental comment as I whipped out my cock, stroked it roughly to get it to top solidity, then closed the gap between my eager meat and the mounds enclosing a most cooperative cunt.
Not one to take a little when I can get a lot, I guided my hands up past the inside of her skirt's waist, finding, as I knew I would, two wonderfully pliable boobs, big, hot, hard-nip-pled.
I wished right then that I had a couple of more hands. Allowing myself no more than a flurry of rapid tit feels, I returned to bury one hand in her pussy, which was all furry and damned wet for so little preparation.
"Queekly," she shouted, prevented from further utterance by the feel of hard cock sliding into her hole. And what a hole it was, in that great, deep thrusting sort of position. I felt as if my rod was banging the back of her belly button as my fingers tweaked her hard clit as fast as possible.
"I am raidy!" French fuck bleated, the violent twitching of her snatch telling me as much as I banged in as far as I could, glad the walls were so close when the surges of pumping come drained the strength from me.
Ironed hair's eyes were all sparkly when she turned around, skirt in place again. She was smiling like a pig in shit, almost slobbering at the sight of my sagging prick before I hid it from view.
"Eef the coaz is clear, I weel go out now."
I peered out carefully, saw the other girl in blue servicing this end of the craft moving downwind, and motioned that the "coaz" was indeed clear.
Back in my seat, I surreptitiously patted my happy cock. My pleasure wasn't entirely sexual, though. What made me especially proud was the fact that there was something about me that shone out brightly in the presence of a girl with an aching, hungry hole who wanted it filled quickly, and who didn't harbor all kinds of stupid romantic nonsense about love and respect when all she craved was a good high-style fuck.
Now, the boredom of the trip was irrelevant. I was due for another restful nap, and by the time I got through the ritual of Air France's steam table gourmet food, we'd just about be there.
After an hour's layover in Paris, I was winging my way south in a twin-engined Caravelle, my more sensible self trying to plan my itinerary once I arrived on the Riviera. I knew my own personality and habits too well to allow myself to land in a sunshiny place full of semi-nude girls without having a workday laid out beforehand. There were too many distractions at every resort, I knew, forcing myself to plot at least the first few steps of my path that would hopefully lead me to the highly original and imaginative gang of men who were not only diamond snatchers, but also snatch diamonders. The pun pleased me as much as a good belch, and I leaned forward to stare down at the Alps far below. They were purple in the afternoon light. And they looked like a huge herd of tits.
Goddamit, Morgan! Can't you ever think clean? I laughed self-satisfied.
Once I was past Customs at the Nice airport, some of my usual self-confidence waned. For the first time in a long while, it occurred to me that I knew no French. Sure, I'd taken it in high school, but all that stuck with me after all those years were such worthwhile goodies as how to say, "The rose is lying on the history book," and how to ask about the health of my grandmother.
Sure, this was tourist country, and the natives knew some English. Cabbies, waiters, hotel clerks and sales people could fake a guy out of his wallet's contents neatly, I had no doubt. Still, I felt vulnerable knowing I couldn't make myself understood fully in the rapid-fire, nasal tongue of these people.
As if able to read my indecision, a florid-faced cabbie filling the front seat of a blue Peugeot taxicab tooted his two-tone horn.
I glanced to the curb, back on earth again, aware that someone had already spotted me as a tourist who didn't know his way around. Consoling myself with the half-truth that all my expenses were deductible, I threw my suitcases into the cab and climbed in, barking the name of the Monaco hotel I had committed to memory back home.
Maybe a sensitive poet could describe the ride from Nice to the gambling principality in glowing terms-not me. I'm not one to go ape over azure seas, swaying palms, white ribbons of beach, and all that crap. Sure, they were all there, and in spades, but to me none of it was much more than a pleasant blur of buildings, people, cars and scenery.
I simply soaked up the sights during the two-hour drive, not concentrating on anything special, once we got past the main beaches of Nice and the sights of all the skimpily clad wenches cavorting on them. Mentally, I compared the Riviera to Miami and its environs, and Miami fell short. Everything here had more of an air of permanence to it. There was less jerry-built stuff, and the backdrop of the rugged Alps added a touch of something flat Florida lacked.
Monaco, as far as I could see as we nosed in among the heavy traffic, heading into the rolling, crowded and narrow streets, was nothing more than a fair-sized city, despite its status as a country, more American-looking than most, especially because of the high-rise apartment houses jutting up on the hillsides.
And since this was basically a city, Chuck Morgan felt more at home. Language barrier or no, I could identify what was here-gambling, movies, fancy night spots and restaurants, whores and stores, busses and cops, and all the rest of the things that go to make up a city's being.
The Hotel Bouvage was one of a dying breed, all deep figured carpets, gilt woodwork, high ceilings and full of the atmosphere of pre-World War II days. I'd picked it out of the tour guide just because it was old. Frankly, I think most high-priced modern hotels have all the charm of a $10-a-throw motel. While the moustachioed elegant gent at the desk dug up my room key and checked to see if any mail had come in for me-it hadn't-I looked around the immense, deserted lobby. By the elevator stood an exceedingly attractive redhead who reminded me of Hedra. She was looking my way, standing hipshot, snug-fitting white silk dress high-hemmed, low bodiced and sexy. A thin black scarf was draped over her shoulders, more or less hiding a lot of nice heavily tanned skin from below.
I had a hunch about that girl, barely able to contain myself until the bellhop grabbed my two bags and led me to one of the two brass-grille doored lifts.
She got in with us, standing very close to me.
"Need anything?" I heard a perfumed, low voice ask.
Ahah, my filthy mind responded to itself.
A swinger. When a female says "anything" in the way she'd said it, that meant I was being invited to engage in sex more out-of-the-way than the old cock and cunt routine.
I turned to look at her, glad to see that close up she was every bit as desirable looking as from afar. My knowing survey of her real estate took in all it could, not missing the absence of a wedding ring on her left hand.
I guess she wasn't in it for the money. Things were looking up.
Rather than answer the girl's question directly, I asked the bellhop just as the elevator halted, "What's my room number?"
"709, M'sieu."
She smiled, I smiled, and the boy with the bags, catching the disease, smiled also. Although only we two men got out of the elevator, I was fairly certain I'd see the redhead again, and soon.
"Soon," in this case, meant exactly an hour later, after I'd showered, shaved, and was standing by the low double windows looking down on the busy town below.
Room service had already wheeled up a small cellaret, so I poured drinks while two fellow Americans swapped names and quickie biographies.
Sheila Sampson. A classy name that fit the rest of her. High cheek bones and wide mouth, plus the high arch of darkened eyebrows over deep green eyes made her look very regal.
As we guzzled and sat close-but not too close-on the tan damask-covered divan in the ornately Victorian room, she laid out her identity: born in the midwest, raised in the midwest, off to New York at twenty to make the big time and-the unusual part of it-really making it at twenty-five, established as a top free-lance documentary writer for CBS.
My story was that this was nothing more than a brief vacation away from my job as a financial consultant, also in New York. I began embroidering my lie to include all kinds of nonessential details, but the hootch and the girl were beginning to see me. The black scarf had slipped off somewhere along the line, so I was able to admire the vast expanse of female flesh the frail, tiny dress did little to conceal.
Its top was cut low, swooping down almost to her belly button, holding in a pair of full, round boobs that appeared to be fighting to get out each time she bent forward slightly to knock the ash of her cigarette off into the ashtray on the scroll-legged coffee table.
Her trim, flawless legs were crossed, making the already high hemline sit more than halfway up slim thighs. Yes, she sure was getting to me, what with those green eyes almost eating into mine, that thin smile saying a million things to a man who was listening damned hard.
It was time to forget the chitchat and sparring. I put my glass down, stubbed out my butt, and asked matter-of-factly, "What did you mean by 'anything'?"
The smile widened, the eyes sparkling with the smallest hint of something I couldn't quite measure.
"I mean anything, Chuck."
"Such as?"
"Let's say I'm not wild about basic animal loving. I like it with imagination, with fire, with no holds barred, no strings or inhibitions."
It was my turn to tell her that this was the only kind of man-woman playing I knew or cared about.
Sure the ice was broken, I reached out to place a hand on her inviting knee.
She pushed it away, a small pained look in her beautiful face. "No-not yet."
"Why the hell not?"
"I-there's something you should know...."
Shit! Was she a cock teaser? Or did she have the clap? Irritation chafed me, but I forced myself to be reasonable and understanding.
"Tell me what it is."
She flushed. "I-I don't know how to say it."
"Try."
She refused to look at me, staring down at her hands, so tightly clenched in her lap that the knuckles were dead white.
"I'm different...."
"You certainly are. And I'm glad of it." She looked up, a doe-like expression on her face.
"Oh, you don't know! I'm-I'm physically
-not normal."
That was hard to believe, and I said so.
"Chuck?"
"Yes?"
"Will you start making love to me like you would any girl and not stop, no matter what
-until it's all over?"
That was easy to agree to, and when I'd convinced her I wanted to do just that, she relaxed a little, coming to meet my hungry mouth and not resisting as my hand snaked one skinny strap off her shoulder and cupped the heavily soft and hot breast that fell into it.
Never in my life was I crowded with stronger sensations. Her hair smelled good, her skin was soft and fine, her lips alive and warm, her arms tight but not grabby, her body fitting against mine as if she had been specifically designed for me.
Taste, smell, touch-all superb. Our movements and motions flowed like good wine. The dress slipped away like nothing, which was what she wore underneath, even as her hands swiftly and unerringly tackled my black silk bathrobe, skinning it away with a couple of deft touches.
I could almost feel her eyes on my cock, poking up from between my legs, hard, defiant, eager to get going. So was I. She knew it, too, gracefully moving her torso closer toward me as her legs and hips moved away, until she lay across my chest, big tits crushing against me.
My eye caught the bright red signal of her cunt hair, directing my hand down to it. But I couldn't get in between her thighs. They were slightly clenched together.
"Sheila...." I started to say, then saw that she was crying silently.
"What's the matter?" My hand backed away from the locked-in pussy.
Only after much coaxing and cajoling did I get her to talk, and then only in fits and starts broken up by sobs and more tears.
"Chuck-could you-could you love me up without-touching me there with your hands?"
This is crazy! I exploded inwardly. Nude, beautiful, and warm, here was a luscious broad who'd offered "anything," and all of a sudden she wouldn't even let me put a hand on her cunt!
"What's the matter," I bantered. "Is it booby trapped?"
That brought no smile, only more tears.
Now I was really irritated. A fuck wasn't a fuck if a man couldn't get his fingers deep into the wetness of a dame, if he couldn't lick and chew and suck the most sensitive area of her whole body. Besides, she'd said she didn't want basic animal cock-and-cunt stuff, but love-making with imagination.
Defiantly, my hand slid down her smooth legs again, ruffling the soft red fur before trying to get past the gate of her thighs. They were more tightly clasped together than before.
"No! Chuck! No! Please! Just do it without touching...."
I'd had enough. Roughly I shoved her aside and got to my feet.
"Part those nice legs of yours, Sheila, or I'll do it for you."
She just lay there, shaking her head like she was punch-drunk, repeating over and over, "No, no, no!" her hands balled up, beating the sofa cushion.
Smart girls who know their way around the world's darker places are aware that there's a way to keep any but the most determined man from prying their legs apart. The trick is to leave the ankles loose, so that the leverage available with a long leg is denied him. Clenched feet part readily, clenched knees almost never.
Sheila didn't know that, luckily for me, keeping her graceful gams rigidly straight. I bent low by her small feet, grabbed her ankles and forced them apart with very little strain. As soon as her knees were about six inches from each other, in went my knee, and then it was no more than a matter of keeping the prying pressure on until her fighting thigh muscles could take no more and let go, flinging her legs wide open.
All during this struggle, she kept on shaking her head from side to side so violently that her loose red hair swept over her face, hiding it until she looked sort of like a weird brand of sheepdog. The "No's!" continued too, in a steady, unending stream.
My tactics having worked, she abruptly ended her straining, stiff thighs collapsing from my strength. As her legs flew apart, she let out a thin scream of defeat.
Now I knew why she'd acted the way she had. It was right in front of me. The poor kid was what is known in the medical profession as a pseudohermaphrodite. I'd never seen one in real life like this, and my eyes must have bugged at the sight before me.
The fire-bright red-haired cunt looked quite normal-but for one detail. Sticking out from between the moist, inviting lips was a stubby, pinkish object about the thickness of a man's small finger and about as long as that finger to the first joint.
The poor kid was one of those one-in-a-mil-lion humans who are born with two sets of sex organs-one male, one female.
When doctors see this kind of thing, they usually prescribe hormones of either sex, so that the kid's parents, in effect, can decide after birth whether they want to make a boy or a girl.
What probably happened in this girl's case was that her folks weren't very perceptive when her unusual condition developed, and, somehow, she'd never had a doctor to check her down there.
On the lucky side of the ledger, she wasn't a real hermaphrodite with two fully developed sets of organs. Mother Nature had apparently supplied her own hormones, resolving the problem in favor of a female, so what Sheila had, when you come right down to it, was nothing terrible after all.
Still, I knew how a defect like this could really weigh on a person's shoulders. Filled with a great deal of sympathy, I brought my head down into the pleasant valley between her thighs and planted a big, very noisy kiss right on her cunt.
"Oh! I'm so ashamed!" she wept when I came back up right away to kiss her face. "I'm a freak! A girl with a-"
I stopped the flow of self-accusing words with a finger across her lips. "Stop It!"
She moved her mouth free to one side, a bitter look on her tear-stained face. "I'm a freak! You know it! The first man who ever saw it burst out laughing. He said he wasn't a fairy, and what I wanted was a woman, not a man! I almost died!"
Taking her face in both hands, I forced her to look at me.
"Sheila, it's all in how you look at it. As far as I or any reasonable man is concerned, what you've got is one big-assed clit, not an undersized cock."
She wanted to believe me, I could tell, though she'd been too deeply scarred to give up her fears so readily.
"You're only playing with words, and that's not enough."
It dawned on me that it was time to get just a little brutal with her.
"Tell me, Sheila, what's a cock?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I asked. What's a cock? What does it do?"
She thought about it awhile before replying, "It's what a man sticks into a woman."
"Okay, and what happens when he does that?"
"Well-he comes."
"What's that mean?"
"His cream shoots into her."
We were getting there, but it was like talking to a first-grader.
"Fine. And what else is a cock good for?"
Another flush and she bit her lip, embarrassed. "It's a-he uses it for-to pee out of."
Now I felt better. I had all the ammunition I needed.
"Now, tell me-do you pee out of yours?"
Understanding dawned and she looked almost happy. "No! I don't! Now that I think of it, of course I don't!"
The answer was right. My fund of useless knowledge had supplied me with the fact that the slightly developed set of organs aren't capable of any of the usual functions its full-size operational twin is.
"So what you've got, you damned fool, is what I said: a whopping big clit-not a miniature pecker."
Doubt furrowed her brow. She wanted to believe me and yet couldn't quite. "It's so ugly, Chuck! I once got up the nerve to hold a mirror up to it and I almost got sick to my stomach."
"Ugly, hell! It's beautiful! I'll prove it to you!"
After a penetrating parting kiss that brought my softened prick back to attention, I began kissing my way back down to where Sheila's woes lay. I kissed the soft mounds of her breasts, bringing brown nipples up firm and hard, kissed and licked her flat white belly, tongued the sensitive nerves of her belly button, then traced a lazy arc down over one hip, down one thigh, by which time my head was once more nestled in the V of her no longer resisting legs.
Up the inside of her thigh my tongue went, teasingly lapping at the crease where leg met cunt before plunging directly into the fiery redness of it, my fingers parting the now dripping lips to lick the roots of her, not yet touching the finger-like projection prodding me as I played.
Strange thoughts shot through me just then. No matter what I'd said to the expectant, still quite tense girl, this protuberance was in fact a kind of cock. Sure, a woman's clit was like a cock, but it wasn't one. This thing almost was. The remark she'd repeated about what the other man had said hit me. What would I really be doing when I wrapped my mouth around it? Would I be a cunt lapper or a cocksucker?
What decided me on that was the view I had when I opened my eyes to peer up over the cury red fur. Stretching away from me was a sea of perfect white flesh surmounted by two lush, desirable breasts. I could see only the chin of that face, not that I couldn't recall its appearance.
Again my eyes moved to the cunt, glistening wet, invitingly hot and wet, a pink-lipped red-tinged cleft that parted to disclose the tender folds encircling the wondrous hole that made the male go mad with want and need.
I almost laughed at my earlier doubts. Goddammit! I scolded myself, this body is all woman! The small finger now making my lips twitch was all woman too, in fact.
A heavy weight fell off me and I caught the big thing in my mouth and began toying with it. Sheila gasped, legs flying all the way apart, evidence that she wanted more of what she was beginning to feel.
Glad to oblige, I ran my tongue over the delicate, quickly hardened stub, only then beginning to suck on it. This was a real delight for an old cunt man like me. Always before, it was sort of frustrating to suck on a girl's clit. The largest I'd ever played with was only big enough to barely catch in my mouth, and I'd always wished that there were more of it to take in.
That wish actually is only a normal desire to have more of something that is a pleasure. Knowing how wild a woman gets when her clit is tweaked and driven, it's logical that a guy should fancy the notion of it being easier to play music on, so the girl he's loving up will go wilder yet.
Using techniques impossible with the normal girl, I worked Sheila's clit like mad, applying some of the methods former girlfriends had used to drive my cock crazy-probably one of the few times I'd ever be able to do that, I told myself.
Sheila was really going strong now, arms flailing, legs crushing in on my ears, then slamming outward again, hips rising and falling, wonderfully stimulating animal gurgles, sighs, and gasps flooding out of her mouth, and added to all that, there was a heavy hot flow of honey-like juice from her cunt.
"Aaaaaaah," she suddenly screamed thinly. I gave it one last powerful draining suck and stopped, knowing it was over for her.
When she'd collected some of her wits, I lay close beside her, stroking her hair.
"Does that prove I like it?"
She looked intently at me. "I guess so. But I'm still not sure. Before my mind flew to pieces while you were down there, it kept saying over and over, 'Cock or clit? Cock or clit?' I just don't know...."
I knew, though. My hand slipped down to gently stroke the damp, heated cushion of her snatch. "I know, Sheila. Do you know what I saw when I was down there a minute ago?"
She shook her head dumbly.
"Aside from your clit, there was something else. A beautiful, beautiful hole, pink, wet, hot, almost screaming at me to bury my prick there."
Letting that sink in, I carefully slid my index finger over the hairy hump, parted the dripping cleft, and slowly, meaningfully thrust the fingertip into what I'd been talking about. To emphasize my presence, I twisted the finger around, rimming the hot meat's every edge.
"Can you say you're not a woman? What man has that?"
She shuddered as I touched her clit once before bringing my hand up between our faces. It shone with its coating of cream.
Deliberately, I licked the cream off, savoring its flavor and aroma. "Yes," I grinned, "that's definitely woman."
Sheila cried again after that, only this time it was tears of joy and the release of all the sorrow and anxiety built up inside her. I soothed and comforted her in the best way I knew.
Talking softly and kissing her face all over, I hefted her outside hip up over mine, twisting my body so that I lay in the best oriental fashion, our lower bodies intimately close, our torsoes almost side by side. It was a great way, leaving one hand free for me to touch her face and breasts and clit, not disturbing our soft talk.
A slight move and my cock slithered around in the wetness, eager to go all the way, though prevented from doing so by my will-power. I wanted Sheila to savor what was happening, even if it meant I'd have to curb my desires to really let go and pound away like crazy.
Her story about the man who'd laughed at her told me many things. The most important was that she had to be a virgin. Plainly, I was the first man since that thick-skinned jerk to get a look at her unusual cunt.
So I probed carefully, happy that the cherry was no more than the slightest resistance. My cock bored in ever so gradually, as I commented : "Can you ever doubt your womanness when my cock is in you, going in farther and farther?"
She was too happy to do more than shake her head.
My dripping fingers grasped the rehardened clit, stroking it up and down in time with the thrusts of my anxious cock. She was primed as I was, breathing deeply, brokenly, her kisses turning sloppy wet, tongue licking furiously, wildly, aimlessly.
It was time. I shoved my inflamed prick in all the way as I squeezed her clit with fiendish intensity.
She screamed her release then, its volume rising with the powerfulness of it. And I? Well, I didn't scream. Instead, determined to make sure this basically good girl was definitely clear of her hang-up, I forced myself to say intensely with every one of my last powerful thrusts, "Woman! Woman! Woman!"
There's no way to measure how good it is when a man comes. But that fuck with Sheila felt as if a dozen gallons of come pumped out of my crazy cock. It must have shot in deep, too, because when I went back down after it was over to tenderly lick up the last traces of passion there, I'm certain none of my juice mingled in with the sweet pungency of hers. That done, I went back to kiss her again before we fell asleep, happily exhausted.
She awoke before me, because when I opened my eyes again, it was to see her standing in the middle of the rug, smiling, erect, happy, dancing around and humming to herself as her big breasts waved to and fro, inviting me to partake of something I wasn't ready for just yet.
Sitting up on one elbow, I looked her over silently.
"I feel like a woman for the first time in my life, thanks to you," she said softly, standing defiantly, legs apart, hands under her boobs, shoving them out and up. Playfully, she threw a bump that threatened to toss her satisfied pussy in my lap. Not a bad idea, actually.
Most important, though she knew I could see her huge clit sticking out the way she stood, she made no move to cover it. In fact, the bump made it waggle a little, making it more evident that it already was.
Perhaps to prove the issue to herself, she strode up to the sofa, coming to a halt at the edge of the big divan. Her cunt was but a scant three inches from my face.
Was she really cured? The down-to-earth side of Chuck Morgan suggested that needed to be established totally.
My finger moved out to touch the clit, flicking it a couple of times. My eyes went up to meet hers. "Nice little cock you got there, mister."
For a split second, her beautiful face stayed blank, and then a broad grin lit it up, making me relax again.
"Listen," she snarled, imitating the voice of a television tough guy, "if you don't shut yer fuckin' yap, I'll bend youse over and shove my rod up your rosy red snatch."
Threat was met with counter-threat, each bringing gales of laughter from our relieved bodies. This afternoon's screwed-up neurotic girl who was afraid she was a boy had turned into a lovely, self-assured woman.
I was damned glad. "How about me calling down for some supper? I'm starved."
While we waited, she told me why she'd picked me, and for what. It wasn't the prettiest story I'd ever heard. She'd come to France because folklore had it that this was a swinging country, with men who had no hang-ups, who would fuck anything that was still warm.
A hopeful voice inside her had said here she'd be able to undress before a man who wouldn't laugh at her superclit. The trouble was that years of building a strong protective shell around her sexuality had made it impossible for her to let any man-and several Frenchmen had approached her-get too close. The thought of how he would react when he saw It made her crawl back into her shell each time.
But today marked the halfway point in her two-week stay. Somehow, she made up her mind that she had to do something, anything at all to fight her problem.
And so she had laid out her plan. I was picked, she said, because I looked like a "nice guy." Her intention was pretty low: working on the correct assumption that her stress on the word "anything" would lead me to believe that she was interested in offbeat sex, she planned to expose her body under conditions designed to give her some advantage.
She was going to come to my room, get me to take out my cock, and then suck it until I was ready to come. Then she planned to pull away suddenly and ask me to fuck her the normal way.
Sheila looked a little sheepish. "I figured that once I got you that close to it, you'd cheerfully fuck me without paying too much attention to what my cunt looked like. I figured, even if you looked and saw my big thing, your aching cock would make you go through with it anyway."
I was thoughtful. "Did you ever suck a man off?"
"No," she replied contritely.
"You poor kid," was all I could say, knowing what kind of torment she must have been suffering if she had been willing to go so far to do to a man what most women have to learn to like slowly, if they ever do learn.
The subdued knock on the door reminded us we were still nude. Sheila ducked into the bedroom while I slipped on my robe, opened the door, and let in the waiter pushing the cart laden with silver-covered dishes.
When he'd gone, the girl came back out, hair freshly combed, face scrubbed, looking every bit a Miss America.
"I forgot something," she said when I started to uncover the food.
"What?"
"I came here to do something and I didn't do it."
Taking my hand, she led me to the sofa and made me lie down. She sat beside me, pointing first to my soft rod, then to her equally soft clit. "That is a cock," she smiled crookedly, "and this is a clit."
"Right."
She pointed at her clit again. "This has been sucked." Now she indicated my pecker. "That has not."
I didn't say anything in response, wondering at the girl leaning over me. In a matter of a few short hours, she'd turned into one of the most natural people I'd ever known.
When her full, wet lips began nibbling on my cock, driving it to life, I added the thought that she was one of the most talented, too.
When we finally got around to eating, I'd experienced the second best come of my life, one that had been more than usually good because I was aware of how openly she'd sucked it and swallowed all my come. I commented on that over roast duck, to be reminded that I was quite a lapper myself, so why shouldn't she be?
There was more good news. Sheila knew lots of French, had already learned her way around Monaco, and had no intention of leaving me for some time.
Despite the small tug of guilt because I was having a good time when I should have been working, I felt like eighty million bucks. Maybe I was goofing off some, but so what? I had turned a cripple into a useful member of society and had picked up an interpreter and guide in the process.
That wasn't bad for part of a day's work, I congratulated myself. Of course, the work wasn't over yet. That novel clit of hers had definitely aroused my interest, and right after supper I intended to become even better acquainted with it.
Sheila agreed one hundred per cent, stressing her newfound sexuality by shoving a drumstick in and out of her mouth in the most obscene way.
"Cock, prick, cunt, cock, prick, cunt, clit...." she said dazedly when I asked her what she was thinking about. Well, ask a dumb question and you get a dumb answer. Or was it so dumb?
CHAPTER NINE
When I awoke the next morning with Sheila's totally satiated body lying beside me, a sense of urgency made me jump right out of the bed and head for the John to shave and get ready for what lay ahead.
So far on this case, I'd let a lot of amusements cut into my working time, sort of coasting along, my target always faintly in mind, as if crime could wait while Chuck Morgan dipped his wick in assorted handy and amiable cunts.
Now, though, I was not only physically close to the probable center of the smuggling ring, but many tag ends had pulled together. That, added to the presence of a girl who knew French and the city filled with eagerness to get the show on the road and wrapped up.
Finished with the John part of the John, I yelled for Sheila to wake up, catching a flash of red and white that indicated she had heard me and was about.
Half my face was still lathered and waiting to be shaved when the redhead's voice came to me.
"Chuck! Come here Si SGC, will you?"
Never one to turn down a gal like this, I wandered into the bedroom, razor in hand, totally nude, eyes appreciatively studying the wench.
"What's up?"
"This," she grinned, pointing down between her legs.
Damned if she didn't have what men call a "piss hard on." Her clit stood out like a post.
"So?" I remarked offhandedly, knowing what was coming. Which was her, of course. All she did was give me that special hot look of hers and I was down between spread thighs, sucking the erect clit.
Despite my hurry to get working, I knew this wouldn't take much time, and it didn't. I'd sucked and chewed the thing only a half minute or so when that luscious white body began writhing, accompanied by the kind of thrilling screams of wild passion that send a man's senses high and his pecker up.
That done, I padded back to the bathroom mirror, careful how I stood so my hard cock didn't come up against the cold china of the wash basin.
Seconds later, Sheila was beside me, on her knees, sucking me, not caring that I could have slit my throat right then from the effort of trying to shave and enjoy what she was doing.
Naturally, I was fast too, pumping my come into her anxious mouth within seconds. That done, she brazenly sat on the can and emptied her bladder, the tinkle of it a cuckoo kind of music to my ears.
Somehow, we got dressed, got through breakfast in the fancy half-empty dining room, and got out into the warm Monacan sunlight without any more sex, though we thought about it several times.
My mind was beginning to click efficiently as I hailed a tiny red Fiat taxi, its Latin-looking driver taking off with a clash of gears when I directed him to the Prefecture of Police.
The gendarmes had gotten notification from New York that I was due in, and Interpol had also been informed. Using Sheila as a translator, a De Gaulle-type police official wearing a gold-braided flat-top hat and a tiny pistol in a shiny button-up holster patiently explained that I had no legal jurisdiction in this country, though he and his staff would cooperate fully. And if I needed help, don't hesitate-and all that crap which meant I was going to keep my nose clean, my hands in my pockets and leave any rough stuff to them.
I felt better. Knowing that the cops here were my allies to a point was a comfort, making me feel less vulnerable. I knew that my status as a private dick didn't impress them, that it was my American citizenship that did the trick. In a nation as heavily dependent on the tourist traffic as this one, a dead or battered American could be bad for business.
When Sheila asked, "Now what?" as we headed down the narrow sidewalk leading towards the heart of the city, I had already decided my answer.
"We're going to see if we can't fix you up with a date for tonight." Huddled together in another baby Fiat driven by a would-be Grand Prix driver, I out-lined my plan, hoping it would work as well as it sounded.
Minutes later, we were in front of the Monte Carlo Casino, a Romanesque gray stone building famous around the world for its gambling activities.
Since it was daylight, business was bound to be slim, though the streets around the area were packed with cars-Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs, lots of Mercedes, and a handful of other expensive makes like Jaguar and Lamborghini.
"Cruise around the park," I instructed the driver, telling Sheila to look for a metallic blue Ferrari coupe with the license number 3477840. If I'd been able to convert francs into dollars, I might have been able to make some sense out of the whirring meter that kept going higher and higher as we circled and circled again, necks straining and beginning to ache.
I was about to call it quits and try another approach, like checking the number with the cops, when Sheila's hand grabbed my arm.
"Look! There!"
Damned good luck, I called it. A scant twenty yards ahead of us the Ferrari was parked diagonally at the curb. A curly-black-haired athletic man wearing a skin-tight red striped sweater and white duck pants had just climbed out and was heading for a red kiosk where a wizened old woman was peddling newspapers and cigarettes.
"Go get 'em, tiger," I almost shouted, realizing I had little time to give her specific directions. "Play dumb tourist, you know. Set up a date for tonight, then get him back to your room. I'll be there waiting."
The redhead was sharp, I have to give her credit for that. As she gave me a fast kiss, complete with tongue, I felt her slip something into my hand. Then she was gone, along with any trace of anxiety, strain, or doubt as she swivel-hipped her way down the sidewalk toward the kiosk, her body a study in sexuality in its jade green, tight and sheer dress.
I wanted to stick around and see what happened, but that wouldn't have been too smart. A guy like Marcel-and I was sure that's who the guy was-has a sixth sense about being watched. His life depended on it, and he wouldn't have reached the ripe old age of around thirty if he hadn't been able to spot occupied canary yellow cabs parked a few feet behind his low-slung car.
The thing in my hand was the key to her room. Good. Figuring that Sheila would be clever and persuasive enough to handle the hungry stud who I knew was in need of available cunts to shove his diamonds into, I decided to see the sights. It would be a chance to get all the kinks out and store up some energy. It was certain that once Marcel planted his plastic coil in Sheila, there'd be little rest for me until the case was cracked-or my head was.
So throwing my expense account to the winds, I let the bored and uncommunicative cabbie, who at least knew a little English, tootle around the town, all the way from Princess Grace's Disneyland palace, up into the brown stubble mountains that offered a great view of the city below and the Mediterranean beyond, and back down again to the hotel.
My mind was trying to make some sense out of television in a language I didn't know when Sheila knocked on my door.
The victorious look on her face told me she'd scored, and I listened carefully as she detailed her arrangements with Marcel. He was going to pick her up at the hotel at seven for the grand tour of the Casino. Then, a fancy meal at the restaurant there, to be followed by a bit of faro, chemin de fer, and baccarat.
"And then?" I smirked.
"And then," the redhead answered, coming to sit beside me on our much-used divan, "we go up to 808 for what is politely called a nightcap."
It sounded simple enough, though I was slightly worried about how Sheila would take the inevitable.
"Look, honey-you can back out if you want to. That guy is going to shove one of those things into you. How, I can't say. He must be damned slick because the other women I've asked about the planting technique weren't even aware that it had happened-until I told them."
Her eyes were locked to mine. "Don't worry about me. I kind of like having things stuck in my cunt these days." She must have read something else in my face, for she added, "and you don't have to stew about what will happen when I'm faced with the necessity of showing my superclit to another man. I'm over that neurosis, honest."
My fingers floated through the air to undo the gold clasp holding the top of her V-necked dress together.
"Actually, what I am worried about is that you haven't had enough training to carry this business off properly."
She smiled warmly, looking even lovelier now that her full perfect breasts were exposed to my glance and touch.
"So what do you suggest?"
She lifted her hips so I could slip the dress all the way off, happy to note how thoughtful it was of her to be always minus bra and panties.
"Well-" I answered, my mouth already watering at the sight of the hard thing thrust up from her red flocked pussy, "I suggest we fuck and fuck and fuck until we reach that happy balance when your highly trained cunt is not too worn out to take on Marcel and not too sensitive and hungry for you to enjoy him too much."
"You're jealous!"
"Shit!" I scoffed, knowing it was true, too true. To get my mind off the very upsetting mental image of my girl being loved up by a combination smuggler and greaser, I concentrated all my being on the fragrant, waiting flesh pressing against me.
That was easy to do, you can bet on that. As a witch-faced old crow on the television poured cream into a mixing bowl, Sheila wrapped her neat legs around my neck, blotting out the TV set and replacing it with a classy close-up of her flaming cunt, already dripping a little.
The lizard that was my tongue shot out and licked and licked and licked, filling my mouth with the taste that no French wine could ever match.
Her cunt was my cocktail, I recall thinking to myself. A good analogy, for there was the swizzle stick! I bit it lightly, feeling, out of sight and somewhere below, the echo of my deed as sharp white teeth chewed as lightly on the cock a clever girl had found buried in my slacks.
During a brief intermission as she swung around to face me for awhile so we could kiss, she giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"I was remembering the look on your face this morning when I sat down beside you to take a leak. It reminded me that I read in some book that there are men who get a big thrill out of watching girls do that."
My memory of the musical sound of that act of Sheila's rose to the fore, setting up an odd sensation in my body.
"I didn't really see you do it, you know. I just heard it."
She sat bolt upright, looking intently at me, a child-like expression of eagerness lighting her features. "Would you like to see?"
My respectable, moral side told me to say no. The sensations crowding my body said the opposite, and that was what determined my audible reply.
Feeling slightly silly now that I'd admitted my interest, I followed behind her, admiring her flexing smooth ass as she led me to the bathroom. Taking a large light blue towel off the shelf, she folded it double and laid it on the floor.
"Come on!" she whispered gleefully. "Lie down close so you can get a good look!"
I hastily removed my clothes then fell to my belly, something I half regretted when I felt the bitter chill of the icy floor tiles on my naked length.
Sheila squatted before me, her cunt almost in a direct line with my eyes. "Promise you'll tell me the truth?"
"About what?"
"Your reactions. Be honest and admit it if this excites you."
"Why?" I asked, not wanting to promise anything like that and wondering why she wanted to know.
Her hands were already between her thighs, spreading the hairy cunt's lips so I could really see. "Because if it gets to you, it'll become part of the menu. If it doesn't-well, we won't do it again."
I nodded, conscious that my hard prick was uncomfortable the way my body was crushing it against the even harder ceramic floor.
Then she let it go, a twisting, spiralling gush that was part spray, part stream, frothing down from the delicate flesh I so loved to nuzzle up to and drive my rod into.
"Christ!" I breathed, feeling a kooky dizziness coming over me. It's getting to me, I told myself.
And it was; somehow, the sight of that warm honey-colored exudation was driving me wild, stirring impulses in me I didn't understand.
Sheila knew it too, and for a damned good reason. My right hand, totally by itself, with no direction from my whirling brain, moved out until it was right under the shower, letting the flowing warmth bathe it.
Feeling almost as if I were under the influence of a mind-blowing drug, I turned on my side, half my frazzled consciousness feeling the dazzling warmth of the piss tickling, heating, exciting my hand, the other half dimly aware that my cock was about to explode.
Sheila saw what was happening and understood. Like a cat, she fell forward to scoop my convulsing prick into her mouth just in time to add the extra delight of her hot, wet sucking to the feelings drowning me. My cock let go, feeling as if it had blown open to scatter my boiling come, not like a series of creamy blobs, but like a honey torrent that was neither spray nor stream.
As I let the heaving passion drain from me, I realized my hand was pressed tight to the wetly dripping cunt, from which tiny rivulets of piss still trickled between my fingers.
Sheila lay her head on my belly, looking up at me. She looked happy. "So there is something to it, huh?"
"Yes," I mumbled, wondering how I'd gone so long without having discovered for myself what this inexperienced wench had shown me in one soul-searing minute.
"Come on up and let me give you a kiss as a reward," I said.
Cleverly rubbing her boobs and everything else along me as she slid into position, she asked, "Reward for what?"
"For teaching a dirty old man a new trick. And for being clever enough to know that the most horrible thing in the whole world for a man is to have his cock come when it's not in a hot, wet place."
Pleased with the compliment, Sheila nibbled my lips before our searching, long kiss. We lay there, oblivious to the unyielding hardness of the floor, unaware of the sopping wet bath towel on which her legs and my arm lay.
I, for one, was exhausted. My smart girl was content to remain motionless because she was a female, and there's something about a woman that makes her almost feel a man's come as her own. And that by itself can satisfy her somewhat.
Gradually, my body regained its strength, aching muscles crying to be out of the position we were in.
"What say we go where there's some comfort?" I said in her shell-like ear.
Her expression was devilish again. "Not on your life, buster!"
The objection puzzled me, and I said so.
A knowing hand squeezed my soft cock in slow rhythm. "You've brought up a question that's got to be answered before I'll be able to sleep another wink-ever."
"What's that?"
Green eyes twinkled brightly. "What effect will it have on me if you piss while I watch?" The question hadn't occurred to me, not that it should have, seeing as how I myself would have told the world an hour ago that watching the piss pour from a girl's cunt would never cause any reaction in me whatsoever. My curiosity was immediately aroused, as was my cock.
As luck would have it, I'd been putting away a fair quantity of high-priced German beer while watching the idiot stuff on Television Diffusion Francaise, and I could tell by the pleasant pressure below that, if Sheila wanted a pissing cock, I'd be able to oblige easily enough.
"Let me advise you, though," I grinned at her, "to get your busy little hand off my goddam prick, please."
A hurt look shot across her puss. "Why?"
"Because," I smirked, pleased that at least I still knew something about sex she didn't, "pissing and hards on don't go together." That wasn't entirely true. I had, once, let close to a half pint go inside a nasty and sharp-tongued college girl who'd scoffed when I threatened to do just that if she didn't behave. But that was the exception, not the rule.
So the hand moved away regretfully, and Sheila sat back on her haunches, waiting for my act to begin.
I felt silly as could be. Long ago, as a kid, I'd let myself be watched pissing by male classmates when we engaged in that typical schoolboy prank of seeing who could piss highest on a secluded wall.
That was a long time ago though, and during the intervening years, pissing had become a very private habit, even to the point of making me wait painfully in a public John for a spot with some screening around it, rather than let go where some other guy might see me.
At least I wouldn't need a towel. My long meat allowed me to aim, not like the girls, who sort of spray the area. With that happy thought, I stood up, positioning myself about three feet from the pot.
"Show off!" Sheila grunted enviously as I held my cock artfully, letting the long, thin stream spurt out to land noisly in the bowl's exact center. Her eyes feasted on the sight.
What impulse made me do what I did then, I'll never know. Maybe I was feeling playful, maybe-shit, who knows? All I can say is that I suddenly swivelled ever so slightly, bringing the yellow warm stream around, shooting it accurately down low, so that it splattered off a very surprised redhead's belly, running down over her fiery-looking cunt.
She gasped, as you might expect, though not in shock so much as sheer surprise. Immediately, she recovered, her hands going to play in the stream, rubbing the wetness all over her legs, thrilling her cunt with it.
What occurred after that is slightly hazy. We were both being consumed with a wonderfully novel form of passion, a violent lusting that had its roots in very unusual activity, nothing like the ordinary kissing, sucking, licking and biting motions that normally did the trick.
In perfect synchronization, the same thought hit both of us, and we half stumbled to the bathtub, Sheila clambering in to lie down while I positioned the showerhead and turned on the water.
A blast of tingling hottish water made an energizing umbrella over us as we washed off, soaped down and washed again. The sensuality of frictionless skin couldn't survive the spray, though, so I kicked the valve shut with one foot.
It was so quiet, only our heavy breathing audible as I lathered up my girl's big breasts, thrilling in the way my hands glided wondrously over all of her, as her hands slithered over me.
Sheila, quite naturally, was hotter than I was, having been denied the pleasure of coming the way I had. So I wasn't surprised when she clutched hard at me, hugging me close, her hands searching me all over.
"I can't stand it, Chuck! Another second and I'm going to explode! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fast!"
Clumsily, because of the lack of a dry surface to get a good toe-hold on, we wrestled around until she was on her hands and knees and I slipped up behind her.
My burning prick rammed hard into her. I snaked a soapy hand between her thighs and madly squeezed and stroked her rock-like, dangling clit.
"Go in! Goddammit! Go in!" she demanded in a shrill voice, driving me to ram harder into her. My dimly functioning mind told me she was pretty tight, considering how soapy her hole must have been. This didn't bother me, though, and I suddenly felt my straining cock break through and in, the tightness of her clawing at my senses, the hotness in there bringing the come up like the mercury in a thermometer held over a burning match.
Faster and faster I pumped, our bodies falling sideways, but in no way interrupting the animal pounding, clawing and squeezing.
I knew it was a different kind of coming for her. No screams, not even a gasp, only a ragged exhaling of pent-up breath that coincided perfectly with my own cock's letting go as the tight confines of her squeezed it until it could take no more. With one final, deep, deep drive way in, my cream poured out, to be swallowed in the mysterious depths.
We lay there in the tub, wheezing like a couple of old nags that had run too far and too fast. Even now, the slipperiness felt good, though in a soothing way. But too soon the lather would dry, experience told me, and then it would become irritating and unpleasant. In a daze, I caught the valve, pulled it out, glad that it was one of the new preset kind, and savored the summer shower-like warm sprinkle that pattered on our weary skins.
Sheila turned a dewy face back to look at me. "My!" she sighed happily, "You don't have any inhibitions, do you?"
My facial expression registered my lack of comprehension.
"Your wonderful cock is inside me, darling. I can feel it. But it sure as hell isn't in my cunt, if you know what I mean."
Instantaneously, I knew. What had come over me? During close to twenty years of fucking all kinds of dames, and after having done about everything in the book with them and to them, I'd never once had the smallest urge to cornhole one of them. Never. Yet here I was, my softened prick hung up tightly in this remarkable wench's asshole.
Strangest of all, I'd enjoyed it. Maybe, I thought, I'd have gotten less thrill out of it had I been aware of where I was poking.
Slowly, with some minor discomfort, my prick managed to disengage itself from the kind of hole it had never before had the honor of shoving its nose into.
Eventually, we staggered from the tub and dried off, to share a cigarette on the huge soft bed as we talked and soaked up each other's presence.
"You know, Chuck Morgan. After all the sticking into me that's been done recently, the idea of having this Marcel installing a plastic gadget isn't really so frightening."
Habit made me check the time. The golden sunburst clock on the bureau registered five, meaning it was almost time for Sheila to go. She'd need the better part of two hours getting decked out for our victim.
Sadly, I watched her slip back into her dress, our parting kiss doing nothing to make me feel more comfortable about the night that lay ahead for both of us. For me, there'd be loneliness ; for her, danger. My turn at risking my neck would come later-though much sooner than I could have anticipated.
A twinge of the jealousy she'd noted earlier twanged through me. Only with some effort did I manage to smile as she left the room, consoling myself with the knowledge that our curly-haired Marcel had more important things on his mind than how beautiful and desirable Sheila was.
Besides, she was playing the dumb American tourist, so I was willing to bet that diamond smuggling Lothario was in for the lousiest fuck he ever had. It had to be that way-I was getting every last one of the good ones!
CHAPTER TEN
Sheila's technique must have worked perfectly, because she and her escort arrived back at her room around one a.m., all giggling and whispering like a couple of high school kids who'd wickedly snuck a beer somewhere.
Thankful for the year 'round semi-tropical climate of Monaco, I had hidden myself an hour earlier on the small balcony, separated from the bed but ten feet away by a pair of lightly curtained French doors. During my enforced inaction, I'd located a stick pin among Sheila's belongings and had pinned back the lower part of the left hand one, affording me a clear view of whatever went on inside.
My whole personality felt as if it were being torn in half as I watched my redhead playing coy and innocent, while Marcel, elegant in a double-breasted black blazer and the inevitable white trousers, kissed her and tried moving her hands to places no self-respecting girl would ever allow them to go.
Sheila was wearing a white chiffon cocktail dress, all frilly and gay. It was only partly successful at concealing her ripeness, the froth at the high neck softening but not hiding her sharply protruding breasts.
I was torn because watching screwing like this got me horny at the same time watching my girl doing it with another male made me mad, no condition to stay in for very long.
Still, I watched, not so much needing the excitement as needing to make sure Marcel didn't hurt her, if by some chance he'd caught on to her real purpose.
He was a cool cat, that one. Talking, laughing, caressing innocent parts of her body, like shoulders, face, arms, and hair. Sheila responded like a real dodo, her opening and shutting mouth and shy looks readable from where I was as the old, "Stop it, I love it" routine.
Slowly, she let him move along, first to her breasts, which he kneaded outrageously on top of the cloth with his dark hairy hands. Before my eyes, they sort of melted down onto the bed, the dress sliding off her shoulders with one skillfully executed sweep, and there was Marcel, kissing her breasts, then delicately licking and chewing her nipples.
A warm flood of gratitude went through me as I realized Sheila couldn't play games with him even if he got her steamed up. She had to play dumb, and that meant being like the typical hair-brained American working girl, ignorant of what's in a man's pants and scared to death to try to find out.
I watched a white trousered knee slip up to make sure her knees stayed apart, and then the trousers were gone, and the red striped shorts, and the dress.
They were naked, she white, he nut brown, feasting on the loveliness of the sexy woman half beneath him. Marcel must have been a fancier of flesh, since he hadn't turned out the lights, except the bright overhead one. He wanted to see what he was doing, especially when it came time to do the job I knew he had to be here for.
More reassuring kisses and hugs before the lean, muscular body, his thick stubby cock hard, moved down the silken bedspread to bring his head to her crotch.
Would he be repelled by the big clit? I could only hope and pray. The bastard smiled when he saw it. He looked up, said something I couldn't hear, and got down off the bed to fish in his clothes.
He also undid his heavy gold wristwatch and slipped it into his pants, probably his excuse for the interruption.
I could see he now was holding a small cylinder in one hand. It reminded me of those cloth-covered glass ampules used for smelling salts. Suddenly, I began to understand how this boy did his planting without the victims knowing it.
He kissed her mouth again and again, soothing her with hands that danced lightly over her straining, stiff body. She looked more like a corpse than a woman, so it was believable that Marcel had no idea he wasn't doing what he thought he was doing.
Now his head went to her crotch again, this time quickly moving down to catch her clit in his mouth. He sucked and he sucked and he sucked, until Sheila began to exhibit definite signs of arousal.
Was she really hot? I tried to tell myself it was all an act. Hell, how could she enjoy it with a guy like that? A blurred picture of the diamond executive, DeGrooning, popped into my head at the second, a stern and forceful reminder that I myself wasn't above getting my rocks off wherever I could, so how could I begrudge this girl her pleasure? Anyway, she was risking her ass to help me and was entitled to a little delight on the side. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew it was true. She tossed, arched her back, rolled her head this way and that, flexed and unflexed her wonderfully long legs, like a woman enjoying every second of being eaten.
When she sort of vibrated and broke out with a shrill scream even I could hear, Marcel was ready. During what must have been the very center of her coming spasms, he held the tiny cylinder under her nose and broke it.
As if she'd fallen asleep, Sheila lay totally still. Marcel's gross-looking prick, I noticed, had already softened a bit, going down all the way as he bent over his clothes to remove something from them.
I recognized the gadget for what it was.
Quickly, with the skill born of much experience, he shoved my girl's legs wide apart, then held his arms high as he stuck the plastic loop onto the end of what looked like a long ballpoint pen.
With another deft move, he was between her legs, one hand spreading the red lips, the other guiding the loop in. My eyes hurt watching it disappear into her, as if I could feel pain Sheila herself would have been oblivious to.
Two minutes later, he'd closed the legs and thoughtfully covered Sheila's loose nude body with the edge of the bedspread he pulled up. He dressed swiftly, checked the room to make sure he'd left no tell-tale signs, and unlocked the door to disappear into the hallway beyond.
I was right behind him, bouncing down the service stairs as he clanked and whirred down on the slow elevator.
Hitting the street before him, I knew it was my turn to stick things in certain places. Fishing a small aluminum box shaped like an aspirin tin from my pocket, I went to the blue Ferrari parked by the curb and attached the box's magnetic bottom to the underside of the right rear fender.
That done, I climbed into the first cab of the many idling in front of the hotel and took my receiver from another pocket. No bigger than a match box, it would assure that Marcel didn't lose me in these crooked streets, no matter how badly my driver handled his battered Citroen.
My timing had been perfect. No sooner was I settled, my cabbie ready to "Follow zat car," when Marcel strode from under the marquee, swaggering like a man who's either fucked an unfuckable girl or who just made a killing at the track.
We followed, never closer than two hundred yards because visual contact wasn't necessary, not as long as my receiver kept emitting its cheerful little beeps.
A thousand beeps later, we left Monaco and were back in France, tooling along the winding oceanside highway at a typically French seventy miles per hour, traffic or no traffic, town or no town.
"How far is it we are going?" the cabbie cut in, probably painfully aware that big incomes for his kind meant many short trips, not hour-long jaunts into the boonies.
"Not much farther," was my answer, though it could have been a lie. For all I knew, my prey would keep right on going, through Beau-lieu, Nice, and two hours or better on down to Cannes. Hell, I grunted unhappily, he might be planning a three-day drive to Spain!
"The car-eet is gun."
The disquieting lack of beeps told me the same thing at the same time the driver's words sounded.
"Turn around!"
The cabbie was glad to, slithering onto the dusty shoulder, heedless of the cars roaring by in both directions, their horns blaring, lights blinking up and down in distress. Apparently assuming that God protects all Frenchmen, he waited until the car speeding toward us, going back toward Monaco, was only a small VW, then made a tire-squealing U-turn that forced the angry beetle to leave the road and shatter a split rail fence in preference to burying itself in the asshole of France's biggest car.
Following orders the cabbie drove more slowly, muttering under his breath at my restrictions on his inalienable right to commit suicide.
Peering out into the warm night, I searched for a side road. Seaward, to my right, there wasn't room for one before the shoulder plunged down in a rocky mess that went straight to the sea. Which left the other side, the one angling steeply upward into the foothills of the Alps.
I was lucky again. There was only one road in the space between where I'd lost the signals and where we'd turned around.
Up we went, tires kicking loose gravel, engine over-revving as we raced around hairpin turns that wound wildly into countryside amazingly houseless for such a tourist area.
The beeps picked up intensity, louder and louder until I cautioned the cabbie to slow down.
Two sharp curves later I saw the house. Not a house, really, but a red tile roofed, unlighted white stucco villa with many verandas and wings. It stank of money and the presence of the blue $14,000 car made it stink of other things also.
The driver, a watery-eyed bald guy with false teeth, stared when I held the wad of franc notes out to him. Sure, it was probably ten times what the fare plus a good-sized tip would have amounted to, but I'm kind of peculiar about non-American dough. Intellectually, I know a franc has value, like a mark, or a yen, or a pound, but it doesn't look like money. The paper feels cheap, the artwork looks crummy. So, like the jerk I sometimes am, when I get foreign cash in my mitts, I throw it around like it was play money or counterfeit.
After the Citroen had chugged off down the mountain, the feeling of vulnerability crawled back up my spine. Nutball Morgan had been too ethical to try slipping a highly illegal Smith & Wesson through customs, which meant I was unarmed, except for my brains.
As least I wasn't totally unprepared, since I was wearing dark sports clothes and sneakers. Up the circular driveway I went on tip-toe, ears attuned for the slightest untoward noise.
It came. Not a noise, but a voice. A silky, heavily-accented voice that wanted to know what I was "doing in zis place."
The voice also had emphasis in the form of a hard thing that jabbed into my kidney just as I was about to pussyfoot up onto the dark veranda.
My mind raced through the inventory of possibilities, all the way from judo to a backward kick aimed for the gun-holder's balls. All added up to suicide, for no trick is worth a damn when a gun is that close to your guts, and the nasty lead pill in its chamber doesn't have to travel more than a thousandth of an inch to get from the barrel to you.
One possibility did exist, however, one of my favorites. When in a jam, I often tell myself, lie like hell. It beats bloodshed, is more dignified than running or sniveling, and even works-sometimes.
Maybe a second or two passed between the time I felt the gun poking me and my decision. "Marcel?" I punted cleverly. "The police have the redheaded woman. They have found the diamond."
"What?" the voice said, its extreme surprise affecting the gun, which stopped poking, though I knew it was still there.
One more lie was in order. "They have raided the New York place...."
It was now or never. Jabbing a thumb toward the house, I asked, "Do you want to tell them...." I turned halfway around, looking into a thoroughly confused, unsure face, " ... or shall I?"
With that, my knee flew up and with one bone-shattering blow, turned pretty Marcel's cock and balls into a soft, very uncomfortable mush.
The air blew from his lungs, he doubled up as waves of nausea tore through him. I was afraid that he might make a little too much noise for my safety, though I didn't begrudge him the right to make a little racket, considering how he must have felt.
Now the karate, I mused, slamming the edge of my hand down on the back of his neck, sending him to the crushed seashell driveway surface with nary a whimper or a cry. According to the books, Marcel would be out like a light for at least an hour. And if I didn't do what needed doing in that time, I would probably be in worse shape than he.
Years of detective work and watching gangster films made me divest the inert man of his car keys and his gun, a 7.62 PPK Walther that must have belonged to some Nazi bigwig deprived of it during World War II by the French Resistance.
Feeling much better now that I was armed and had a free ride back to town, I took a deep breath, stepped up on the veranda, and proceeded to figure out how to get inside the rambling villa without arousing whoever was inside behind those darkened windows.
It was easy, maybe too easy. The front door, a huge black iron grilled thing with plate glass behind it, was unlocked, and I felt pleased that I'd been clever enough to try it. Even my buddy Arlie Samuels admitted to me that he'd once fireaxed a door down only to find to his embarrassment that the lock in it hadn't worked for fifty years. Caution pays, I always say.
Gradually, my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom in the dark rooms, darkness not total because a half-hearted moon had broken out of cloud cover to lend me a small hand.
Thanks moon, I thought, as if a dumb wisecrack would erase my nervousness. I was totally vulnerable again, gun or no gun. I could be shot and dumped over a cliff and nobody would ever know what had happened. Sheila had no way of following me, and the beeper under the Ferrari's fender would suck the life out of its alkali batteries inside of another half hour.
Despite the reservations, I moved gingerly from room to room, seeking some sign of life.
I found it. From beneath a door in the rearmost hallway shone a thin line of yellow light. Getting close to the dark double doors, I could hear muffled voices.
Even an idiot could figure out that it was impossible to see through the mahogany, no matter how hard one stared, and that it would be risky as hell opening the door for a better view. Which meant back to the veranda, from where I'd be able to find a window into the lighted room beyond. If my good fortune held, I'd be able to see something.
That something, it turned out, was a sight entirely new to me. Despite the hugeness of the other rooms in this vast palace, this one was no bigger than a middle-class living room, maybe twelve by twelve.
That was where the middle-class part stopped, though. There was only one stick of furniture in the chamber, and that was a crazy Hollywood-type chair that looked like a throne, only with lots more red padding. It sat on a slightly raised platform, overlooking a deep bottle green pile carpet.
On that throne-like thing sat a man, grossly fat, his great belly hanging low, so low, in fact, that it about covered up his cock.
I was able to make this observation because the blubbery slob, baldhead, pig-eyes and all, was totally nude, sitting there, fat legs apart, fat arms resting on the chair's plush arms. All that was missing was a crown on his hairless head.
A side door set into the far wall opened, and two black-clad Marseilles type toughs came in dragging something between them. I squinted to see what it was. A boy, maybe twelve, maybe a bit younger, also naked. And he was thin, obscenely so compared to the lard-assed hulk on the throne.
The kid was obviously a prisoner, to judge from the way he was dragged up close to the throne by the men holding him under the arms.
The fat guy nodded, the shaggy-haired and mean-looking punks let go, and the boy fell listlessly to his knees, not looking up.
The nude hulk's round, ugly face showed both pleasure and the sweat of labor as he raised his bulk and stepped down before the naked boy.
He spoke in a childish, whining voice that nevertheless held an air of authority, at least to the two waiting hoodlums. Not that I could understand what the words meant, though whatever it was made all three laugh as they looked at the emaciated kid at their feet.
Fat man barked an unintelligible order. His flunkies reached down and forced the kid onto his back, one holding his legs, the other his arms, their adult strength more than a match for the puny resistance the boy put up as he tried to kick and fight free. All that effort got him was a hearty laugh from the throne sitter.
I studied him more closely. Like most fat men, his cock was a tiny little thing. Was it hard? I was slightly amused at the thought that the prick was so small it would be difficult to tell!
As if in slow motion, the big man managed to get to his knees without falling on his face. Then, he placed his ham hands out and fell further forward so that he spanned the supine, frightened and defenseless boy whose ribs stuck out harshly against his taut skin. I thought at the time he was starving to death. The truth was more horrible than that.
Ever so slowly, the big mountain of a man bent down, closing in on the boyish cock, soft and small, lying across one skinny thigh.
He had it in his mouth then, sucking it, pulling it, and when he let go of it for a second so he could admire his handiwork, I saw that the cock was half-erect.
More sucking and more, while the two waterfront punks watched with evident amusement.
The boy cried silently, writhing as much as he could, held down like that, and then abruptly he shuddered and seemed to collapse.
Fat man looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. He grinned at his companions, obviously self-satisfied.
Damned if he didn't start on the cock again, only seconds after he'd drained it of its come!
Again, he sucked and sucked, the sweat beads dripping off his brow onto the kid's belly and legs. And again the kid flailed futilely before shuddering a little and falling into motionlessness.
Wrapped up in the drama of the thing, I stopped thinking about the precariousness of my situation. And when you let your guard down, things can happen.
What happened to me was that I leaned against the goddamned French doors leading to the cocksucking chamber I was so fascinated with. The lock mechanism, not quite fully caught, clicked shut loud enough to wake the dead.
The two black-shirted roughnecks holding down the boy hadn't been picked strictly for muscle. They also had speed, too much, in fact, catching up with me before I'd managed to get more than halfway over the low but thick wall of the veranda.
We fought in silence, not that saving my breath kept me on my feet any longer, and for the second time that night, my fighting skill proved a lousy match for these two goons, especially after one of their professional blows sent my gun flying off into the night.
I have to give them credit, though. They were sort of easy on me, perhaps operating on standing orders not to break any bones or smash body parts until given the go-ahead.
Whatever the reason, I found my arms doubled up behind me as I was half-lifted, half-dragged before the presence of the grossly fat man, who had somehow moved his carcass back onto the throne.
All he did was grin at me. In real life guys like the one looking me over don't spend much time talking when a fish like me gets caught in their net. That's strictly for the fairy tales shown on television and in the movies.
If the captor is dealing from strength, and if he's ruthless like he has to be to make it to the top of the underworld pyramid, then he doesn't give a rat's ass about one human life-except his own.
This guy, grinning like a long lost pal, had that strength. I doubted that he worried much about who I was or why I was snooping. He felt secure in his nest with his bodyguards.
The grin faded, pig eyes boring into me as my arms began growing numb from the pressure being applied by the men crowding me between them.
"You are here because of the diamonds." It was a flat statement, not a question. And it came out in fair English, slightly accented.
"Whenever there is money, there are people who want it." He smiled tolerantly. "So far, since Amsterdam learned of my coup, there have been eighteen like you. Some police, several professional thieves, and even two amateur fortune seekers."
Fat man crossed his folded hands on his bulging belly, looking like a demented characature of a sitting Buddha.
"I am going to kill you, like I did them." That last statement was delivered with no malice, as if he had just informed a fly on the wall that it was about to be swatted to death.
"Georgy, your gun, please."
The man to my right unloosed my arm and stepped forward, holding an ancient Webly .45 caliber pistol by the barrel.
"You two may go, and take the boy with you. We will continue later."
When the room was deserted except for worried me and the self-confident man pointing a gun down at my gut, he smiled thinly.
"While I do not feel a necessity to explain for anyone my actions, I do occasionally appreciate speaking of them. It amuses me to hear my own voice to see how those intended to die do react to them."
For my part, I was scared shitless. The voice was thin, weak, slightly nasal, but it was the message, not the delivery that made me feel weakknead.
Fat man nodded to the closed door through which the boy had been hauled. "You saw what I did, didn't you? But you do not understand."
I made no move to reply.
"I shall tell you. I like young boys with no hair on them. I like to play with them. And my special game is to kill them with love...." Here he laughed horribly with much self-induced delight.
"That boy has a pretty little cock, don't you think? It has, thanks to me, shot forth its delicious hot cream ten times today. And it will do so again before the night is out."
What I heard chilled me to the bone. The naked, bulging creep looking harmless but for the gun trained on me, went on to tell me all the gory details. The poor kid had been kidnapped the week before, and every hour of every day in this isolated villa, this fiend had sucked his youthful cock.
At first, it came fast, powerfully, the boy delighting in the thrill, despite the fear of being a prisoner and not knowing his fate. And then as the days passed, each one a string of orgasmic nightmares, the fat man sucked and teased the agonized cock until it emitted its puny come into his anxious, thirsty mouth.
So the kid wasn't suffering from malnutrition ; he was literally being killed with sex. I'd read of it happening to eastern potentates who used their harems too much, but this was my first exposure to it in real life. It was ghastly, making my flesh creep.
My lack of response didn't bother my captor, who was thoroughly enjoying his reveries. "A young one like that most usually dies after a month. I killed a fourteen-year-old Arab boy in nine days, but to do that I had to have him chained to my bed, so I could have his cock nearby at all times."
He grinned hard, disclosing for the first time that he had no teeth-a good thing, I guess, for a man with his kind of a hobby.
"Naturally, as you might imagine, I got very little sleep during those nine days. Still, it was a remarkable feat of which I am most justly proud."
The grin went away once more, to be replaced by a searching look that swept me from head to toe.
"Now it is your turn, whoever you are."
I fought the impulse to try covering the ten feet separating us before he could get off a good shot at me. I knew better, though no alternative presented itself.
"Now, come forward and kneel before me."
All the self-defense manuals tell you that the closer you can get to your adversary, the better. I reminded myself of this as I meekly did as I was told, kneeling so that my eyes were at the same height as the fat man's diminutive cock.
Close up, it looked as small as I'd figured it, its puniness emphasized by the massiveness of the huge thighs on either side of it.
"All day long I suck my boys," the thin voice whined, "so now it is my turn to be sucked. Do it."
Once again, I felt a cold gun barrel against me, only this time it was hard up to my left temple, the soft grinding of the Webley's sloppy cocking mechanism telling me that my case was hopeless.
Once again, a tiny inner voice said, "Lie, you idiot! Lie!"
Denying every feeling rolling around in me, I forced myself to stare at the mini-cock. I smiled and licked my lips wantonly, turning my face up to my tormentor's, forcing my shaking voice to say, "This I don't have to be forced to do." I left the thought hanging.
The gun didn't lose any of its pressure against my headbone.
The round, heavily-jowelled face bore the trace of a crooked smile, though. "Well! Well!" fat man sighed, tiny pink-rimmed eyes shining at me. "Go ahead, then! Be my guest!"
Slowly, I made my face close in on the thing he thought was a real prick. I was willing to bet that, as big as it could get, it wouldn't hit the three-inch mark on a ruler. Not that this thought made what I had to do any more pleasant.
Now another faint memory tugged at the back of my mind, even as I felt the ghastly flesh of him entering my mouth, even as I ordered my tongue and lips to act interested in satisfying this inhuman, oversized beast of a man.
Like memories will, one worked its magic on me without my knowing it. As I felt the little cock firm up a little, my hands quite naturally left my side and came up to stroke the rod, adding fire to what my mouth was doing.
Fat man sighed with pleasure.
One hand titillating the small length of rising cock that was not being consumed in my mouth, the other slipped below and lightly cupped equally tiny balls contained in a smooth, hairless bag.
The memory rose to consciousness. The gun was at my temple, my hand was wrapped around his pulsing nuts. The police department doctor had told me, in scientific language, that the sudden crushing of the balls virtually froze the central nervous system if the pressure were great enough.
Did the doctor know what he was talking about? It was time to find out. My fingers clenched shut instantaneously, hard, hard, harder.
Above me, I heard a blood-curdling squeal that hurt my eardrums. But the gun did not go off. In fact, I no longer felt its pressure. I shot to my feet. My tormentor's mouth was open, a jagged, ugly wound in his bloodless, sweating face. Beast-like low sounds poured out in an endless stream, hands opening and closing, legs swaying, body twitching like some monster in its death throes.
My free hand pried the gun loose, redirecting its snub nose between the deep-set eyes.
I could afford to ease up on his balls now, and I did. Slowly, his color returned, the pig eyes opening to stare up at me with terror.
"Where are the stones?" I hissed, remembering suddenly that his goons could come back any time.
No reply.
I began tightening my grip on his balls.
"The stones! Where are they?"
This was admittedly a crude sort of process. Nothing psychological or brainy about it. Still, it worked. By alternately clamping down on his nuts and letting up, and by continually thrusting the Webley under the flat, running nose, I got fat man across the room to the French doors I'd been clumsy enough to lean against.
I'd never have found it. One last really good motivating crunch of his aching nuts and he touched a tiny button set in the door's framework. The whole damned eight-foot-high dark board swung inward, disclosing a second panel that would have passed for plaster with a few cracks in it-if one didn't look too closely.
Bullseye! Four flat metal boxes painted in a semigloss black, devoid of markings sat on narrow shelves. I had to open only one to see that these were what I was after.
For the moment, I replaced the box I'd checked, closed the jam, and instructed fat man to get back on his throne. That done, I ordered him to call his guards-with the boy.
I almost shit then, wondering whether he knew I couldn't understand French.
Dredging up the only term I could think of that might fit the bill, I poked my prisoner with the gun and spat out, "Avant! Avant!"
That worked, or was it the gun in his ribs, or the fingers on his nuts? He bleated his orders in rapid-fire. Then we waited.
Finally, the damned door opened. In came the two torpedoes in black, carrying the nude boy between them. I thought my gun hand was well enough concealed from view the way I was squatted alongside fat man, the weapon tucked against his thigh.
But the one on the right must have spotted it. Unluckily, he hadn't given up his gun earlier and he released his hold on the kid, going for the blued automatic stuck in his wide brown leather belt.
The Webley, lousy a gun as it was, did its job noisily boring a bloody hole just to the left of the punk's lumpy nose. He dropped like lead, and before his pal could get straightened out in his mind about what he should do, the next .45 slug settled the question for him by punching deep into a vital neck nerve. His lifeless body fell across his companion's.
Fat man started to stand up, only his excessive poundage preventing him from grabbing my gun arm during the brief span of time it took me to concentrate on my targets.
Now I smiled at him, motioning to the kid, who was on his knees, staring dazedly at the two of us.
Making me wince with each move, the naked thin figure crawled across the green carpet toward us. No more than three feet from me, the kid summoned enough strength to rise to his knees. Cold, strange blue eyes looked first at fat man, then at the gun, then at me.
I got the message, placing the gun at my feet, eyes watching steadily as the boy collected his waning strength to knee hobble up to the Webley.
His claw-like hand picked it up, eyes again on mine, questioningly. I nodded.
"No!" fat man bleated like a lamb about to be slaughtered. "Please! No!"
"Shut up, whoever you are," I said evenly, keeping one eye out to make sure fat man didn't try something funny in his desperate moment.
I don't know what I expected the kid to do, only it wasn't what he did. With superhuman will-power, he got all the way to his feet, swaying drunkenly for a moment, before stepping close to face fat man.
The gun was pointing directly at the heart buried far inside behind those almost-breasts many fat men possess.
But then the gun's short barrel moved down and down and down, and before I understood what was going on, the Webley's loud roar once again filled the small room.
I stared down in stunned surprise. The little cock and little balls were gone. Only a dripping, bleeding wound about the size of a dime showed where they had been. Like an idiot, I wondered where the guy's parts had gone to. Had the bullet blown them to bits, or were they plastered over the carpet somewhere?
My wondering was cut short by the boy's handing the gun back to me.
He said something then, the first word I'd heard from him.
It was in French, so I had to shake my head, digging up another long-unused bit of high school. "Parlez-vous L'Anglaise?"
For all the brutal punishment, the boy somehow managed a dim smile, nodding his crew-cutted head.
"Yes...." he said, "he ... is yours ... The police can do the rest...." With that, he collapsed on the rug, not unconscious, merely so weak and tired that he couldn't even enjoy his final triumph.
The shock of what had happened to him was beginning to wear off the slightly remodeled fat man. He was groaning and carrying on, pleading for a doctor. To hell with him. I was more concerned that there might be more gang members around. The Webley was down to two bullets, though the automatic I hadn't retrieved yet would offer up a few more rounds.
Pulling it from the dead man's waistband, I went to hunt up a phone, found it in the kitchen, and jiggled for the operator. To stem the flow of chatterbox French that filled my ear I bellowed with no little irritation, "American. Non comprendez." That approach ultimately got me through to the Hotel, and they connected me up with Sheila's room.
We argued awhile about who was going to be allowed first to tell which of us "are you all right?" and then go on from there. She felt fine, as I knew she would, making a couple of filthy remarks aimed at the part of me below my belt. They worked.
I told her to get to a pay phone and call the gendarmes in ten minutes and tell them to get the hell up here if they wanted the diamond thieves. I further instructed her to have the cops bring a good doctor-that was for the boy-and a crotch-sized bandage for fat man.
As a law-abiding American who had promised faithfully to leave the rougher details to the local cops, I had failed miserably. I suspected that, crooks or no, dead people produced by a tourist like me could cause lots of bad blood.
Realizing all this, I checked my flight only long enough to put the poor abused boy on a sofa and cover him with a drape torn off a window. One last trip to where the victim of the most unusual gunshot wound sat took care of wiping the Webley clear of prints and throwing it out of reach of the dethroned lard pile, as if he, in his half-dopey condition could have used it in any case.
After that, there were the four tin boxes to get and load in the Ferrari, to be followed by a fast trip down the Alps and back onto the main road leading to Monaco. Ordinarily, I'd have left the stones where they were for the cops to find. This time, however, I figured the reward from DeGrooning would come easier if I were able to hand them to him in person.
On the way back, I passed six black and white Renaults packed to the dome lights with fuzz, the little car horns making deedle-doodle-deedle noises like no American cop car ever had. My mind wasn't on the cops, though. It was on Sheila. The sight of so much cock on the mountainside had made me extremely conscious of my own. It needed attention, though not from a fat man and certainly not from a .45 Webley.
She was waiting in my suite when I returned after having ditched the car two blocks away and wiped my prints off the parts I'd touched.
She eyed the boxes under my arms.
"Closed case, I gather?"
"You gather right," I grinned, already having half-forgotten the priceless assortment of diamonds in my possession as my eyes swept over the lush body seductively shadowed within a filmy negligee that had about as much hiding power as a very light fog.
I dropped the tin boxes by the bedroom door and turned to study my sexy friend. "Want something?" I asked playfully.
Leisurely mixing me a drink at the cellaret, she replied in a very-matter-of-fact way. "Oh, nothing much. I just wanted you to get the kinks out and then fuck me."
I walked to her, eyes feasting on the beauty of her face, the provocation in her upthrust breasts, the promise of the veiled cunt.
"That's pretty crude language, Sheila. Couldn't you be somewhat more refined in your talk?"
She handed me my glass, a frown on her face. "All right, then. I would appreciate it if you would divest yourself of your garb, and, after the usual preliminary moves, proceed to a bit of oral intercourse on my sex organs, including my clitoris and vagina, then allow me the pleasure of doing the same to your penis, after which I would appreciate your inserting said penis into said vagina for the purposes of mutual orgasm."
I took a deep swallow of the booze, letting it warm my guts and release the tensions that had built up.
"Damn!" I remonstrated. "That kind of language sounds even worse. I think we'd better stick with the old fashioned four-letter words, all right?"
Sheila, beautiful, red-haired Sheila, agreed to that.
Closing the gap between us, she nibbled my ear, saying, "Lick my pussy and I'll suck your prick...."
Chuck Morgan is a lover of music, and those words were music, I can tell you. Unless the native fuzz were complete jerks, they'd tie me in with the bloody business at the villa, and soon enough they'd be barking at my door, demanding explanations in clipped accents. In the long run, perhaps with some assistance from the friendly American Consulate down the street, perhaps with a few words of appreciation from that powerful man, DeGrooning, the stink would blow over.
And then there'd be my fat percentage-enough money to buy all kinds of goodies. Hell, I'd be able to afford my own speculum and foreceps. I was going to need them to extract the plastic thingamajig from Sheila. That job could wait, though. The thought crossed my mind that the coil might not be in far enough and might injure my pecker. Not a chance, I reflected. The way I felt right now with Red rubbing her boobs against me, I'd shove the god-dammed thing up so far it might take me a month to get it out. The longer the better.
Now that was a pleasant thought. Here I was, already looking forward to our games in New York when I hadn't yet taken care of the ones here in Europe.
As eager hands stripped my clothes off and my own peeled away the gauze on the body I ached to get at, I recalled for the third time that night the reminder to lie my way out of a jam.
Now, I was about to lie again-only with my favorite fuck, the girl with the fire-red cunt and a man-sized clit worth more than those four tins with their neat trays of diamonds.
Then and there, Sheila kneeled to kiss my alert, hungry cock.
"My very own private dick!" she sighed, doing very obscene things with her tongue and lips.
"You've got it licked," I answered, aware that Chuck Morgan, more lucky than smart, had it pretty well licked too.
It was time to stop thinking and time to begin that wonderful sport which leaves a man with a lump in his throat, a warmth in his gut, and maybe even a bright red hair between his teeth.
