He was young and unwise; they were young and not-so-young-but also unwise. And because he lived among the unwise his life became molded by sin and shame. For though he studied well in school and worked hard at home, he was trapped in a neighborhood of scandalous passion and it seemed quite normal to become a part of the crowd. So natural and so evil that his tortured mind at last rebelled. And then, finally, the lust life he was a part of brought him to the screaming edge of insanity....
CHAPTER ONE
She was naked! The firelight gleamed copper on her fair skin. Her body was an amazing construction of curves and globes and masses of flesh. Her bare breasts were like honeydew melons with fingers pointing from their tips. The tips were of a different texture and color than the rest of her bosom, darker, rougher.
Her softly mounded mid-section fluttered in and out with each gasping breath she took, the navel seeming to wink at him in the dim light. Her shadowed legs were long and lean, with hollows right up near her body. Her hips and buttocks were dizzying sweeps of curves-outward and backward and around and under.
Her feet were braced apart on the floor and the tension and excitement she felt were visible in the tremors which coursed through her body. She stood with her hands cupping her sweet breasts and her head lolling back on her neck. Her eyes were closed. Her long hair hung down her back almost to the base of her spine.
He wasn't quite naked. He was still wearing his shorts, though they gaped open in the front. He was sitting close to where she was standing. One of his powerful arms reached out to her and one of his hands was lightly stroking the delicious curves of her body.
She trembled beneath his caress like a trapped doe in the forest. She was both afraid and excited. He rose from his seat and took her in his arms. Her breasts flattened against his hard chest. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she turned her face up for his seeking kiss. He reached down behind her to cup her buttocks and hold her against him.
Now one could see the excitement in her win out over the fear. Her eyes opened wide and stared up into his face. She sighed directly against his mouth and moved her body against him.
One of her arms came down from behind his neck and moved to the snaps of his shorts. Their bodies separated for a brief moment and his shorts dropped to the floor.
Still standing close to him, her hands held him gently but firmly, her clever fingers learning the strength of him.
He put one hand behind her head and tried to draw her face to him. She resisted and twisted out of his grasp. Then they were standing close together again, and the upper half of her body was leaning back from him so his lips could flutter against one breast while his hand toyed with the other.
That was like a slow-motion scene in a newsreel when they sank to the floor. She stretched out on her back and he knelt beside her. Her arms curled behind his head to direct his face from one trembling, pink-tipped breast to the other and back again. Her out-flung legs kicked convulsively as his hands swept over them.
Her head rolled from side to side and she mewed as though she were in pain. Her hands were doing things to him as his lips descended the length of her to her waist, there to encircle the indentation of her navel.
Now her hands were clawing at him, leaving behind red streaks on his back and shoulders and arms. Then she drew him to her, kicking and shaking with ecstasy.
They moved together, slowly for a few seconds, then frantically. He tensed first, squeezing her to him with all his great strength.
"No! No, wait!" she cried. "I'm there, too."
And her body worked madly until she caught up with him. All her tendons and muscles clenched convulsively and her body arched into a taut bow. Her eyeballs rolled back in their sockets and showed only the whites. Her mouth hung open and saliva flooded out of the corner and down her cheek.
They remained braced like that for many long breathless seconds. Then, with a sign, she slumped and he rolled to one side.
The action was over now. There was nothing more to see. Clay Gardner crawled carefully away from his hiding place. The bulk of the sofa shielded him from their view and he was able to get out of the room without being discovered.
Slowly he climbed the stairs to his room, skipping the fourth and ninth stairs steps because they squeaked. He closed and locked the door of his room and flung himself down on the bed.
His senses were aflame with youthful desire. Now, at long last, he knew what that was all about. The mysteries which had troubled him for these many months were no longer mysteries. All doubt had been dispelled by the demonstration he'd just witnessed.
He clutched at himself in an agony of frustrated desire and drew his knees up to his chest. His hands gripped hard. He hoped, through pain, to dispel the demands of his fourteen-year-old body.
Clay groaned as he tossed from side to side. That was the worst kind of torture. There was available to him only one method of release. But he didn't want to do that. Afterward he was always ashamed of himself. And that was never really any good.
He'd experienced frustrated neeed before, but never as bad as this. At fourteen he'd had four regular dates with girls, all his own age and all classmates at school. On two of those dates the girls had permitted him to caress their breasts through their clothes. This practice had left him in an excited and unsatisfied state. But that was all kid stuff to what he felt now.
Then, too, there'd been the books and pictures he'd borrowed from a friend. The friend had stolen them from the dresser drawer of an older brother who'd just recently returned from overseas service. The pictures were of naked and exposed oriental girls. The books were tiny, badly printed things, with misspelled and awkwardly used words and poorly reproduced pictures.
The stories in the books were the spiciest things he ever hoped to read. All the four-letter words in the language were used and the scenes were explicitly described down to the most minute detail. The fuzzy black and white pictures showed men and women doing things together.
Clay had been excited when he'd looked at the pictures and read the books and that time he'd been most miserable. And still he'd never been as excited as this before.
Nothing, he decided, could be as exciting as watching your own sister make love with her boy friend. Hearing the groans and cries and lust sounds of flesh had been exciting. The knowledge that that was his own sister was also an exciting factor.
This hadn't been the first time Clay had seen Jennie in the nude. Her room was right across the hall from his and sometimes she didn't quite close the door all the way when she undressed. Also she was quite careless about her robe when she was going to and from the shower.
But nothing in the world could compare to what he'd seen a few minutes before.
With an anguished cry he tore at his clothing. His hands were busy and he breathed more and more rapidly until the sullen flare sparked.
He was still for a long time after that while the self-loathing curdled his thoughts. Then at last, he rose, stripped off his clothes, and went into the shower.
After the shower he donned fresh clothing and stretched out on his bed. He felt hollow and weak and dirty. He tried desperately not to think about what he'd seen downstairs. But the very act of trying to clear the thoughts from his mind only reinforced them and he could already feel the tingle of excitement beginning again.
He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to become excited again. He couldn't help himself.
With a muttered oath he flung his legs over the side of the bed, rose, picked up a jacket, and ran out of the house. He had to do something-anything. He had to keep his mind and body occupied.
He felt jumpy and depressed as he walked quickly down the tree-lined street. When he came to the avenue he turned toward the group of stores where there would almost certainly be several of his cronies hanging about.
He tried the candy store first and found no one. Then the pizza stand with similar failure. And finally the drive-in hamburger palace. Still no one. Not one friend to be seen.
At first he was puzzled. Where was everyone? Were they all at a party he didn't know about? Then he saw the large clock over the door of the drive-in. It was almost two in the morning!
No wonder no one was around. Nobody in his crowd was allowed to stay out this late. If his" parents had been at home he wouldn't have been allowed out either. But, then, if his parents had been at home Jennie and her boy friend wouldn't have been using the den as a bedroom.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardner were, however, enjoying a combined business trip and vacation. The summer convention was being held at a plush resort and most of the men were bringing their wives. They were encouraged to do so. But you couldn't take the whole damned family and still expect to write the trip off as a business expense.
So, Jennie and Clay remained behind. There was no problem. They were old enough to fend for themselves for a few weeks. Jennie was a pretty good cook. She wouldn't poison them.
Clay turned his steps homeward once again. His hands were dug deep into his pockets and his shoes scuffed the sidewalk. It was a lousy, lonely world. Just when a guy needed a buddy to talk to they were all home in bed.
A car passed him as he turned into his street. He saw the tail lights come on and the car slow and turn into a driveway. It was the Curtis house. But Mr. Curtis was away for two weeks with the Army Reserve.
When the door of the car opened the dome light came on and Clay identified Mrs. Curtis. There was no missing the white-blonde hair and that fabulous figure. For a while, when he was younger, he'd had a secret crush on her. She had been the love goddess of many an exotic dream.
Clay couldn't see the face of the driver and didn't recognize the car. He slowed his steps and watched them walk to the front door of the house. There, back in the shadows, they embraced and kissed. He saw them press together then part. The door opened and they disappeared inside.
A few moments later lights came on. Clay couldn't believe it. Not Madeline Curtis! Not the love idol of the entire teen-age set! But what else could that mean, the kiss at the door and both of them going inside?
On silent feet he huried by the house, then cut across the lawn. He worked his way carefully to the window and peered inside. This was the downstairs bedroom. The light was on and there was a half-inch of space between the bottom of the blind and the window sill.
Clay's heart raced with breathless excitement as he peered in. His field of vision was very restricted. He could see only the far wall. But on that wall, centered over the six foot dresser, was a large oval mirror.
He saw motion in that mirror, but it took several seconds for him to orient himself to the angle of sight.
First he saw only mass and motion. Then, slowly, he was able to identify the objects he saw.
The man and the woman were standing up and embracing. The woman's head was turned to one side and her face was turned up. The man pressed his mouth down upon hers, and his hands reached around her back to cup her sweetly curving buttocks.
Clay's mouth went dry when he saw how the man's hand covered the soft spheres of flesh back there. What a behind she had! How marvelous that must be to touch and stroke.
There was no time to continue with that line of thought, for now they parted from their embrace and moved back from one another. Clay saw her face in the mirror. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with passion and her mouth was curved in an open smile of lust.
Her body swayed from side to side on widespread feet as she slowly and teasingly opened the buttons of her top garment. She shrugged out of that and posed before her lover clad only in a net brassiere. Her hands moved faster, teasing less,, as she removed the brassiere.
Nude to the waist, she stood proudly before her lover. She bent forward slightly from the hips to let her breasts swing free and shook her. shoulders from side to side to make them bounce.
Her breasts were no larger than Jennie's, but they were rounder somehow, smoother and more attractive. The large circles of darker flesh at the ends were like bulls-eyes. And in the center of each of those bulls-eyes there rose a twin beckoning finger of joy.
Her hands rose to her breasts for a moment and her fingers toyed with her nipples, making them stand out even further. Now she dropped her hands from her breasts to the waistband of her skirt.
She was still gyrating slowly on the ball-bearing joints of her hips. That was as though she were doing the twist in slow motion. The skirt dropped to the floor, followed quickly by the half slip and panties. She stepped away from the garments and was clad only in garter belt and stockings.
The sound of an approaching car intruded upon Clay's excited concentration. He turned his head and saw the lights of the car as it cruised slowly down the block.
At this late hour, and at that slow speed, the car could only be a police cruiser. Clay ducked away from the window, cut across another lawn, and slowed his pace to a crawl when he hit the sidewalk.
The cruiser came around the curve of the street and the lights struck him full. The engine was louder as the driver accelerated to pull up alongside him. The spotlight hit him full in the face and the car stopped.
"Hold it, buddy," a deep voice said.
Clay stopped walking, turned to face the car, and tried to shield his eyes from the glare of the spotlight.
"Hey!" he said. "Get that thing out of my eyes!"
There were two cops in the car. One remained behind the wheel and the other got out to come around the back of the car.
"Who are you? What are you doing around here?"
"I live here," Clay said quickly.
"Hell, it's only a kid," the cop-driver said.
"Let's see some identification," the other one ordered.
Clay reached into his hip pocket for his wallet and handed it out into the darkness beyond the glare of that hellish spotlight. The cop took it and looked through the papers inside. "The kid's only fourteen," he said to the driver.
"What are you doing out at this hour?" the other cop snapped. "Do your parents know where you are?"
The question were firm but there was less belligerence in the tone now that Clay had been identified.
"My folks are away on vacation," he said. "I was just coming home from my girl's house."
The wallet was thrust back into his hand and the cop started back around the car. The driver switched off the spotlight and Clay blinked his eyes.
"You were at your girl friend's till two o'clock in the morning, huh? Ain't you a little young for that kind of thing?"
Clay didn't answer! There was nothing for him to say.
"Did you make out, kid?" the other cop asked from inside the car. "Did you get yourself a good piece?"
Clay smiled sheepishly, hoping that would do for an answer.
"All right, kid," the driver said. "Go on, get out of here. This is no time for you to be walking the streets."
The police car moved slowly away and Clay stood for a moment trembling with relief. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and turned toward home. It had been a close call. If they'd caught him peeking in that bedroom window he'd have really been in trouble.
The house was dark when he arrived there. He let himself in the back door and turned on the kitchen light. He poured himself a tall glass of cold milk and sat down at the kitchen table.
He felt weak and feverish and the cold milk was delicious as it slid down his throat. He rinsed the glass, left it in the sink, turned out the light and made his way upstairs to his bedroom.
The door to Jennie's room was partly opened. He listened there for a moment, but heard only the deep, slow sound of her breathing. He pushed the door open a little more and peered inside. The room was dark but the blind was open and there was a certain amount of illumination from the moon.
Jennie was asleep on her bed. She lay flat on her back, her face turned to one side. The sheet was drawn all the way up to her throat, but was molded to every curve of her body. He could see the mountains of her breasts and the rising and falling of them when she breathed.
He knew she slept in the nude and was tempted to tiptoe over there and pull back the sheet so he could look at her nakedness one more time. But he didn't know what would happen if she were to awaken while he was standing there looking down at her.
He backed out of the doorway and turned across the hall and into his own bedroom. The sheets were cool to his bare flesh as he slipped into bed. He stretched and yawned and made himself comfortable. But when he closed his eyes to try to fall asleep, immediately the screen of his mind was filled with naked female bodies. He could see Mrs. Curtis's blonde loveliness and his own sister's darker nudity.
In his active imagination he could see many things he hadn't been able to see in real life that night. In his mind's eye he saw Mrs. Curtis sitting slumped down on a sofa so that her buttocks rested right on the edge of the cushion. The blonde woman was wearing only a house coat and that house coat was wide open, effectively baring the entire front of her body. Her feet were flat on the floor and her hands were active.
Funny, that he should imagine her that way. That wasn't the sort of thing he really thought she did. And even more peculiar was that he should continue to think of her as Mrs. Curtis. The title was one of polite respect. After what he'd seen of her that night he had no reason to respect her and even less reason for politeness. She was nothing but a common tramp, cheating on her husband that way when he was out of town.
Clay's thoughts wandered far afield after that and eventually he dropped off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
It was two in the afternoon and a white-hot sun beat down. Clay was sitting in a chair on the shaded patio. Beside him was a tall, cold glass of Coke. A six foot swath of the back lawn was closely cropped and even. The rest of the lawn was deep and ragged. The lawn mower lay where Clay had dropped it, halfway along another row.
He was wearing only a pair of old blue jeans that had been cut off above the knees. His feet and lower legs were bare and the upper half of his body was bare. His broad shoulders, flat chest, and limber arms were deeply tanned.
He was still puffing from his recent exertions with the lawn mower and his muscled stomach rose and fell smoothly. Using his muscles, exerting his not inconsiderable strength always made Clay feel good. But he hated mowing the darned lawn. It was a dull, boring, menial job. It was the only household chore for which he was responsible and he hated it with all his strength.
Clay took a sip from the glass, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. From behind him, through the open windows of the house, he could hear the clink and clatter of pots and pans as Jennie worked around the kitchen.
It was two days since he'd spied on her and her boy friend and he still wasn't able to look her squarely in the eye when she talked to him. The very next morning after that had happened she'd been very peculiar and he had worried that somehow she knew he'd been there the night before. But she never came right out and accused him and things smoothed out.
Ever since he'd gotten out of bed this morning she'd been after him about the darned lawn. When the folks were home he mowed the lawn regularly once a week. But now that they were to be away for close to three weeks he could see no reason why it couldn't be left until the day before they were due back.
Jennie, however, wouldn't hear of it. All morning it was nag, nag, nag. She was left in charge of the house and of him. She was responsible. Blah ... blah ... blah....
Despite Jennie's three years' greater age, Clay had always considered her an equal. And now he sorely resented her authority. Three lousy years didn't make her such a big deal.
He wouldn't have minded mowing the lawn nearly so much if only his father would buy one of those power mowers. Most of the other guys' fathers owned them. With a power mower the job was a breeze. Fifteen minutes, no sweat, and you were finished.
But the senior Gardner steadfastly refused all pleas. Sure it was hard work, Mr. Gardner was prone to say. But Clay was young and strong and the excercise was good for him. Clay had tried to explain that he didn't mind the hard work. What really bothered him was the two and one half hours time the job took. When the other guys were all finished and were gathered at the swimming pool or the pizza parlor, he was still sweating away over that lousy lawn.
There were times when Clay felt like spilling gasoline over the entire lawn and setting fire to it. It would look like hell after the fire went out, but no grass would grow there for a long time.
Who needed all this lousy grass, anyhow? It wasn't of any use. Every time you cut the darned stuff it grew right back again. And it seemed the more you cut it the thicker and faster it did grow. They ought to dig it all up and pour concrete instead. If they liked the lousy color so much they could paint the cement.
Clay opened his eyes when he heard the screen door open behind him.
"That lawn isn't going to mow itself," Jennie said sarcastically.
"Aw, why don't you ever leave me alone?"
"Because the job has to get done and you're supposed to do it."
Clay looked up at her. She was wearing a sun suit-a halter and a pair of shorts. Both parts of her costume were brief. The sides of the shorts were cut high so a little bit of her buttocks showed on either side. And the halter was loose, very loose. Her firm breasts did not sag down to fill the cups of the halter so the material just kind of hung limply on her flesh. She was barefoot and her hair was pulled back into a pony tail.
"Come on now," Jennie chided. "It's more than ten minutes since you stopped for that cold drink."
"You know, you're a pain. A big fat pain. Why do you have to be so bossy?"
"I am not fat," she said quickly. "And I have to be bossy because otherwise you won't do your work. I do my share, don't I? I cook your meals and clean the house."
"Aw, I wish you'd just leave me alone. You're not such a big deal."
"Well, I'm not making you any supper unless you get this back lawn done."
With a sullen expression on his face Clay rose from the chair and walked across the lawn to the mower. He picked up the handle and pushed hard to get the thing rolling. The mower whirred and the blades sliced cleanly through the grass, throwing back a cascade of soft, moist green onto his bare toes.
He reversed direction at the end of the row, feeling Jennie's eyes on him. But when he turned around again she'd gone back into the house.
Clay stomped along behind the whirring mower, pushing much harder than was actually necessary, taking out his anger against his sister on the machine in his hands.
Big deal, he thought. I'll bet she wouldn't be such a smarty-pants if she knew I knew all about her and her boy friend.
As he worked he envisioned himself confronting her with his information. She would be frightened and telling her would make him feel good. She wouldn't boss him around any more after that.
But confronting her wouldn't have any effect on his having to mow the lawn. Clay was still responsible to his father for that. When the elder Mr. Gardner returned home he would expect the lawn to have been mowed. And Clay couldn't say he hadn't done the job because Jennie had made love with her boy friend and he, Clay, had spied on them. That ploy would only get Jennie into trouble. It wouldn't get Clay out of trouble.
All that thinking didn't make it any easier to take Jennie's snooty attitude, her high and mighty manner. Just because the folks were away she thought she was elected queen or something.
Clay finished the back lawn, rinsed the mower and put it away in the garage, and went back out with the grass rake to rake up what he'd mowed. That was another thing, this business with the rake. Everybody else in the world used a grass catcher on the back of a mower. Not Clay Gardner. He had to do two jobs beacuse his father said raking was good for the grass.
Well, maybe it was. They did have the nicest lawn on the block. But it was still double work; double lousy,, boring, dull work.
Clay raked the blades of the grass clippings into one big pile, then, with a shovel, he transferred the clippings to the trash barrel. And, finally, he carried the heavy barrel to the other side of the driveway where it would wait until trash day came around and the garbage men would take such things as grass cuttings.
Finished at last, and with the sweat pouring out of him, he went into the house. In the kitchen he turned on the cold water and ducked his head under the faucet. When he straightened up some of the water splashed down onto his chest and, shoulders. And with water dripping behind him he walked through the. house to the bathroom to find a towel to dry off.
Jennie discovered the trail of water while he was still drying himself with the towel.
"Clay Gardner!" she screamed. "Just look at what you did to the floors." She came to stand in the bathroom doorway. "Did you have to drip water all through the whole house?"
"Aw, you're a pest, you know that? Why don't you leave me alone?"
"You better find a mop and clean up all that water," she ordered.
"Clean it up yourself!" he snapped.
"You just wait till mom and dad get home," she warned. "I'm going to tell them everything."
"You're not going to tell them a darned thing," he said quickly. "If you say one word about me I'll tell them about you."
"What about me?"
"You know what about you, all right. About you and your boy friend in the den the other night. I was there, behind the chair. I saw everything."
Jennie went white with fright, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. It was a long time before she could speak, and when she did speak it was in a whisper.
"Just what do you think you saw?"
"I don't think anything. I know what I saw. I saw the two of you making out. That's what I saw."
"Clay, we weren't really making out," she whispered.
"I may be younger than you, but I'm not stupid. You were both naked and he was lying there with you. You tell me what you were doing if you weren't making out."
He brushed past her and stalked into the den where he turned on the television set and dropped into a chair. He heard her follow him into the room but didn't turn around to look at her.
She stood behind him for a long time, then moved around to stand next to his chair. "Clay," she said softly. "Are you really going to tell?"
"I will if you don't stop bugging me. I ought to tell anyway. Miss High and Mighty herself is nothing but a common tramp."
"I am not. I'm not a tramp, Clay. I'm not really like that."
"I suppose you're secretly married to that guy?"
"Well ... no."
"Then you're a tramp."
She sank down to her knees beside his chair, fear and anxiety mirrored in her face. "Oh Clay," she said softly. "You're too young to understand. A girl's not a tramp just because she makes out with a boy."
"Well, why did you do that? Are you in love? Are you engaged, even?"
Miserable, she shook her head. "I did that because ... because I got excited and I wanted to. Didn't you ever get excited like that?"
"Well ... yeah, I suppose so."
"Girls get excited too. That's just as difficult for girls as for boys."
Clay could understand Jennie's motives. He felt a little sorry for her now, sorry for her fear.
"Okay," he said, in a softer tone. "I won't tell.
That's none of my business anyway. Only you stop bugging me all the time, see?"
Jennie nodded quickly. "You promise you won't tell?"
He nodded.
"You swear?"
He nodded again. "I already said so didn't I? Now stop bothering me."
She gave him a little smile as she rose to her feet. He heard her get a mop and clean up the mess on the floor, then she came back into the den and sat down on the sofa, her long bare legs stretched out in front of her.
Clay was watching the eighth inning of a baseball game, but he wasn't really concentrating. The Yankees were ahead nine-to-one and there wasn't much excitement.
"Did you ever make out with a girl, Clay?" Jennie asked softly.
He turned to face her and shook his head.
"Did you ever do anything with a girl?"
"Well, yeah. A couple of times I kind of touched them, you know."
"Touched them where?"
"On the top. But, you know, like through their clothes. That was all."
"Why did you watch the other night?"
"I wanted to see. I knew you were going to do something and I wanted to see what that was. Then, when you got started I couldn't get away."
"How did you feel when you were watching? Did that make you excited?"
"Uh huh." Clay was embarrassed now and he was blushing.
"How much did you see?"
"Everything."
"Did you think I was pretty?" He only nodded this time.
"Did you ever see a naked woman before?" He shook his head. "Only pictures. And that's not the same thing." It was a lie and he hoped it would pass. "Are you sure?"
"Well, I did see you a couple of times before that. You don't always close your door and sometimes your bathrobe opens up."
Jennie nodded and suddenly changed the subject. "Are you sure you're not going to tell on me?"
"I promised, didn't I?"
Now she sat straighter and her voice was taut. "Do you like to look at naked girls?"
His blush deepened and he swallowed hard as he nodded his head. "I like to look," he told her. "But afterward, you know, that's no good. That makes me feel kind of miserable.
"Do you ever do anything when you feel that way?" He didn't answer.
"You don't have to be ashamed or embarrassed," she told him. "I'm not ashamed of what I did the other night. I'm only afraid you'll tell. And everybody does things once in a while. There's nothing really wrong with that. Do you ever?"
"Sometimes. But only when I can't help myself. I did the other night after I watched you."
"Would you like to see me naked now?" Jennie asked, rising to her feet.
Clay had long since forgotten about the television set and the baseball game. He sat on his chair with his heart pounding in his chest and his temples throbbing painfully. He was flushed. Sweat was oozing out all over him again. And he was inescapably aware of excitement.
"Well, do you?" Jennie prodded.
He licked his dried lips and nodded dumbly.
Her hands went behind her back and the halter dropped away from her breasts. Her eyes stared at him as her hands cupped and massaged her breasts until the tips were taut and thrusting. He could see her breasts rising and falling as she breathed heavily. "More!" he croaked.
And her hands dropped to the waistband of her shorts. She opened the button and the zipper and let the shorts drop to the floor. A moment later her panties, too, dropped away and she was totally naked before him.
She reached down with one hand. Her nails scraped lightly against a slim upper leg and the sound was like thunder in his ears.
"Now you!" she said, and her words had the force of a bomb.
"No! I couldn't."
"Yes you can," she whispered hoarsely. "If you don't I'll never let you see me like this again. I like to look, too. That's not fair if I can't see you. Go on now, stand up. Take your clothes off."
He was wearing only a pair of cut-down blue jeans and a pair of undershorts. He shoved himself up out of the chair, opened the jeans, and shoved them and his shorts down past his knees. He kicked them off and stood less than five feet away from her as naked as the day he'd been born.
She stared lustfully at him. "Oh," she crooned softly. "You're not such a little kid, after all. You're pretty grown up for your age."
He knew that was supposed to be some sort of a compliment, but she only made him feel more embarrassed.
Everything was all right until she took a step toward him. Then he leaped back as though he'd been burned.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he ran around behind the chair. "Stay away from me!"
"Don't be afraid, Clay," Jennie crooned softly. "I just thought you might like to touch me, to see what that's like to touch a naked girl. Wouldn't you like that? Don't run away."
He was rooted to, the spot. That was as though his feet had become part of the floor. One part of him wanted to run away and hide, but another, stronger part, wouldn't let him move.
She moved close, reached out and took his wrist, and brought his palm against the hard swell of her breast.
Her skin was warm. And smoother than anything he'd ever touched before. His palm tingled and he could feel himself trembling with excitement.
She held his hand against her breast and backed up. He had no choice but to follow. And before he knew what was happening they were both seated, facing one another on the couch.
He was touching her with both hands, then, moving them so her nipples scraped back and forth against his palms. Her hand reached out, touched his bare, hairy leg, gripped him tightly.
The intensity of the sensation was so tremendous he almost jumped out of his skin. He tried to pull away from her but she was holding him firmly.
With her other hand she took his wrist again, brought his hand back against her breast, then slid that slowly over her torso. He felt the bumps of her ribs, the softness of her middle, the identation of her navel, and, finally his palm was stroking the silken sweep of one of her legs.
He was dizzy with excitement. His body was on fire and his brain seemed to be melting inside his skull. The hand holding him was moving quickly and he thought he was going to die with pleasure.
Actually, what she was doing to him was nothing really new. But when she did that, the sensation was so much better there was really no comparison. The difference was like day and night.
She turned to face him more fully, slumped lower on the couch. She brought his hand against her body, pushing and shoving until she had the hand right where she wanted. Then she started to move.
She worked faster and faster and moved her hand faster and faster and he gripped her breast with his other hand harder and harder.
When the ecstasy hit the pit of his stomach, he squeezed her breast so tightly in reflex action that she screamed aloud. But he couldn't let go.
Then she screamed again and began to thrash wildly about, her legs kicking. Her mouth hung open and saliva sprayed out as she tossed her head from side to side, Her frantic movements slowed and stopped and with a deep sigh she slumped away. Her hand released him. He let go of her breast and saw the angry red prints which would soon be bruises.
He was afraid he'd done something wrong. He was afraid he'd hurt her. But when he looked up at her face she was smiling triumphantly.
"Now I'm sure you won't tell," she said. "Because if you do I'll tell them about this and say you forced me."
"You're a witch," Clay said vehemently. "You didn't have to do this to me. I wasn't going to tell. I promised."
"Well, this is just a little insurance. And besides, that was fun. We'll have to do that again sometime."
Clay leaped up from the sofa, grabbed his clothes, and ran out of the room. He pounded up the stairs, ran into his own room, slammed and locked the door, and threw himself down on the bed.
CHAPTER THREE
They ate supper that night with a taut, strained silence between them. Clay was relieved to see that Jennie appeared to be as troubled as he about the events of the afternoon.
He'd spent several hours locked in his room trying to sort things out. His first emotion, after the excitement had faded away, was one of complete and total revulsion. He knew, somehow, vaguely, that such things weren't supposed to happen between brother and sister. And he also knew, with absolute certainty, that the episode would be repeated. That had been too good, too wonderful, not to happen again. At one and the same time he wanted that again and he didn't want that again.
He tried to examine the event carefully and impartially as though he hadn't been actively concerned, as though that had happened to someone else. They hadn't done what Jennie and her boy friend had done. All they'd done was touch one another. And that wasn't really very much different from touching yourself.
That was better, that was all.
When you looked at things that way, they really weren't so bad. The whole episode, in a way, could be considered a normal part of growing up.
Oh, that would be wrong for them to make love. That was for sure. Making love was illegal for a brother and sister. That was dirty and nasty and there was a special name for that which he couldn't remember.
Clay's rationalization wasn't complete. He still felt badly and he knew Jennie felt badly, too. They ate in absolute silence, each starting nervously when the other made some untoward sound.
When they'd finished the main course Jennie cleared the table and brought out the dessert. Clay avoided her eyes and she avoided his. She set the dessert before him and went around to take her own chair. The clink of spoons against the glass desert cups was loud in the silence.
Finally Jennie spoke. "Clay," she said. "You don't have to feel bad about this afternoon. That wasn't your fault, any of that. That was all my fault."
"I've been thinking about that," he told her. "Maybe some people would think that was wrong. But that wasn't, really. We didn't do anything to each other we don't do to ourselves. Going all the way would have been wrong, but not what we did."
"That's what I thought," she told him. "But I couldn't think how to say so." She smiled tentatively and the cloud of gloom lifted from her shoulders.
Clay returned the smile and they both felt better.
"What are you going to do tonight?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I guess I'll go out and find the guys and we'll all do something. Maybe we'll go to a movie, or just hang around. How about you?"
"I had a date. But after this afternoon I didn't think I was going to feel like going out. I called up and broke the date. I guess I'll just stay home, now."
"That's too bad," Clay said. "You know, I don't have to go out. I could stay home and keep you company."
Her smile brightened. "Would you help with the dishes?"
"Sure. Why not?"
He rose with her and helped her clear the table. In the kitchen she washed and he dried. Conversation was slow in starting but before they were finished with the dishes they were chattering away like a couple of magpies.
Jennie had a lot to tell Clay about the high school to which he would be going in the fall. He'd just finished his last year of junior high and next year he would be a freshman in high school. She told him about the courses and the teachers and the activities. He told her about wanting to try out for the football team.
When the last dish was dried they went into the den and turned on the television set. It was still early in the evening and the only programs were news and cartoons.
They left the set on but didn't watch it. Instead they took out the scrabble game and set it up on the floor before the fireplace. From there they could both see the television set.
Soon they were both completely engrossed in the game. There were several arguments, which were settled with the aid of the dictionary. Jennie won the first game, but by a narrow margin. She won the second game, too.
By then it was eight o'clock and a regular series which they both enjoyed was coming on. They pushed the game to one side. Jennie rose to sit on the sofa and Clay remained stretched out on the floor to watch the screen.
It was a good show and they both enjoyed it. When it was over there was another program for them to watch. Occasionally, as the evening wore on, Clay glanced at Jennie. She was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress, with no make-up and her hair in a ponytail.
Once, when she crossed her legs, he could see the full sweep of one leg all the way up to the seam of her panties. He looked up from her leg, saw her watching him look at her, and quickly turned his eyes away.
But even when he wasn't looking at her he was acutely conscious of her sitting there, conscious of her body, knowing what she was like under all those clothes. His mind wandered from the television drama and dwelt instead upon the memory of the afternoon.
He didn't become actually excited by the memory. Instead, that was as though his senses could touch her there on the sofa even when he didn't look at her. He knew without looking when she turned her head and looked at him, when she changed the position of her body, folded her arms or crossed her legs again.
At ten o'clock Jennie got up from the sofa. "I guess I'll go upstairs and take my shower," she said. "It'll do me good to get to sleep early one night."
"Me too," Clay said. "I'll be up in a little while. I want to see the first fifteen minutes of the news."
Jennie gathered the component parts of the scrabble game and dumped them into the box. When she bent over to pick something up Clay could look down the front of her dress and see her breasts encased in a white cotton brassiere.
She put the game away and went to the door. "Don't forget to turn off the set and lights and lock up before you come upstairs," she told him.
"All right," he called after her.
Clay found himself unable to sit and watch the news. He felt nervous and jumpy. At last he stood up, turned off the set and the lights and walked quietly through the house closing windows, turning out other lights, and locking doors.
When he climbed to the head of the stairs he could hear the hissing of the shower in the bathroom and looked down the corridor to see the bathroom door slightly ajar. The door to Jennie's room was wide open and the light was on.
He went into his own room, leaving his own door wide open, and stripped out of his clothes. His window was open wide and there was a slight chill to the night air. His flesh turned to goose bumps as a breeze blew over him but he didn't reach for robe or pajamas.
A strong sense of anticipation gripped him tightly and his face felt flushed and feverish. He found himself pacing a circle in the center of his room. And when the hissing of the shower stopped he stopped pacing.
He went to the door, stuck his head out into the corridor, and called, "Hey, can I get into that shower now?"
"Two minutes," she called back. "I'm almost finished."
Through the partially opened door he could see her shadow moving about in the confined space of the bathroom. In his mind's eye the door was fully open and his sister was completely naked. She was patting the rough nap of the towel against her sensitive breasts, then rubbing down along the front of her body. Now she was turning her back and drying her buttocks.
Clay almost fainted with excitement. He was seeing all that with the door closed. There was no telling what the effect on him would be if he were to see the real thing.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bathroom door swing wide. Quickly his head snapped around. But there was only disappointment. Jennie was wearing a bathrobe.
But he was still stark naked. He jumped back into his room and shoved his door closed. Through the panel of the door he heard the pad of her bare feet as she walked down the corridor and turned into her own room. He waited a few more seconds, then opened the door and started for the bathroom.
Jennie's door was partly opened but he couldn't see her in the one quick glance he had as he passed the door. He didn't close the bathroom door all the way. And when he took his shower his movements were clumsy and mechanical. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing. His brain was aflame with a thousand exotic images.
Back in his own room once again he stretched out on the bed, pulled the sheet up to his waist, and closed his eyes. The house was quiet and he strained his ears in the silence to hear the slightest sound from Jennie's room.
There was no sound. Once he thought he could hear her hoarse breathing, but that turned out to be only the wind in the trees outside his window. Then, a little later, he thought he heard her tossing and turning on her bed. And that turned out to be the rustling of the shrubbery on the front lawn. Probably a prowling cat.
Sleep refused to come to him. The fluttery sense of excitement boiled through his body. His breath came in shallow gasps. His fingers and toes felt numb. The mere touch of the sheet against his flesh was sheerest torture.
With a silent oath he rolled from the bed and threw himself prone on the floor. He put his palms flat against the floor just beneath his shoulders.
With the smoothness of long practice and the ease of youth he straightened his arms until his body formed a perfect inclined plane from his neck and shoulders down to his feet.
He flexed his arms and lowered himself to the floor again, moving downward until his chest barely touched. Then his arms straightened once more.
Up and down he went. Up and down. Up and down. Twenty times, forty, fifty, seventy-five. And still he didn't stop. He'd never done more than seventy-five push-ups before at one stroke but now he couldn't stop.
Sweat poured out of his body. His lungs burned with each gasping breath. His shoulders and arms felt like they were being torn from his body.
At one hundred and ten he paused for a moment and took several breaths before lowering himself to the floor. And on the one hundred and eleventh stroke he barely made it up again. His arms threatened to buckle beneath him. His lower back and stomach muscles ached with the strain of keeping his body rigid.
Down to the floor one last time he went, then rolled over on his back and let the muscles of his body go limp. For a few moments everything was all right. Then his breathing returned to normal and he was again able to feel the lust and desire bubbling through him.
He almost cried as he rose to his feet. The push-ups were supposed to do the trick. He was supposed to exhaust himself so he couldn't think about love. But the thoughts were still in his mind and his body was still acutely sensitive.
In the darkness of his room he paced like a restless tiger. This was all so stupid, really. She was right there across the corridor. And they were alone in the house. All he had to do was walk into her room. She would not object. She'd already indicated as much.
Yet, with all the rationalization, he couldn't bring himself to go to her. Something held him back. He wanted-to go to her to ease his lusts and at the same time he wanted to stay away.
Clay threw himself down on the bed once again. He: didn't bother with the sheet covering this time. His body was still perspiring from the excercise. He threw one forearm across his eyes and bent one knee in the air. With clenched teeth he tried to force himself to think of other things. Yet every time he pounced upon a subject his mind would make some sensual connection.
He tried to think about cars and the first thing he knew he was thinking about being on the back seat with a naked girl. He tried to think about swimming and suddenly he was thinking about moonlight swimming with a naked girl. Even when he thought about football there were thoughts of pretty young things watching him play and offering themselves to him when he was victorious.
Nothing worked.
A tiny whisper of sound brought him suddenly tense and alert. The sound came again and he knew Jennie was standing outside his door. In the darkness he saw his door push wider and the shadowy bulk of her enter.
She came quickly to the side of the bed and looked down at him. His eyes were tightly closed now. He hoped she would think he was asleep and would leave him alone.
"Clay?" she whispered. "Are you awake?"
"No!" he answered hoarsely.
"I couldn't sleep," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Her hip brushed against his and he knew she was wearing a robe. He didn't know if she could see well enough in the dark to be able to tell he was naked and uncovered.
"I couldn't sleep," she told him.
"Me neither."
"I tossed and turned, but I couldn't fall asleep."
"Yeah, I know. I did some push-ups but I couldn't wear myself out."
In the darkness her hand brushed his shoulder and slipped up onto the flat hard plane of his chest. He held his breath, feeling the warmth of her palm seeping through his flesh.
Her fingernails scraped lightly as her hand moved slowly along his body. The hand stopped short of its goal and his exhalation was a startling explosion in the tense darkness.
"Clay, I'm sorry about this afternoon, really I am. I don't think we should ever have gotten started like this."
"Yeah!"
"Now I can't help myself. I want to do that again ... I have to or I'll go out of my mind. You don't know what that's like to lie in there and think about that and know there's nothing in the world to stop you."
"I know. I know exactly how that feels."
"Do you want to do something, too?"
"I want to."
Now her hand moved with a convulsive jump. She gasped and her arm trembled.
"Clay," she whispered. "All I've got on is this robe. Open my robe, Clay. Put your hand on me! Touch me! Touch me everywhere!"
He found the belt and pulled the knot open. The two halves of her robe fell apart, baring the front of her body. There was just enough light in the room for him to see the double mounds of her breasts with their excited tips. He clutched a breast, squeezing hard.
Jennie groaned, and he could feel her shudder. She let go of him, rose to her feet for a moment, and shrugged out of the robe. The garment dropped to the floor beside the bed with a soft plop.
Then she was stretching out beside him and her hand was caressing him once more. They lay on their sides, facing one another, their faces only inches apart in the darkness.
"Oh, Clay, what are we going to do?"
"The same as this afternoon?"
"No. No. I want more than that."
"Not everything. We can't do everything." There was real terror in his voice.
"No, not everything," she answered quickly. "But there's lots we can do."
"What?"
"Kiss me!"
His head darted forward and his lips fastened on hers. That was an awkward, immature kiss, with tightly pursed lips and clenched teeth.
She pulled her head back. "Not like that. Relax. Like this...."
She showed him. This time her lips moved to his.
When she kissed him skyrockets went off inside his skull. She brought his hands against her body, one to the firm thrust of her breasts and the other to the velvet sweep of her leg.
He kissed eagerly, tasting her mouth-the warm sweetness. And when her hand touched him and began to stroke he almost bit her.
Her face mashed against his, rolling from side to side. They were kissing passionately now, as though they were trying to devour one another.
Suddenly her hand was behind his neck and she was pulling her head back from his. He could feel her exerting pressure on the back of his neck forcing his face down toward the trembling mounds of her bosom.
"Kiss me there!" she panted.
He kissed. His lips fluttered over the sensitive flesh. When he touched one turgid nipple he recognized the saltiness of her perspiration.
He worked at the nipple, nipped gently with his teeth.
"Oh, yes," she hissed. "More, more, more!"
She shifted her shoulders and he repeated his caresses with the other breast. Her excited and exciting hand was moving rhythmically, driving him to the heights of passion.
His hand was returning the pleasure. She trembled. They thrashed together, bodies bumping blindly. Passion roared in their ears and was a dull red haze behind their tightly closed eyelids.
Clay felt a sharp piercing sensation. That seemed to begin down at the tip of his spinal cord and shoot upward toward his brain. He grunted, cried out with delight, and went rigid for a long, breathless moment.
Jennie was holding his wrist tightly between both of her hands and working her body frantically in an effort to catch up with him. Only a few seconds after he reached his peak he saw her stiffen, heard her cry out, and knew she'd finished too.
Later, Jennie rose from the bed and leaned over him. He was just dozing off. "I'd better go back to my own room," she whispered.
"Yeah!"
CHAPTER FOUR
Somehow the remainder of the three weeks of the parents' vacation time managed to pass without further incident between brother and sister. Clay fought against the urges within him with all the strength he could muster.
It was no easy struggle. The fires of his youthful blood were not easily brought under control. The only thing that helped him was that, having made a temporary sibling truce between himself and his sister he could now spend almost all of his time away from the house.
Jennie did not help him in his struggle. She seemed to be quite eager for another passion session with her brother. She took every opportunity to display herself to him, to tempt him, to tease him until he was nearly out of his mind with frustration.
For his own part Clay could not have said what it was within him that told him not to partake of the dangerous joys of pleasure with Jennie. He loved the things they did together, enjoyed them thoroughly-more than he'd enjoyed anything in his life. And yet he could not still the small nagging voice.
That might have been easier if there had been someone to whom he could tell his troubles. But there was no one. He couldn't talk to his contemporaries, the other fourteen and fifteen-year-old boys. None of them were good enough friends in the first place, and most of them were not aware enough yet to be bothered by similar problems. Oh, they talked about girls, all right, and bragged about the things they did to girls. But most of that was bluff and bravado.
So there were no contemporaries. And there was no older brother. Most assuredly he could not discuss something like this with his father, not even if they'd had the best possible relationship and if his father had been around when the problem occurred.
With no one to talk to Clay could only think. And thinking only made him want Jennie more and more. But the problem needed thinking about. He tried desperately to understand the small nagging voice inside him, to find out from whence it came, to defeat it with argument and logic and thus end his self-torture.
Nothing helped. There was no relief. The torture continued, worsened. The only saving grace was that Clay did manage to avoid further dalliance. His penalties, however, were numerous and obvious.
He grew surly and snappish and morose. He began to avoid his friends so that by the end of the three week vacation time he no longer saw them at all. He spent his days and nights alone, walking endlessly, squirming in one darkened movie theater after another, locked in his own room staring at the barrier of the door.
He held on and fought down to the last ounce of his strength until, finally, his parents returned. Now things were easier. Jennie no longer flaunted herself before him. There was routine and order and sanity once again in the house.
The day after their parents returned Jennie and Clay were alone for a few minutes in the back yeard.
"Are you satisfied that you spoiled all the fun we could have had?" Jennie asked sullenly.
Clay ignored the question. "We'd better forget all about that," he said softly, not looking at her. "We'll pretend that never happened and we'll make sure that doesn't happen again."
"What's the matter, little brother, are you afraid?"
"No! I just don't want to do that again. I don't even want to think about that."
"You're a louse," she spat under her breath. "That's so good and now I have to go around wanting and not getting any."
"What are you complaining about? You can always get some guy to take you some place and satisfy you. But who've I got? Who can I get?"
"Don't tell me your sad stories, brother. You wanted things this way. Now suffer."
And Clay did suffer. But he discovered that he suffered less and less as each day passed. That was as though now that the temptation was removed, or at least lessened, he was less bothered.
He began to see his friends again, began to spend his lazy summer days in ways more normal to a fouteen-year-old boy. They swam, they played ball, they hung around and drank Cokes and ate endless slices of pizza.
There were new interests, new desires. One by one Clay's friends passed the magic point of fifteen. This was a most important time in their lives. At fifteen it was possible for a boy to obtain a license to operate a motor scooter, although a license to operate a car could not be had until sixteen.
There were many endless hours of debate as to whether it was not better to wait one more year and get a car. The boys came from families in the same economic group and were well aware that if their parents bought, or permitted them to buy motor scooters at fifteen a car one year later would be out of the question.
But, if a guy was sixteen and had no wheels of any kind, he could push for a car right away.
Though the boys argued interminably the result was always the same. Each and every one of them managed to secure a motor scooter within a week of turning fifteen. No matter how sound were the arguments for waiting one year for a car, none of them was willing to forego the immediate pleasure of the scooter for the future pleasure of the automobile.
Clay's father was fully aware of the primary problem of the fifteen-year-old boy, and two weeks before Clay's birthday he had a talk with his son. He explained the advantages of the two choices to Clay but left the final decision up to the boy himself. And whichever way Clay chose there were two more choices.
If Clay elected for the motor scooter, his father would be perfectly willing to pay for it. But-and this was a big but-the time to sell the scooter and move up to a car would be decided by the father. If, of course, Clay wisely chose to wait one more year and take a car, there would be no problem.
The other alternative, if Clay should choose to want a scooter immediately, was for Clay to buy the scooter himself. He had some money saved and could easily find ways to earn enough more to pay for the scooter. Should Clay buy his own scooter he would be free to make his own decisions as to when to move up to an automobile.
It wasn't as simple a problem as it seemed. A decent scooter ran as little as one hundred and fifty dollars. But one hundred and fifty dollars was a lot of money to a fourteen-going-on-fifteen-year-old.
Clay had only sixty dollars saved and he'd planned to spend some of that money on football cleats, a fraternity sweater, initiation fees and dues, and other such necessary items.
So, if he chose to buy the scooter himself he would need another ninety dollars just to make the purchase and about seventy more for insurance and incidental expenses. It would be impossible, he knew, for him to earn all the money in time to buy the scooter for his fifteenth birthday.
He mentioned this fact to his father the day following their big discussion. No problem at all, his father told him. The necessary, funds could be advanced as an interest-free loan.
Clay agreed quickly and eagerly.
But, as always, there were some strings. The financial arrangements would work the same way they did with a regular bank or loan company. Clay would turn over his sixty dollars as a down payment. The balance would be paid off in regular installments and there would be late penalties for any delay in payment. And, should Clay default completely, he would lose the scooter and any monies he'd invested.
So, it wasn't so easy after all.
It was a tough, business-like bargain. Naturally, Clay understood that his father had arranged things in this manner to see if he was mature enough to carry financial responsibility. And Clay was smart enough in his own right to see what the money-making possibilities were before he accepted the deal.
He entertained the idea of a regular part-time job, one which would continue after the summer was over. But he hated the idea of having to go to work right after school every day. It would ruin his extracurricular life. There would be no football, no afternoon dates with girls. And a part-time job would almost surely kill his Saturdays, too.
There was only one other way. And this he carefully investigated. He canvassed all the houses in the neighborhood. He spent three entire days going from door to door and talking to housewives and husbands.
At the end of the three days he had four tentative commitments. For two dollars and fifty cents a week at each house he would do all the lawn mowing and a little light gardening, pruning of shrubbery and the planting of a few flowers.
On a weekly basis it averaged out to a little more than ten dollars per customer per month-a little more than forty dollars a month all told. If he started in the middle of August he could have the loan all paid off before Christmas.
Clay was ready to accept the business deal. There were only two points which needed clearing up. One was the minimum amount to be paid on the loan and the other was to make his father agree to keep paying his allowance while the deal was in force. The allowance, Clay maintained, had nothing at all to do with the business arrangement.
The deal was made.
In August, on the day of his birthday, Clay went to the motor vehicle bureau and applied for his license. There was only a written test, which he passed easily. The following day Clay had his scooter.
It wasn't brand new-not by a long shot--and it would only do thirty-five or forty miles an hour top speed. But it was painted a bright, shiny red and it was all his. The scooter had a double seat for carrying one passenger besides himself, and it had a little generator to power the headlight and tail light. The little gas tank held only two gallons of gas and one pint of oil, but the scooter could go about one hundred and eighty miles on a tankful.
Clay used up a full tank of gas the first two days he had the scooter. He was so thrilled and happy with his acquisition that he didn't at all mind spending three or four hours a couple of days a week fulfilling his business obligation.
As it happened one of Clay's customers was Mrs. Curtis-Madeline Curtis. She was the woman he'd spied on that terrible night more than six weeks before. He'd been almost unable to talk to her when he'd rung her bell. She'd answered the door in a pair of shorts and a halter and suddenly his brain was aflame with the memory of the sight of her body and the manipulations of her lover. It was as though she were standing in the doorway completely nude. He blushed, and stammered when he talked to her and he could not look her in the eye.
Working on the Curtis lawn was more difficult than working on any of the others. While Clay pushed the mower around the yard he thought about the blonde and beautiful woman inside the house.
He thought about her, naked and eager, the way she'd been that other night.
And he thought of himself with her.
Somehow it always took him at least half an hour longer to do the Curtis lawn. It even took him longer when there was nobody home. Just being close to the house in which she lived was enough to start his active imagination working crazily.
Several small and unrelated incidents added to the constant fever. Jennie, his sister, still took the occasional opportunity to display herself to him and to tease him. There wasn't the pressure there'd been before, but things were still damned difficult once in a while.
Then, too, Madeline Curtis was always running around the house in next to nothing. Most of the time she wore only brief shorts and a tiny halter, the outfit hardly bigger than a bikini. Once she greeted him in a nearly transparent bra and a half slip. Another time, when he went there fairly early in the morning, she was wearing only a loose cotton house coat.
It would have been obvious even to a five-year-old that she was nude beneath the house coat. Her tremendous breasts bobbled and bounced with every step she took, and if one looked closely enough one could see the hard nubs of her nipples punching at the thin covering over the ends of her breasts.
The more Clay saw of Madeline Curtis the more he thought about her. He knew, of course, that she was promiscuous, and that knowledge added to the fire. He had daydreams of her and night dreams of her.
His dreams were always the same thing. He would confront her with his damaging information and demand that she make herself available to him. And in his dreams she would comply quickly and eagerly.
But there is a vast gulf between dreams and reality. And in reality he could never bring himself to say more than hello to her. He didn't have the courage to come right out and blackmail her.
Besides all that Madeline Curtis was the nicest of all his clients. She never asked him to do anything more than had been included in the original bargain. She always smiled and spoke pleasantly to him, and when it was particularly hot she brought him cold drinks while he worked.
In an odd way, above and beyond his lust for her, Clay liked and respected the blonde housewife. This, of course, put him squarely between the horns of a dilemma. He lusted after her passionately as an equal, and he respected her in the same way he respected any adult whom he liked. She was both a love goddess and a mother figure.
The summer was drawing quickly to an end. In ten days school would open. Clay had been under a tremendous strain since before his parents returned from their vacation.
He didn't want the girl he could have-Jennie. And he couldn't have the woman he wanted-Madeline.
There was only one answer. He had to try one of the girls in his own crowd. He had to try something or go clear out of his skull.
There was one girl-Diana was her name-who might, just might, be the answer for him. She was a year older, sixteen, and had a reputation among the boys.
It was whispered that if you took her on a date and played your cards right Diana might be talked into things. But she would never do anything for free. A fellow had to give her five dollars.
She wasn't a professional. She had to like you and everything first. But you still had to give her five dollars.
It was the consensus, however, that a fellow got his money's worth. Diana was the liveliest little thing in three counties. She was supposed to be absolutely wild-a teen-age nymphomaniac-and would do anything a guy wanted once you got her started.
Clay got her phone number and called her on a Wednesday evening. He asked for a date for that Saturday night. At first she was hesitant. She didn't know him, could not remember ever having met him.
Clay stammered and stuttered with embarrassment but he managed to talk her into accepting. And from Wednesday evening to Saturday evening he grew more and more nervous.
Saturday turned out to be a busy day. Besides his chores around the house Clay had to do two of his client's lawns. He had postponed the work during the week in favor of a ball game and a swimming party.
Saturday morning he arose bright and early and by nine o'clock was busy in the back yard of his own house. He finished up by ten-thirty and headed over to the Woodside house.
He worked hard and fast and even with a half hour off for lunch he finished with Mrs. Woodside's lawn by a quarter of two. He'd saved Madeline Curtis's job for last.
His scooter put-putted up onto the Curtis driveway. He switched it off, threw down the kickstand and headed for the kitchen door. The main door was open and he could see through the screen door as he knocked.
Harry Curtis was sitting at the kitchen table in a pair of swimming trunks. He looked up at the sound of the knock. He was a big, bear-like man with wiry hair sprouting all over his body. He had a big paunch, but it wasn't soft. Even sitting relaxed he looked as hard as a rock.
"Hiya, kid," he said with a grin.
"Hi, Mr. Curtis."
"Come on in for a minute. There's something I want to talk to you about."
Clay opened the screen door and went into the kitchen.
"You're doing a good job for me, kid," Harry Curtis said. "I like the way the lawn looks since you started taking care of it. I'm thinking about putting in some shrubs and a couple of trees in the back. Know much about that sort of thing?"
"Well, yeah, a little. I know how to transplant and I know the fertilizer and stuff you have to give them to get them started."
"A friend of mine said this is the best time of year for that sort of thing."
"Yeah. I guess so. What did you have in mind?"
Curtis shrugged. "I haven't made up my mind yet what I want for sure. But as long as you know what you're doing would you like to handle the job for me?"
"You mean plant the stuff?"
"I mean everything. You buy the stuff and plant it and everything and give me a bill when you're finished."
Clay thought quickly. Here was a chance to pick up a decent chunk of money. He ought to be able to make fifty dollars legitimate profit on a deal like this.
"It sounds fine to me, Mr. Curtis. You let me know when you've decided and I'll get to work on it."
At that moment Madeline Curtis strolled into the kitchen.
She was wearing only a light cotton robe belted loosely at the waist. The top two buttons of the robe were opened, making a neckline which veed nearly to her belt line. And when she sat down and crossed her legs the bottom of the robe fell away, baring one full and rounded upper leg almost completely.
Clay stared for a moment, gulped, and forced himself to look away. He glanced at Harry Curtis and saw that the husband had not failed to notice his reaction.
"Well, uh...." he stammered. "I guess I'd better get to work."
"Yeah, kid," Curtis said. "I'll be out in a few minutes and we'll talk about the best place for the trees and stuff."
"Okay."
Clay hurried out of the kitchen and down the three stone steps to the driveway. He stopped there for a minute, and from behind him he heard Harry Curtis speaking sharply to his wife.
"For God's sake, baby, what's the idea of running around like that with the kid here? Everything you got was showing."
"Oh, Harry, get off my back. He's only a kid."
"You let people into the house like that when I'm not here, too?"
"Oh, sure," she snapped sarcastically. "Sometimes I don't wear anything at all. All the delivery men love me. What kind of woman do you think I am, Harry?"
"Okay, okay. I just wish you'd have covered up. Did you see the way that kid's eyes bugged out?"
Madeline laughed and Clay's ears began to burn. "He's a good looking kid at that," she said, teasing her husband. "If I wasn't a married woman I could go for him."
"Aren't you a little old for cradle robbing?" Harry shot back, half seriously.
"You know what Kinsey said," Madeline retorted.
"A male reaches his peak around sixteen and a female around thrity-five. The perfect match would be between a middle-aged woman and a sixteen-year-old boy. I've got a couple of years to go yet. You can start worrying when I turn thirty-five."
Clay couldn't listen to any more. He felt as though he were being engulfed in living flames. His body and his mind were burning up.
He set to work with a vengeance and forced himself to think about the coming evening and the date with Diana. He worked stripped to the waist, sweat oiling his nut-brown body, his muscles coiling and writhing beneath his skin. Once Madeline stepped out into the back yard and stood watching him thoughtfully for a few minutes. She'd changed into the halter and shorts and he could feel her eyes flicking over his body.
Later on, just before he was finished, Harry Curtis came out to talk to him. They discussed the relative merits of various types of trees and shrubs. Curtis wanted one shade tree for the back yard, and one fruit-bearing tree. And he was thinking of lining the driveway with shrubs.
They talked for a while without coming to any final decisions. Clay finished by four-thirty, cleaned and stored the tools, and hurried home. He showered and made use of the electric razor he'd been given as a graduation present. He could have gotten by without a shave. One shave a week was more than enough to keep his cheeks and jaw relatively free of fuzz, but he thought being recently shaved might help him impress Diana.
He ate supper with the family, then went up to dress. Before he left the house he liberally doused his cheeks with his father's after-shave lotion.
His stomach was tied in knots by the time he arrived at Diana's house. He dreaded having to undergo the inspection of her parents and was relieved when a younger sister answered the front door. He stood nervously just inside the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again until Diana came out.
The first sight of her was a shock to his entire nervous system and he almost forgot to smile. At sixteen she was already a full-blown beauty. By the time she reached twenty-five she would be fat and sloppy but Clay wasn't interested in the future. All he was worried about was the evening ahead.
Diana was wearing skin-tight stretch slacks which molded to the curves of her upper legs and rump like a second skin. Clay could quite clearly see the line of the elastic of her panties through the tight material of her trousers. On top she wore an orlon sweater, short-sleeved and about five sizes too small. The soft synthetic fabric clung lovingly to the amazing curves of her breasts.
His eyes almost bugged out of his head. She had bigger breasts even than Madeline. They had to be at least forties, and they were as wide and full as they were big.
She stopped and posed for his visual inventory, then smiled when his eyes finally rose to her face.
"Hi," she said. "You're Clay Gardner. I remember you now. I've seen you around at the swimming pool."
"Uh ... yeah," he said. "Let's go."
Clay was in for another shock when they climbed onto his scooter. It was the first time he'd ridden a girl double. She straddled the seat behind him and slid up tight against him. Her arms went around his waist and her hands clasped over his stomach just above his belt buckle.
The touch of her hands there turned him weak in the knees.
But worse still was the feeling of her two mammoth breasts flattening against his back. He was acutely aware of the warm softness yielding against his shoulder blades, and of her warm breath fanning the nape of his neck.
He started the scooter, but immediately stalled it out. And he blushed furiously as he started it again. This time he managed to get rolling without mishap.
Once they were out in traffic Diana pressed her cheek against the back of his shoulder to keep her face out of the wind. He had several near-accidents on the way to the movie theater. He parked and they joined the line which moved slowly toward the cashier's window.
"Uh, two please," he told the cashier, sliding a five dollar bill to her.
"Don't you want to sit up in the loge where we can smoke?" Diana asked.
"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Make that two loges, please."
It cost a dollar more for the two loge tickets. Clay didn't mind the money. He was prepared to spend whatever necessary. But he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of the better tickets himself. She would think he was a kid if that sort of thing happened too often. Besides, if they were going to neck-and he hoped they would-they were better off upstairs. That was where all the kids went to neck.
They went inside and stopped at the refreshment stand. There were still ten minutes before the start of the picture. The inside lobby was full of quietly chatting couples and groups waiting for the second feature to end.
"Uh ... you want some popcorn, or something?" Clay asked.
"Yeah. And you'd better get a pack of cigarettes, too. I didn't bring any."
"What brand?"
"Whatever you smoke. I don't care. I can smoke anything."
"Uh ... all right." He got a big container of buttered popcorn and a pack of Luckies and returned to her side.
Clay noticed the envious stares of several young men about his own age and suddenly felt much better. He stood straighter and held his head high. They were staring at Diana as though she were a movie star, and he was proud.
Diana turned to reach across his chest for the popcorn and one big breast brushed across the outside of his arm. He almost dropped the popcorn container.
"Uh ... let's go upstairs and wait," he suggested.
She shrugged in agreement and he couldn't help but stare at the sliding shifting of her breasts when she lifted her shoulders and then let them drop. They went upstairs and found a seat on a double sofa.
Clay tried desperately to think of something to say to the girl beside him. She was the one who opened the conversation, however.
"You must be new in town," Diana said. "I don't remember seeing you before this summer ... around school I mean."
"Oh, I was there," he said, hearing the crack of his own voice.
"How old are you?" she asked. "Seventeen," he lied. "Oh, you're a senior then." He nodded.
"I'm a junior. I can't wait 'til next year. They say your senior year is the best of all."
He nodded "That's what they say."
There was a long silence, then Diana asked, "Aren't you going to open that pack of cigarettes?"
"Oh, sure."
He fumbled the pack out of his pocket, tore off the seal, and tapped out one cigarette. His hands were shaking and he was uncomfortably aware of the proximity of her bounteous body and of the warmth where the side of her leg pressed against his leg.
She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. "How about you?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't smoke," he told her. She gave him a curious look.
"No, I'm going out for football this year and I've got to stay in shape."
"Oh, you're an athlete," she said, smiling softly to let him know she had a particular liking for athletes.
He felt good. For the first time he'd said the right thing.
"You're certainly big enough for football," she said. "Those are marvelous shoulders."
And then her hand was on him, the palm flat against his body and smoothing from one shoulder across the front of his chest to the other.
"And you're strong, too," she said, prodding his muscles with one fingertip.
The rising notes of the closing theme of the music saved him from blushing. They rose to their feet and strolled slowly toward the carpeted steps which led up to the seating area.
The music stopped and the house lights came up and Clay and Diana waited for the crowd to leave, then went up and found seats for themselves. There was a long intermission to allow the heavy Saturday night crowd to find seats. Finally the lights went down and the show started.
There were a cartoon, a newsreel, and a teaser from the next feature to be shown at the theater. When the main feature began, the buzz of conversation died slowly away.
The picture was a Caribbean pirate adventure, starring the latest and most popular Hollywood swashbuckler. The co-star was big-bosomed and blonde and sensually attractive. There were lots of bare male chests, several bathing scenes, a moonlight swimming scene, and enough boudoir scenes to satisfy the average movie-goer.
Clay waited for the picture to really get rolling before he casually raised his arm and dropped that around Diana's shoulder. She slid over easily against him and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
He tried leaning his cheek against the top of her head, but discovered that her hair was stiff, dried-out, and had a sharp odor.
Ten minutes more of the picture flickered across the screen and he turned her face up to kiss her. She accepted the kiss without hesitation and he tried the kiss Jennie had taught him, the deep one.
Diana kissed him back and he tightened his arm around her shoulder. He was so excited he didn't mind the bad taste of her mouth-the flavor of stale tobacco and her most recent meal.
Her kiss was exciting him tremendously. He discovered that she breathed through flared nostrils while she kissed. He tried that and found that worked quite well. The breathing kiss enabled them to kiss endlessly without having to come up for air.
After the first few moments of the kiss she twisted around on her seat to half face toward him. He did the same and her breasts crushed against his chest.
They kissed for a while and watched the movie for a while, then kissed for a while again. Clay was too unsure of himself to try anything else with her right there in the theater.
But, when she put her hand on his leg a long time later, he responded by groping for and finding the rounded jut of one of her breasts.
She hissed her warm breath against his ear and nibbled on his ear lobe as he squeezed her sweatered breast, and her hand gripped his upper leg tightly.
He squeezed and molded that heavy globe of flesh while his senses soared. And he could feel the firm thrust of the nipple through the cloth of her bra and sweater.
The nipple was so big he could roll that between his fingers without reaching under her clothes.
She twisted slowly in his arms and whimpered softly so only he could hear. After a while she took his wrist and moved his hand down from her breast to the soft bulge of her middle.
He spread his fingers wide and pressed his palm flat against her, then moved his hand in ever-widening circles. Her hand moved, too, and he thought he was going to pass out from sheer delight. She brushed back and forth for a long time, then pressed hard.
"Oh," she whispered at his ear as she gripped him through his clothes. "You're really excited, honey."
"You're not exactly calm yourself," he whispered back.
Their lips merged again and there was no time to talk. His hand moved over the curve of her hip and around her back. She lifted from the seat long enough for him to slide his hand beneath her, then settled back.
Neither of them bothered with the pretense of watching the screen any more. As far as they were concerned the rest of the world had faded into oblivion. The only things that existed were the two bodies and the two seats.
They stroked and petted one another and kissed through more than three hours of movie. For Clay that was like living continually in a dull red haze of passion. Diana was expert enough with her caresses to keep him always on the brink-of total fulfillment without ever giving him that fulfillment.
Only a few moments before the end of the film they drew back from one another in order to give themselves time to regain composure before the lights came up.
Diana grinned at him once the lights came on. He returned the grin, no longer unsure of himself, took her hand, and held that as they left the theater. Once out in the darkness of night they again mounted the scooter.
Before he started the motor, Clay looked back over his shoulder at her. She was already squeezing against him.
"You want to go for a hamburger or something?" he asked.
"No, honey. Not now. Maybe later. Right now I just want to go for a nice long ride on this crazy little machine of yours."
He kicked the starter over and drove slowly through the downtown Saturday night traffic. In a few minutes they were on the highway out of town and streaking along with the throttle wide open.
Diana was holding onto him with all her strength and he was having considerable trouble concentrating on his driving. After half an hour the area of suburban homes gave way to open farmland interspersed with forest.
Up ahead Clay saw a dirt side road. He slowed and turned in. They bounced along in the ruts for a few hundred feet before he turned off onto the grass and shut off the scooter. He helped her off the rear seat and led her a few feet away where they sat down on the grass.
She turned immediately to him for a kiss and he wrapped her in his arms. Soon they were stretched out on their sides and locked tightly together. His hands roamed up and down her back from her shoulders to the yielding curves of her buttocks.
Then, suddenly, she had her hand between them and was pushing him away. He released her from his embrace and she sat up.
"Let's stop for a cigarette," she said.
He gave her a cigarette and struck a light. She inhaled deeply and held her breath, and when she exhaled there was very little smoke.
"You're really anxious, honey," she said softly.
Clay didn't know what to say so he didn't say anything.
Diana was staring at the silhouette of his motor scooter standing a few feet away.
"I'm pretty eager, too," she continued. "Riding one of those things always gets me started."
Clay reached up to her shoulder and tried to pull her back down beside him. She shrugged off his hand and kept her face turned away from him.
"Yeah, I'm really eager, too. But I can't make out with you."
Clay sprang to a sitting position. "Why not?"
"There's only one way I can really get my kicks," she told him in a harsh whisper.
He thought he knew what she meant, and he waited to see how she would approach him for and he waited to see how she would approach him for the money.
"I like you," she said. "I like you a lot. But the guy I make out with has to prove he really and truly likes me. He has to show me he really wants me bad."
"But I do. I like you and I want you so badly right now I feel like chewing through that tree over there."
"But my guy has to prove that to me."
"How? How can I prove that to you?"
"Something a guy wants has got to be worth something to him. And if that's worth something the guy ought to be willing to pay."
Clay said nothing.
"That's the way I know a fellow really wants me-if he's willing to pay me in hard cold cash. And I don't mean a quarter or fifty cents. That was when I was a kid and I let the little boys look at me and touch me. Now the guy has to give me five dollars."
"I've got five dollars," Clay said, rolling to his knees and shoving his hand down into his pocket. He brought out the other five dollar bill and showed that to her.
She looked at the bill and an expression of pure, animal lust spread over her face, but she didn't take the money from him.
Instead she rose to her feet, crossed her arms over her breasts, grasped the bottom of her sweater, and whipped the garment off over her head. Clay stared with bulging eyes and open mouth, his arm and hand with the five dollar bill still extended.
Diana dropped the sweater to the grass and bent both her arms up behind her to unfasten her bra. The straps slid down over her arms and her huge breasts were naked in the moonlight, the hard tips black and the fair flesh silvery. Without the aid of the bra those big breasts sagged and flattened against her rib cage.
Clay's mouth went dry and there was a buzzing in his ears. He saw her hand go on the button and zipper at her hip and the tight slacks peeled downward like a banana skin. She kicked off her loafers and stepped out of her slacks. Now she wore only sheer panties and heavy wool socks.
When she bent forward to remove the sheer panties her breasts hung down and swung free of her body, the nipples pointing toward the earth. He saw them swing back and forth like bells of flesh. And they hit together with a soft slap instead of a ringing tone.
Diana didn't take off the heavy wool socks but Clay didn't care. He held his breath as she moved back toward him. He was too excited to appraise her naked figure with a critical eye. If he hadn't been so excited he would have noticed the flabbiness and the puckers of fat.
She threw herself down onto the grass beside him and stretched out flat on her back. Her arms were extended over her head.
"The money," she panted to him. "Touch me with that! Touch me all over!"
He slid the five dollar bill to the deep valley between her breasts, then rubbed that up over the right boob.
She groaned when the crinkly paper slipped over the cap of her nipple.
"All over," she said. "Everywhere!"
Her excited breathing sounded like the chugging of an express train climbing a steep grade at seventy miles an hour. He brushed the bill over her breast, down the outside, to her armpit, and up along the reaching length of her arm. Then down the other arm he smoothed the bill and over the other breast.
He moved the bill from side to side over her ribs and waist, down over the top of one leg.
She screamed softly when he reached her leg with the five dollar bill. And she whimpered softly when he started up the other leg.
When he finished with the front of her she flipped over onto her stomach and he covered her back from the heels of her feet to the nape of her neck. Then she rolled over onto her back again, took his wrist, and moved his hand to her once again.
She held his hand and the five dollar bill for a long time.
Finally she took the bill from him, sat up, and tucked the money into the cup of her bra. She turned back to him, threw herself into his arms, and mashed her mouth upon his as he fell back against the ground.
She was half wild now, all naked and warm and moving. While she kissed, her hands worked frantically at his clothes and before very long he was completely naked, too.
She offered one bare breast to his lips and he accepted. At the same time her slender hand found him and stroked him vigorously.
They petted and caressed one another all sorts of ways for what seemed like hours. Clay became more excited than he'd ever been in his life, and his passion exploded suddenly against her. She cried out and shuddered and her body moved frantically while the pyrotechnics filled his skull.
When he slumped away from her her hand quickly claimed him and she scrambled to her knees beside him.
"Don't worry," she whispered as she bent over him, her breasts drilling against his chest. "I'll get you started again."
And she did, too.
Her warm lips touched him and almost instantly he was ready again. The flames of his passion leaped even higher now and his fingers caressed her forehead and cheeks as she kissed him.
Clay was pretty sure he'd know exactly what to do when the time finally arrived, but there had been a small nagging doubt. Things worked out smoothly, however.
She stretched out beside him again and drew him close to her. Her arms were locked around him as she set the rhythm for him, moving to show him how. He didn't need much teaching. After a few seconds they were both soaring on the wings of passion and pleasure.
She reached her apex first and locked him in a death grip as she shuddered and shook and screamed out her lustful pleasure.
He worked more frantically now, as she approached her second peak in only a few short seconds. Her hands reached along his back and touched his hard buttocks. Her nails dug at the flesh of his buttocks and the sharp twinges of pain helped him achieve his goal.
They remained close together for many long moments after that was over. Clay's heartbeat slowed and returned to normal. All his senses came back to him.
That had been the most magnificent experience of his life, but now, only a few short minutes afterward, he was filled with a curious disquiet. He wanted to be dressed and on his way back to town.
She wasn't ready to go yet. She curled in his arms and turned her face up for a kiss.
Clay didn't want to kiss her. Now that his passion was completely sated he didn't even want to touch her. For the first time he became aware of the sour odor of her armpits and the repulsive softness of her body.
He kissed her, but as quickly as possible extricated himself from her clutches and rose to dress. He breathed a sigh of relief when she too, rose, and began to slip into her clothes.
CHAPTER FIVE
That one night with Diana was enough to last Clay until well after the start of the fall term at school. She had completely robbed him of all passion and desire. And the session left him with many puzzling questions.
He couldn't understand why he should have been in such a hurry to get away from her once they were finished. He had been very much in a hurry, and had been quite relieved when she made no protest.
He couldn't understand why he had thought she was so desirable beforehand and so repulsive afterward. There had been lots of time before they finally made out when she was naked and he was looking at her and touching her. He hadn't thought her too fat and sloppy then.
And why hadn't he been aware of the odors before they loved? He had kissed her breasts and hadn't noticed anything at all. Yet, almost immediately afterward his nose had curled up in disgust.
Had she really been disgusting afterward and not before? Or had his mind been playing tricks on him?
There was one sure way for him to find the answers to his questions. That was to find another girl to make love to. But that was easier said than done. Contrary to popular opinion, not every high school girl is a tramp. He didn't know of any other girls who were willing.
And he wasn't so sure he wanted to find the answers to his questions. It would be lousy if all girls were repulsive to him afterward. He liked girls and love too much for that. That would spoil everything.
If love made him so oversensitive that he couldn't stand to be near the girl, what would be the point in making love to the girl?
It was probably a good thing school began when it did. He had many other things to occupy his mind, and not much time to mope. There was the excitement of the new school,, meeting new people. There was studying to be done and lots of work with his customers.
The special job for Harry Curtis worked out very well for Clay. He did the job, at a neat profit of sixty-two dollars. Curtis was quite pleased and spoke to two other people about him. He got two other jobs out of it and was able to pay off the loan to his father completely before the middle of October.
His father was proud and pleased and Clay was pleased too. Paying off the loan meant he could terminate his arrangements with his customers and try out for the football team.
There were several weeks of practice before the weeding out and final selections and Clay worked hard at every practice session. He expressed an interest in playing the backfield, but the coach could put his size to better use on the line and he found himself working mostly in the offensive tackle spot.
When the final list of team members was tacked up Clay's name was there and it was one of the proudest days of his life. The following day, with the prestige of being a football player behind him, he was asked to join one of the fraternities.
Clay surprised himself when he didn't immediately accept the bid from the fraternity. It was something he'd wanted, and had been looking forward to, and yet he did not immediately accept.
Things had been happening too fast and he thought it was time to call time out, to slow down for a while and think things out. Since the opening day of school his life had been a hectic round of practice, work, homework. He was in an entirely new world. The old gang of friends had broken up and re-formed around other nuclei. His sphere of acquaintance had widened.
And with each new activity and new experience had come new pressures. Clay wasn't sure he was ready for the additional pressure of joining a fraternity. He inquired about it, about what would be required of him, about what advantages there were in belonging to a fraternity.
He received the standard spiel. The aims of the fraternity were scholarship, service, and fellowship. The group participated in at least one community project each year. They painted the orphans' home, donated time to the hospital, things like that. They encouraged their members toward outstanding scholarship, though no brother had ever graduated in the top ten per cent of his class. They held weekly meetings, and monthly parties and dances, and several week-end outings each year.
It all sounded very good. Then Clay wanted to know what would be expected of him. He was grudgingly informed that there was a four-week pledge period, during which he would be required to wear a white shirt and a tie to school every day. He would also be required to wear a special cap in the fraternity colors of maroon and white. He would be required to carry on his person at all times a note pad and pencil, a paddle eighteen inces long and six inches wide, a shoeshine kit, and cigarettes and gum.
As a prospective member Clay would be sworn to instant and unquestioning obedience to all fraternity brothers. Upon meeting any one of them he had to greet them in a loud, clear voice, offer them cigarettes and or gum, and await any requests they might make of him.
If a brother was displeased with the behavior of a pledge he had the right to mark down the infraction and the punishment in the pledge's note pad, which would be examined at each weekly pledge meeting. Or, the brother could demand the paddle, tell the pledge to assume the position (bent forward and grasping the ankles) and administer punishment on the spot.
Clay could see himself being paddled on the front lawn of the high school!
The pledge period would culminate in what was fondly referred to as Hell Night. He was told, off the record to be sure, that Hell Night was a series of tests of his courage, endurance, and faith in his brothers.
Then, when the whole four weeks was ended, the brothers would meet, discuss the relative merits and demerits of each pledge, and vote whether or not to accept him as a member.
The silliest rule of all was that never during the four weeks was he allowed to talk to a female student while on campus, or while traveling to and from school.
The more he thought about it, the more Clay came to feel that the whole business was really rather childish. Four weeks of hazing and harassment seemed rather a high price to pay for membership, especially when it did not absolutely assure membership. At the end of the four weeks he could be blackballed and would have gone through the whole mess for nothing.
Also, Clay had taken an instant dislike to several of the senior fraternity members, and they to him. He didn't like the little clique they had among themselves, and he resented their air of sophistication and superiority.
He pondered nearly a week before coming to a decision. And in the end he decided not to join the fraternity. Most of the students at the high school did not belong to these social organizations and seemed to get along quite well. What with football, and studies, and his plans for several of the pretty young things he'd met in his classes, he felt he would have more than enough to occupy his time.
Almost immediately Clay had regrets. His closest new friends were his fellow football players. And to a man, the entire team was pledged to the fraternity. They raised a howl of disappointment when he notified them of his decision.
But he didn't change his mind.
The following Monday he was glad he hadn't changed his mind, when he saw the pledges in their silly caps, and carrying all that silly equipment. The very first day of the pledge period four brothers cornered a pledge during lunch period and each laid on ten strokes of the paddle while a gaggle of girls stood around laughing and giggling.
The one real drawback to not being a fraternity man, Clay thought, would be in his relationship with girls. They all seemed to swoon at the sight of a fraternity sweater and pin. All the girls wanted to go steady with fraternity men. They wanted to wear the sweaters and sport the pins like badges of accomplishment.
Still, there were plenty of girls to go around. Clay had his eye on a cute little number in his civics class. Her name was Marcella Ransome, and she was the complete bobby-soxer, with an oval face framed by dark blonde hair, a nubile body with firm breasts and a jaunty rump, a slender waist and long, lean legs.
Marcella was a cheerleader for the football team. She was addicted to wool socks and sneakers, sweaters and loose plaid skirts. She was energetic and vivacious, and a natural born flirt. She was a sorority girl and partook of a wide variety of extra-curricular activities.
Clay and Marcella had the same lunch period, and one day he managed to sit beside her in the school cafeteria. They talked for a while about the civics class, and then about the coming game with a rival high school. He got the impression that she was only slightly interested in him, that she was more interested in one of the backfield players than a mere lineman.
He had lunch with her twice more before asking for a date, and was surprised when she accepted. The date was for a school dance and Clay managed to talk his father into buying him a new suit for the occasion. The old suit, the only other one he had, had been purchased for his graduation the previous spring and hardly fit any longer.
The suit was a dark blue serge, three-button model and Clay thought it looked quite good. He was proud and self-assured when he wheeled his motor scooter up to Marcella Ransome's door.
He got the shock of his life when he picked her up. He'd managed to withstand the probing scrutiny of her parents and the lightly-veiled questions meant to test his social standing. "Where do you live, Clay?"
"And what does your father do for a living?"
"What college do you want to attend?"
He answered the questions as best he could and shifted nervously from one foot to the other while he waited for Marcella to make her appearance. She only kept him waiting fifteen minutes, and it was well worth the wait to see her coming down the stairs to greet him.
Her hair was swept up in an elaborate coiffure. She wore a tight skirt which ended just at the joints of her knees. And she only wobbled slightly on her three-inch heels. Her eyes were heavily made up and her lipstick widened her mouth considerably.
And Clay thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
She wore a long-sleeved white silk blouse with a deep plunging vee neckline which bared the inner curves of her firm young breasts.
Clay helped her into her coat and led her out to the scooter after bidding her parents good evening and promising to have her back home by one o'clock.
When she saw the scooter she stopped and stared in open amazement.
"What's wrong?" Clay, asked.
"Is that what we're going to the dance on?" she asked in return, pointing regally at the motor scooter and wrinkling up her nose.
"Yeah. Sure. What else? What's wrong? Most of the guys drive them." Clay was blushing furiously and he felt terrible.
"Not the boys I know," Marcella informed him. "Why, I haven't been on one of those since I was a child, practically. I couldn't ride that thing with this skirt on. And by the time we got to the dance my hair would be a mess.
"Uh ... Well, I guess we could leave it here and take a taxi."
"I guess we'll have to if we're going to go. That thing is impossible."
Clay had more than enough money with him; his father had slipped him an extra five dollar bill for his first dance date. They went back into the house to phone for a taxi and Clay was absolutely miserable while they made the expiations to her parents. He was even more miserable when Marcella's father offered to lend him their car and he had to refuse because he didn't have an automobile operator's license.
CHAPTER SIX
Marcella's displeasure was quite evident in the ten-minute wait for the taxi and the silent ride to the high school. The dance was being held in the school gymnasium, and the parking lot out back was filled with cars and scooters.
The entire affair was a miserable failure as far as Clay was concerned. Once at the dance he received only cool greetings from his supposed friends. They were all fraternity men and he was an outsider.
To make matters worse, it began to dawn on him, as the evening dragged on, that Marcella had only accepted him as a date because the boy she was interested in had already asked another girl. She danced more dances with other boys than with Clay, and spent most of the evening staring at the other boy.
Clay spent a good part of the time sitting in a chair at the edge of the dance floor and watching all the other kids having a good time.
He was hurt and ashamed at first, then indignant and angry. Toward the end he asserted himself and danced the last four dances in a row with his date. During the last dance Marcella informed him that most of the kids were going to one of the more popular drive-ins for hamburgers and Cokes.
Clay would be damned if he'd take her there and spend more money on her while she spent all her time flirting with someone else. She was absolutely silent when he informed her of his intention to take her directly home after the dance.
The band played "Good Night Sweetheart" and they danced with the lights in the gym turned down low.
Marcella was stiff and unresponsive in his arms and it was a relief when the last note died away and they went to get their coats.
Clay phoned for a cab to take her home and they went out to the front door of the high school to wait for it. They were alone in the front doorway. All the other students went out through the back door to the parking lot.
Marcella leaned back against the doorjamb and took Clay's hand.
"I'm sorry you didn't have much fun," she whispered to him.
Clay said nothing.
"I've been kind of a stinker all evening," she continued. "But after all, what with the scooter and everything, I was upset and embarrassed. All the other girls came with their dates in cars. I had to come in a taxi. That's like having your father drive you to a dance, or something."
Her tone was soft and intimate and friendly, and Clay could feel himself melting. He was on the defensive and at a loss for words.
Finally he said, "I've been thinking about selling the scooter and buying a car. I've got my eye on a little MG convertible."
It wasn't true, not any of it. And he didn't mention that he would have to wait until the end of the following summer before he would even be old enough to drive a car. But it sounded good and it made him feel better.
"An MG!" she exclaimed. "Ooooh, I just love sports cars."
"Yeah, and I'm going to buy it with my own money, too. Last summer I started running a landscaping service and I made quite a bit of money."
"Oh, that's wonderful," she said sincerely. "I mean, lots of fellows have part-time jobs, but none of them have their own businesses. You must be very smart. I really was a stinker tonight, wasn't I?"
"No. It wasn't your fault," Clay heard himself saying. "Any girl would be upset when her date showed up on a motor scooter."
"I want to make it up to you," she murmured, drawing him closer, turning her face up, and closing her eyes.
Without fully realizing what was happening, Clay took her in his arms and kissed her. Her lips were firm and pursed beneath his and his kiss was gentle and quiet.
She sighed and leaned her weight against him. He could feel the firm thrustings of her breasts against his chest and the soft explosion of her warm sweet breath against his face.
They held the kiss for a long moment and when that was over she laid her cheek against his chest and snuggled in his arms. Now he could feel the strong columns of her legs leaning against his legs, and his nostrils were filled with the clean scent of her dark blonde hair.
Clay couldn't help comparing Marcella to Diana. There was an infinte difference. With Diana there'd been only passion and lust. With Marcella there was tenderness and beauty and an aching sweetness in his chest.
The cab pulled up onto the circular driveway in front of the high school and honked its horn. Clay and Marcella broke apart and he led her to the waiting taxi. Once they were settled on the seat Clay leaned forward and gave the driver the name of the drive-in restuarant where all the kids were gathering. Marcella squeezed his hand when he leaned back beside her.
But once they were seated at the drive-in it was the same old story again. They joined a large and loud group of teen-agers at three tables that had been pushed together. There was laughter and chatter and buzzing conversation.
But no one had anything at all to say to Clay. He sat there like an idiot and listened to all the others. They ate their hamburgers and drank their Cokes and talked and talked and talked.
Clay was glad when they broke up.
Jimmy Sherman, Clay's competition, offered them a ride to Marcella's house. Marcella accepted before Clay could refuse, and they went out to Jimmy's car. He drove an old Mercury convertible that had been refinished and refitted with all sorts of hot rod equipment. The top was down and Marcella exclaimed over and over again about the beautiful car.
Jimmy's date was a pretty, big-breasted brunette named Nancy Flood. She was just as unhappy about the recent turn of events as Clay, and when their eyes met they smiled quickly at one another.
Marcella didn't seem to mind now about getting her hair mussed by the wind in the open car.
When they were stopped at a traffic signal Jimmy turned around from the front seat. "Hey, you people in a hurry to get back home or something?" he asked.
"No," Marcella answered quickly.
"What do you say we go for a little ride? I'll get out on the highway and show you all what this little buggy can do and maybe we'll park for a little while."
"Oh, let's do that," Marcella said.
That seemed to settle the question. Once out on the highway Jimmy put his foot to the floor and the convertible sped through the night. Clay leaned forward and watched the speedometer needle climb steadily. Sixty ... seventy ... eighty ... ninety-five. One hundred miles an hour!
The sensation of speed was tremendous in the open car and Marcella clung tightly to Clay. Jimmy held it at a hundred for a short time, then eased back on the accelerator and let the car slow to a normal fifty miles an hour. It seemed like they were standing still.
"What do you think of her?" Jimmy asked proudly. "I just love to go fast," Marcella said. "It makes me all warm and excited."
"It's a swell car," Clay said.
Jimmy drove for another half mile, explaining to Clay about all the modifications-the high-speed cam shaft, the over-sized pistons, the two four-barrel carburetors, the milled heads, the Lincoln transmission, and the old La Salle rear end, whatever that was.
"Yeah," Jimmy bragged. "She's got about two hundred and twenty horses under that hood. And the old girl's been clocked at better than one-twenty per."
They came to a side road and Jimmy turned off. He made another turn onto a dirt road and pulled to a stop beneath a grove of trees. He shut off the engine and the lights and turned on the radio.
It was a warm, clear night. The sky was full of stars and the radio played soft and romantic music. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Clay to take Marcella in his arms.
He kissed her gently and felt her body mold against him. She still wore her coat but that was open and pushed to either side of her body. Clay opened his suit jacket and felt her bosom flatten against his shirt front. She looped an arm about the back of his neck and held his face close to hers.
Up front the same sort of thing was happening. Out of the corner of his eye Clay could see the silhouettes of the tops of two heads close together and he could hear the soft rustling of clothes.
When Clay tried to kiss Marcella deeply she clamped her teeth tightly together. And when he reached for her breast she grabbed his wrist and forced his hand away.
Jimmy seemed to be doing much better with Nancy. Clay could hear her soft signings and the occasional rustle of silk. The metallic sound of a zipper was unmistakable in the quiet night.
Marcella groaned loudly and passionately and Clay was puzzled. He wasn't doing anything to her! He was hardly kissing her.
The groan encouraged him and he tried once again to kiss her as he wanted. Again she refused to permit him that liberty. And again she refused to allow him to touch her.
When they broke the kiss she slumped back away from him, sighed loudly, and murmured, "Oh, Clay!"
The tone of her voice was nearly enough to drive him mad with passion and he reached for her again. She moved into his arms, but held her face back from him until she had groaned once more.
They embraced for more than half an hour and Clay tried repeatedly to do more than kiss her. She would not permit the smallest liberty, but she did keep up a steady stream of sultry cries and groans and sighs and gasps.
Clay was excited and frustrated and it took him quite a while to realize what was happening. Marcella was putting on a performance for the boy in the front seat. She was trying to sound like the most passionate little thing in the world, while still denying Clay the tiniest pleasure.
Resigned, and yet hoping she might relent, Clay went along with her game. He kissed her coolly now, for the sake only of pretense, and his mind wandered. He wondered if Marcella's performance was spurring Nancy to more daring liberties. Would the girl repond to the passionate sounds in the back seat by permitting Jimmy greater freedom with her body? Would she let Jimmy slide his hand under her skirt just because Marcella sounded so passionate?
The full realization of the situation did nothing whatever to relieve Clay of his desire. Excitement still bubbled through his veins and his passion was a continuing ache. He hurt so badly, and was so excited, that the merest hint of response from his partner might well have set him off. He might have been able to find relief if she were to do nothing more than trail her fingers lightly across him.
Fat chance of that, he thought sardonically.
It was well after one o'clock, well after Marcella's curfew, when they started back for town. Clay didn't care about bringing her home late. He didn't intend dating her again and hoped her parents would punish her.
Jimmy dropped them in front of her house and drove off. Marcella started for her front door. Clay took her arm and stopped her.
"I want to talk to you," he said.
"Not here! Not in the middle of the street in the middle of the night."
"I want to talk to you now," he said firmly.
"Oh, all right. Let's go around back to the patio. We can talk there."
She led him across the lawn and around the side of the house. The patio was fitted out with a barbecue and lawn furniture. They sat down on a wrought iron love seat with padded cushions.
"I'm late as it is," she said. "So please make it brief."
"I just wanted to tell you what a witch I think you are," he said in an intense whisper. "You've got some nerve."
"Have I? You're the one with nerve. You didn't give a damn about me at all. That was quite a performance you put on while we waited for the cab in front of the school. You really had me going there for a while. But the act in the back seat of the car was worth the Academy Award. Up front that must have sounded like you were a real winner."
"What did you expect me to do, put out for you?" she said viciously.
"I'm not sure you would be worth the effort," he told her. "That would probably only be another act."
"I'm not some cheap tramp like that Nancy. Did you hear what was going on up front?"
"And what do you think they thought was going on in the back? I don't know whether I ought to let Jimmy go on thinking you're easy, or tell him what a phony you really are. Either way you won't get what you want out of this evening."
"Jimmy's no friend of yours. He won't listen to you."
"He may not be a friend, but we still play football together and see each other every day. The guys are all mad at me because I wouldn't join their fraternity. But they'll get over it. And when they do I'm going to make sure they know all about you. You're nothing but a cheap tease and I'm going to tell them."
She didn't want him to tell anyone anything and he knew it from the expression on her face. "I am not a tease," she said in a softer tone.
"It's too late for that. I know better."
She put her hand on his leg and leaned closer to him. "I'm not a tease," she whispered. "How can I prove that to you?" Her grip tightened on his upper leg.
He could feel the warmth of her palm seeping over his flesh through the cloth of his trousers. "There's only one way to prove that," he said with a catch in his voice. "You made me all upset with all the screaming and groaning. Let's see you do something about that."
She closed her eyes and pushed her face up at him. He kissed her deeply and she allowed him to do so. He wrapped one arm about her shoulder and put the palm of his other hand over her breast.
She made no protest as he cupped and squeezed her breast. He caressed her and kissed her and waited for some sort of response. There was no response but he went on.
She stiffened slightly when he opened the front of her blouse and slipped his hand underneath. And when his hand found its way beneath the edge of her bra he discovered that her nipple was already firm and thrusting.
He tweaked that nipple and slid his mouth down from her lips to her throat, and then onto the upper swells of her breasts. He could feel her heart beating rapidly inside her chest but that was her only reponse.
His hands found the catch of her bra and opened that and his lips nibbled on her bared bosom. She shuddered.
Yes, she was as cold a fish as he'd thought. But he'd gone too far to deny himself now. If she didn't want to respond, if she didn't want to receive any pleasure, that was her business. He needed relief from the awful demands of his passion and she was going to provide that.
He kept his kiss at her breasts, took her wrist, and moved her hand. She held back a moment, then relented and pressed firmly.
He thrilled to the touch of her hand. The heavy muscles of his legs jerked and he bit gently at her nipples with his teeth.
"Don't!" she whispered. "Don't bite like that. That hurts."
He stopped biting and returned to the kissing. Her hand was working rhythmically now. He tingled from head to foot and there was a roaring in his ears. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip and sweat dripped inside his clothes.
He shoved her hand away for a moment and rearranged his clothes. Again she resisted when he urged her hand to him.
"If I do that for you, you won't tell, will you?" He only tugged harder on her wrist.
Still she held back. "I won't unless you promise not to tell." He raised his face from her breasts and looked into her cold and passionless eyes. "All right, I won't tell."
"Do you promise?"
"I promise! I promise!"
Suddenly her hand was upon him and he could hardly contain himself. Her warm slender hand rested on him and he groaned with passion. His eyes squeezed tightly shut.
He took her wrist again and set her hand in motion. When he released her wrist she continued to move her hand.
Clay fought the inescapable result of her caress as long as possible to more fully savor the delightful thrills which coursed through his body. He clenched his teeth and held himself rigid and his pleasure mounted higher and higher.
Finally he gave up the struggle and relaxed. He let himself go, eagerly seeking the final thrill. He quickly reached the end.
There was a sharp, piercing sensation at the very tip of his spine. For one terrifying moment he felt paralyzed. That was as though all the air had been sucked out of his lungs and he couldn't breathe.
His entire body stiffened, shuddered, and then relaxed. He gave a sigh as he breathed deeply once again, and slumped against the back of the love seat.
For a moment he rested on a sea of soft, warm, after-pleasure.
But she ruined that for him when she said in a cold, clear voice, "Do you have a handkerchief?"
He gave her his handkerchief. When she handed the hanky back to him she rose to her feet.
"Boys are disgusting!'" she said vehemently as she turned on her heel and stalked into the darkened house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Clay Gardner was unhappy for the rest of the week end. He resented having been taken for a stupid lout by some phony little witch like Marcella Ransom. Even her name was phony.
And it was a shame, too. She was one swell-looking broad. He would have liked to have made out with her. Now, of course, he wouldn't go out of his way to spit at her. Love with her would probably be enough to make a guy swear off forever, or at least a month or two.
But, all in all, he wasn't sorry about the date. He'd learned a lot from it about himself and about the ways and wiles of women. He'd also found out what happened to a guy who didn't go along with the crowd. The other guys were really serious about freezing him out because he hadn't joined their stupid social club.
Well, if that was the way they wanted it, it was all right with him. It would serve them all good and well if he didn't tell anyone what a phony that Marcella was. Let them all find out the hard way and suffer for it. Of course, that would mean she'd end up getting what she wanted out of the deal. But he couldn't have it both ways. She'd be around for a while and he might just find some other way to get even.
One positive result of the date was meeting Nancy Flood. She seemed to be a zebra of a different stripe. He remembered very well that one brief moment when their eyes had met and each had known the other understood what was going on. She hadn't liked it any more than he had, and he wondered if she had been as unhappy with her date as he'd been.
Several times that Saturday and Sunday he almost called her on the telephone. But, somehow, he never could quite bring himself to complete the call. Once he dialed her number, but hung up before the phone rang at the other end.
It would be wonderful if she felt the same way. It would make his own chagrin much easier to bear. But he couldn't come right out and ask her point-blank, and he couldn't think of any way to lead up to it.
On Sunday afternoon Clay's father joined him in the den while he was watching a ball game. Here the baseball season wasn't even over yet, and already Clay and the rest of the team were prepared for their first football game.
"I've been meaning to talk to you, Clay," his father said. "Sure, Dad. What's up?"
"Well, it's about your giving up your business. I was very proud of the way you handled everything, the way you didn't let the work slide and pile up on you, and the way you paid off the loan so quickly. But I was disappointed when you quit as soon as your obligation was fulfilled."
"Well, gee, Dad, I paid up. Everything was finished. I couldn't keep the work and play football, too. Well, I mean, I guess I could have if I wanted to work my tail off Saturdays and Sundays. I suppose I could have done it that way. But that wouldn't have been any fun at all."
"Yes. I know you wanted to make the team. And you did make it. And I'm proud of you for that, too. I can't wait to go down and see you play your first game a week from next Saturday. But I thought you'd be smart enough to find a way to do both-play football and keep that little business going. After all, you don't have as many obligations as you thought you'd have since you decided not to join the fraternity."
"I never thought much about it, Pop. And when I quit I didn't know I wasn't going to join. That happened afterward."
"You had something very nice going for you there," the elder Gardner said. "I thought you'd realize it. There was a chance for you to expand, to take on more customers, when you did those other two landscaping jobs."
"Gee, Dad, it was a big enough job as it was without adding more work."
"That's where your problem was. You were thinking of it as a job instead of as a business."
"I don't get you."
"I'm sure lots of other boys your age would have been glad for the chance to pick up a little spending money for three or four hours work a week."
"You mean hire other guys to do the work?"
Clay's father nodded and smiled when he saw the idea begin to grow in his son's mind.
"I was only getting two-fifty a week from each customer," Clay said thoughtfully. I couldn't get anybody to do the work for much less than that. Maybe two dollars, or two and a quarter. That would leave next to nothing."
"Not necessarily," Mr. Gardner said. "Think about it for a minute, Clay. Suppose you did have to pay two dollars and twenty-five cents to each boy for every lawn. It would still pay you twenty-five cents a customer just for making the arrangements."
"Big deal! It's only a buck a week. Hardly worth the trouble."
"That's for four customers, son. What if you could get ten, or twenty? Or what if you could find some boys who would do the mowing for only two dollars? And mowing the lawns is the smallest part of the deal. You'd make your real money on any landscaping deals you could find. Look how much you made on only three small deals in the neighborhood. You'd probably find a lot more work in the new tracts on the other side of town."
Clay was thoughtfully silent for a long time. Then he said, "Well, maybe it would work. The worst that could happen is I'd still have the thing going when football season was over. And I sure could use the money if it went big. I'll think about it, Dad. And thanks for the idea."
Clay did think about it.
And Monday afternoon he brought the subject up in the locker room.
"Hey," he shouted over the clatter of cleats and the shouts of horseplay. "Any of you guys like to pick up a little spending money?"
The noise died down immediately and Clay was the object of many silent stares. The other boys were still thinking of him as the boy who didn't want to join their fraternity.
"I mean it," he said. "Anybody want to pick up two bucks a week for a little work?"
"What's the deal?" someone asked.
"I was mowing lawns last summer and I had half a dozen steady customers. I can't handle all that work any more but I don't want to leave my customers flat. It's two bucks just to mow a lawn and trim a hedge once in a while. You mow once a week and that's all."
Clay was surprised at the response. There were at least a dozen boys interested, though some of them didn't like the idea of the old push-type mower. They were used to power mowers.
Clay talked to them for a few minutes while they were dressing, took down a list of their names, and told them he'd contact them if his customers were interested.
That night he spent more than two hours on the telephone. He called his four original customers, made explanations and apologies, and received commitments from them. Then he called the people he'd done landscaping for and managed to clinch deals with them, too.
By the following afternoon two of the boys on his list had changed their minds. But he had more than enough workers for the present. All six of his new "employees" indicated they'd be eager for additional work after the football season was over. The ones whose parents had power mowers intended to use them on the job.
He assigned one boy to each house, gave them the addresses, and arranged to pay them each Monday morning. They would do the work on Saturday, or Sunday when they had a football game to play on Saturday. Clay would go around and collect on Sunday afternoon, and pay them on Monday morning.
The deal had certain fringe benefits, too. The rest of the team, especially the boys he'd hired, warmed up a little. They weren't quite so cold to him.
Clay let things ride for a week. He inspected the jobs on Sunday and was satisfied with the work. Monday he paid his workers and began to think of ways to expand.
For two dollars, borrowed from his father, he had a hundred circulars printed up. And for two dollars more he got a couple of junior high school boys to distribute them in one of the new tracts.
In less than twenty-four hours he had four additional customers, which used up all the available manpower. There were half a dozen more calls in the next two days, which Clay stalled while he tried to find other boys.
The word was passed through the school and a couple of boys he didn't know contacted him. They were interested in the work and were willing to take on more than one customer if the houses weren't too far apart.
On the Wednesday before the first football game Clay had twenty customers and fourteen employees, with four of them handling two lawns apiece. Twenty customers was ten dollars a week in his pocket without doing any of the hard work himself. And this was peanuts. All those customers in the new tract would eventually want some sort of landscaping.
Friday night Clay went to bed early. The lights were out in his room by nine-thirty. But he didn't go to sleep. He lay in the dark and thought about the game to come the following day.
His stomach was a tight knot of nervous excitement.
This wasn't practice any more. Those guys on the other team would be hitting fast and hard. It wouldn't be the same as facing your own teammates across the line in a practice scrimmage.
And down on the line, where Clay would be, was where things could get pretty dirty. The referees couldn't see much of what went on in the bottom of a pile-up. Clay expected there'd be a lot of punching and mauling going on.
He wasn't afraid-not really. He was just not sure how he would react. Well, if they were going to play dirty, he'd play just as dirty. He could throw his fists around, too.
He lay in bed and forced himself to think about something else. He ran over the blocking assignments for each play. He ran over the techniques of the cross-check and the trap.
Over and over again signals flashed in his mind. Behind his closed eyelids he could see two opposing lines merge, hear the clash and crack of pads, hear the grunts of contact. He could see cleats digging up turf as a lineman drove into a block. He heard the grunts as ball carriers were tackled and pulled down.
Finally he drifted off to sleep, but it was a restless and troubled sleep. Sometime later in the night he came awake with a start. The rest of the house was dark and quiet. Everyone was asleep.
He didn't look at his watch because it didn't matter what time it was. And when he tried to force himself back to sleep the whole thing started all over again. He tossed and turned and tried in vain to clear his mind of all troubling thoughts.
He had nothing to worry about, he told himself. He was a good tackle. He knew what to do and how to do it. There he was playing the game for the first time really, and the coach had him in the starting line-up. The coach had confidence in him. He'd be all right.
Again his mind drifted and he saw and heard inside his skull the clash and batter of football. In a way, he was glad now he was playing the line. Sure, he would have to play hard and do his best, but he had less responsibility than a ball carrier. He didn't have to worry about scoring the points. There was a lot less glamour on the line.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clay was up at five-thirty, long before anyone else in the house. He slipped out of his bed, washed and dressed, and went downstairs. He was exhausted from his night of restless sleep, and felt stiff and clumsy, tense and anxious.
There was orange juice in the refrigerator. A glass of the cold, tangy liquid made him feel a little better, but he still wasn't hungry. The coach's orders were to have a good solid breakfast sometime before eight in the morning. They were all to report to the gym at ten. The game was due to begin at eleven.
Clay opened the back door and stepped out into the dawn. The grass was wet with jeweled beads of dew and the morning air smelled cool and fresh and clean. He knew he would feel better if he could loosen up and relax. All the muscles in his body were taut with anticipation.
He threw himself face down into the grass and knocked off fifty push-ups. It felt good when the sweat broke out and his heart began to pound with exertion. He sprang to his feet, took several deep, shuddering breaths, and walked to the driveway.
Clay walked down the driveway to the sidewalk and turned toward the corner. He began to trot, moving slowly, taking short choppy steps, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He gulped air into his lungs every third step and exhaled in short hard snorts through his nose and mouth.
He could almost feel the oxygen entering his bloodstream and coursing through his body. At the corner, without breaking the rhythm, he turned left and continued the dogtrot. Halfway around the block Clay lengthened his stride and reveled in the push of his strong legs and the working of his muscles.
He was breathing every other step now but the strides were longer and ate up the ground. When he came full circle around the block and back to the house he didn't even slow down.
Sweat soaked his clothes and his feet pounded on the sidewalk. When he reached the halfway mark again he increased his speed, and he ran the last full block as hard as he could.
He was puffing hard when he stopped in front of the house again, but he didn't turn in. He walked now and threw his arms out wide to shake them with all his strength. He walked the same course he'd run and then turned into the driveway feeling much better.
The garage door was wide open. He stood in the doorway for a second, his breathing returned to normal by then, and looked up at the top of the frame. He stretched his hands over his head, jumped, caught the top of the frame in the curl of his fingers, and chinned himself. He pulled himself up ten times, hung at full arm's length for a moment, then chinned ten times more.
When he dropped down to the ground again he felt good for the first time since the previous afternoon after the coach's pep talk. He'd reassured himself. He was in good condition. His body was strong and sure, and he had plenty of wind.
Back in the house he showered and changed into fresh clothing. It was after seven when he went downstairs again and his mother and father were sitting at the kitchen table.
"Good morning," his father said.
"How do you feel? Did you sleep all right?" his father asked.
"No. I didn't sleep too good. But I felt better after I worked out a little this morning."
His mother suggested a bowl of hot cereal to be followed by a plate of ham and eggs. Clay agreed, realizing that he was hungry now.
"Nervous?" his father asked, He grinned sheepishly. "A little, I guess."
"Don't worry about it. It's not unusual. I'll bet even the coach is a little nervous this morning. And he doesn't have to get in there and play."
"You're probably right, Dad. I just hope it isnt' going to be like this before every game."
"I don't think it will. Back when I went to high school I was nervous, too, for the first game. After that it was a breeze. I was nervous all over again when I got to play in the conference championships, though." The elder Gardner smiled gently and patted his son's broad shoulder. "And then, before my first game in college I was really in a bad way. It's probably a good thing we never had any championship or all-star games to play. I really would have been impossible then." Clay returned his father's smile. His mother, who'd been against the entire idea of football from the beginning, frowned at the stove as she dished hot oatmeal into a bowl.
Clay ate the oatmeal and the ham and eggs, and finished his breakfast with two cups of hot coffee. Then he went into the living room and threw himself down on the couch. He was relaxed, his stomach was full, and he felt good.
The next thing he knew his father was shaking him awake. "Let's go, son. It's a quarter of ten."
Clay sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Gee, I didn't think I'd fall asleep."
"It's all right, boy. You want me to drive you over to school, or would you rather take your scooter? If you leave your scooter here we'll wait for you after the game and drive you back."
"I don't know. I guess I'd like a ride. Is Mom going to be at the game, too?"
"No. I'm taking a couple of men from the office to watch my son play."
Clay followed his father out to the car. "Gee," he said. "I don't know if that's such a good idea. What happens if I foul up? You'll be awfully embarrassed."
"I'm not worried," the senior Gardner said as he started the car and backed out of the driveway. "You won't foul up."
They made the rest of the trip in silence. At exactly ten o'clock Clay's father pulled into the parking lot behind the gym and stopped the car.
"Good luck, son," he said as Clay got out of the car.
"Thanks, Dad."
Clay shook the proffered hand, feeling awkward to be shaking his own father's hand like that. When he reached the entrance to the locker room he paused, looked back, waved, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open.
Inside some of the boys were beginning to suit up. Most of the team was already there and it was strangely quiet. Only a few of the boys were talking and they spoke in hushed whispers.
Clay nodded silently to a couple of the guys and went straight to his locker. He stripped off his clothes and began to don his uniform.
He put his T-shirt back on again, having removed it unnecessarily. The T-shirt would keep the straps of the shoulder pads from chafing. He put on the heavy wool socks and slipped the shoulder pads on over his head. He laced the pads tightly across the top of his chest and tested them. They were snug and solid.
Next came the trousers and the jersey. He had them on before he realized that this was the practice uniform. You didn't wear a practice uniform on the day of the game. Quickly he pulled the uniform off and went over to the manager's office.
There he was given the game suit, clean light-colored pants with a dark stripe down either side and a fresh white jersey with the big number forty-six on front and back. The numbers were dark blue on the white field, as was the stripe along the trouser seam. The helmets, too, he knew, would be dark blue with white piping. Those were the school colors.
When he returned to his locker, Clay slipped the foam-backed thigh pads into the pockets on the insides of the legs of the pants, and slipped the pants on. Then he pulled the jersey over his head, straightened it out across his chest, and tucked the tails into the top of his trousers.
He sat down on the bench and pulled his football shoes out of the locker. One lace was frayed and he replaced it before he put the shoes on and laced them tightly.
That was it. That was all there was to do. He closed his locker and sat down on the bench. All the guys were sitting quietly in front of their lockers. No one was talking now. They looked at one another and looked away and that was all.
No one noticed the coach walk quietly into the locker room. And when he screamed at the top of his lungs they all nearly jumped out of their skins. He laughed at them.
"That'll clear the air," he said loudly, his voice echoing from the tiled walls. "All right, it's ten-thirty. In fifteen minutes we go out onto the field. Anybody ready to chicken out?"
There were no replies, but each boy looked at his neighbor and grinned sheepishly. "Anybody got any questions?" There were no questions.
"All right. You second year men know what to expect. As for you first year men-if I wasn't a hundred and fifty per cent sure you could do the job for me I wouldn't have you on the starting team. Hell, I wouldn't have you on the team at all.
"Just remember that the guy opposite you is going to be just as scared and nervous as you are. Probably more so. They had to suit up in their own locker room and come over here by bus.
"This should be the easiest game we've got all season. They're not a real strong team. And if every one of you does his job the way I taught you we'll run all over them.
"That's it, then. Just relax until I give the word to go out onto the field. All you guards and tackles report to the trainer to have your hands and wrists taped."
The coach left the room and there was a great whoosh of sighs as the men relaxed. Immediately there was a buzz of conversation.
There were six tackles and six guards and the trainer did Clay first because he was going to start the game. Clay's hands were taped like a boxer's and they felt good.
"How come only the guards and tackles get taped like this?" Clay asked as the trainer finished his right hand and cut the tape.
"The center and ends and backfield men all have to handle the ball, stupid. They've got to have their hands loose. The tape is just propaganda, though. It doesn't really do anything. It just makes you feel good and scares the opposition."
When they went out onto the field they were surprised to see the stands full of spectators. Some of the throbbing excitement from the crowd transmitted itself to Clay. He glanced at the home team stands, but couldn't spot his father.
The cheerleaders were leading a cheer and for a moment he watched Marcella Ransome bounce around in her short skirt and tight sweater. Then he spotted Nancy Flood in the stands. She saw him, too, and waved. He waved back.
The team captain went out to mid-field for the toss of the coin. The visitors won the toss and elected to receive. When the captain returned to the sidelines the entire team went into a huddle with the coach in the center.
"There's only one thing you boys have to do, and that's get that football away from them. We can't score unless we have the ball. You do your best now. Make sure you impress all those pretty girls in the stands. And make some noise when you go out onto the field. Let's see some spirit. Hustle!"
They broke up the huddle with a roar. The starting team raced out onto the field and the subs went to the benches. Clay bounced lightly on his feet as he ran out to his position for the kickoff. And he felt that every eye in the stadium was on him. He did a couple of deep knee bends and a couple of rolls in the few seconds before the kickoff.
He took his position and looked down at the ground for a moment. There was a roar from the stands and he looked up to see the football arcing high into the air.
He wasn't even ready!
He wanted to think for a minute!
But there wasn't time and he found himself racing downfield under the ball. Clay saw their safety man take the ball and begin to run. Then, out of nowhere, something slammed into him and sent him rolling.
When he got to his feet, cursing himself for not being on his toes, the play was over. The ball was down on the thirty-three yard line. Somebody else had gotten the runner.
Clay felt a moment's panic and confusion as the visiting team came out of their huddle. Everything was happening so quickly. There wasn't time to think about anything.
He got down in position and faced his enemy. The boy on the other side of the line of scrimmage regarded him with a tight, silent expression. As the signals were being called Gay could read fear and uncertainty in the other boy's eyes.
The ball was snapped.
Clay thrust hard with his legs and sprang forward, digging with short, hard, choppy steps. His shoulder pad struck the visiting player and knocked him away. Then Clay was through the line. He saw a halfback racing toward him with the ball, turned, took two steps, set himself, and delivered a bone-rattling tackle.
He was grinning like an idiot when he picked himself up. A couple of his teammates patted him on the back as he returned to the line. He'd nailed the ball carrier for a three yard loss. He'd done his job. He hadn't felt the tiniest twinge of pain!
Clay was fine after that. His nervousness was gone and he played well. Oh, he made boners. He missed a couple of key blocks and got suckered on a couple of plays, but all in all he did quite well.
He played both offense and defense and the coach took him out twice in the second quarter for short rests. By half-time his team was ahead fourteen to three.
During the half the locker room was loud with shouts and horseplay. Just before they went out for the second half the coach took some of the wind out of their sails with an acid-tongued critique of their play of the first half.
They played better the second half and finished the game with an eighteen point lead. The score was twenty-eight to ten. There was much back-slapping and mutual congratulations when they returned to the locker room.
Qay slipped out of his uniform, had the trainer cut the tape from his hands, and went into the shower. (Now that it was all over he ached from head to foot. His body was covered with a thousand bruises and scrapes, and his muscles were stiffened and knotted.
The shower helped some. When he went back to his locker he saw that his mouth guard was bitten nearly in two and he smiled to himself. He dressed, put his things away in the locker, and turned in the game uniform so it could be cleaned for the game the following Saturday.
The trainer stopped him before he went out the door. "You all right?" the man asked.
"Yeah, sure. I feel great. I'm a little sore, but that's all."
"Come over here. Let's have a look at you. I've known boys to go home with broken arms without knowing it."
The trainer checked him over and gave him a clean bill of health. "Take a long hot bath tonight and you won't be so bad tomorrow. By Monday afternoon you'll be raring to go again."
"Hell," Clay said, grinning. "I could go again right now."
Just outside the locker room door a bunch of girls were waiting for their boy friends. Off to one side he saw Nancy Flood. She smiled at him and he went over to her.
"Hi," he said. "If you're waiting for Jimmy he ought to be right out."
"No. Marcella's waiting for Jimmy. Didn't you hear? They're a big twosome now."
Clay smiled broadly at the girl. "They deserve one another."
She returned his smile. "I think they do. You played a marvelous game, Clay"
He blushed lightly. "Thanks."
She started to turn to walk away.
"Wait," he said quickly and she turned back again. "I know it's kind of late to be asking, but if you haven't got a date for tonight I'd like to take you to a movie."
"I'd like that very much. What time?"
"Seven-thirty all right?"
"Fine. I'll be waiting for you."
"I'd like to take you for a soda or something right now," he told her quickly. "But my dad is waiting for me over there."
"I understand," she said. "I'll see you tonight." She smiled and was gone.
Clay's father pounded him proudly on the back and introduced him to his two friends. They congratulated him on the game, said good-bye, and left. On the ride back home Clay's father rattled on and on. He talked about the game and asked over and over again if Clay was all right. Clay assured his father he'd sustained no injury.
His mother seemed relieved when he walked into the house under his own power, and without limping. Clay ate a light lunch, then took a two-hour nap. When he awakened he was so stiff he could hardly move.
And his bruises had blossomed.
He had one big bruise on his cheekbone and another over his right eye. The oddest thing was he couldn't remember having been hit in the face at all. After a hot bath, which eased most of the kinks, he stood nude before the mirror and inspected himself.
His face wasn't the only part of him bruised. His arms and legs were covered with purpling and yellowish blotches. There were several big ugly ones on his ribs. Evidently he had been kicked repeatedly, but he couldn't remember that either.
In fact, now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember very much of the game at all. It was as though he'd played the entire game in a trance, his trained reflexes taking over and working automatically. There hadn't been one time when he'd thought about something and then done it. His body had moved while his mind was still occupied considering the various possibilities.
He favored his reflection with a wry grin and shook his head. That was one hell of a way to play football.
Hell, he might just as well have been unconscious. But it didn't really matter so long as he'd played well. He was satisfied.
Clay dressed in light wash pants and a short-sleeved knit shirt and carried a light windbreaker which he tucked under the seat of his scooter. Nancy Flood was waiting for him when he arrived at her house. She answered the door, drew him inside, made the necessary introductions to her parents, and hustled him right out. He was grateful for that.
She didn't make any big deal about the scooter, either. He settled her onto the rear seat, mounted, kicked the engine over, and wheeled away from the driveway.
She held on to him without making a big production out of it. Her hands rested easily on either side of his waist and she leaned back from him. When they made the first turn she leaned the wrong way and he had to oversteer through the corner. But she picked up the finer points of buddy-riding very quickly. Soon she was leaning into the turns with him and holding on lightly and they had no trouble.
Nancy was wearing slacks, a blouse, and a sweater. Just before she'd gotten onto the scooter she'd taken a silk kerchief from her sweater pocket and tied it over her head to keep her hair in place.
There were three movie theaters in town. Clay hadn't checked the listing to see what was playing where. So, when they got downtown he found a parking place and took her in for a soda. He picked up a newspaper and while they were drinking read off the selections.
"Which picture would you like to see?" he asked her.
She shrugged. "I don't care. As far as I'm concerned we don't have to go to a movie at all."
"What else would you like to do?"
"It really doesn't matter. We could spend the evening walking around, or sitting somewhere drinking coffee and talking."
"I'm not much of a conversationalist. We'd probably be better off with a movie," he warned her.
"That's just fine, too."
So, Clay chose a picture, paid for the sodas, and led her back to the scooter. He parked near the theater, flung his jacket over one shoulder, and walked with her toward the marquee. She walked close beside him and slipped her arm through his.
It was then that she noticed the bruises on his arms. She brushed gently with her fingertips and said, "Are these from the game?"
He nodded.
"Do they hurt?"
"Naw, not much."
They were on the end of the slowly moving ticket line by then. She looked across his broad, deep chest at his other arm.
"You're positively covered with them."
"The ones on my arms and legs don't really bother me," he told her. "I've got one on my ribs that twinges now and then, though. And a couple of others in other places."
She game him a smile of respect and admiration and he was proud of his wounds. They were symbols of courage and manhood.
This time he remembered to buy loge tickets and once inside the lobby they ran into a couple of the other guys from the team with their girls. Clay was relieved to see that Jimmy and Marcella were not present. But a few moments later that couple entered and joined the group.
Jimmy tossed Clay a hard and ugly look when he saw him with Nancy. Marcella would not look him in the eye. The five couples went upstairs in a group and took up most of one row in the loge. The boys talked about the game and the girls taked girl talk until the picture began.
Once the house lights went down Nancy snuggled against Clay's shoulder. He put his arm around her and settled back to watch the film. Ten minutes into the picture the other four couples were all necking for dear life and Clay had yet to try to kiss Nancy. They had two couples on either side of them and they both could hear the sighings and murmurings of teen-age passion.
It was Nancy who made the first move. She reached up, caught his jaw, and turned his face to hers. "I like to be kissed, too, you know," she whispered, smiling.
He kissed her, and was pleased when her mouth relaxed beneath his lips. That was an undemanding kiss. There was no uncertainty on either side. Each understood the kiss was for the sake of the kiss alone. There was not to be a striving for the ultimate sensation right there in the theater.
The kiss ended naurally and they both turned back to the film. The other four couples were still going at each other strong. Later, Clay was shocked to see two of the guys smoking. It was a flagrant violation of training rules. But then, making out was also against the training rules. That was against all kinds of rules, and had never bothered him before.
In the course of the move Clay kissed Nancy several times. He enjoyed those kisses thoroughly without becoming overexcited. They were a promise of things still better and he could wait for that promise to be fulfilled. Once, for a few seconds, he let his hand rest lightly on her breast. She made no protest and smiled softly at him when he moved his hand away.
The picture ended and the group rose to leave the theater. Once out on the sidewalk one of the fellows suggested they all go somewhere for a bite to eat. There was a chorus of agreement, but when Clay looked at Nancy for affirmation she made a little face and shook her head.
"I don't think so, guys," Clay said. "You go along without us."
Clay felt good when the others tried to talk him into accompanying them. It meant he had finally been forgiven for having the courage of his convictions and not joining the fraternity. He sighed as they went off in opposite directions. It hadn't taken as long as he'd thought for them to get over their outrage.
Nancy sighed, too. "I couldn't take five more minutes of that witch," she said.
"Oh, you mean Marcella."
"How many other witches do you know?"
Clay shrugged.
"Did you hear what was going on?"
No. They were sitting over on your side. I couldn't hear them at all."
"She kept sighing and groaning and whispering his name like they were making love right there. And she made damned sure she was loud enough for me to hear."
"You still have a yen for Jimmy, huh?"
"No! It's just her catty attitude that burns me up."
"Don't let it bother you," Clay told her as they mounted the motor scooter. "It's all an act. She's as cold as an ice cube and with all the sounds she probably won't let him do a damned thing. Remember that night in the car when she was making all that noise? Half the time she was groaning when I wasn't even kissing her."
Nancy laughed.
Clay turned on the ignition but didn't start the engine. "Where would you like to go?" he asked. She shrugged.
"How about hamburgers? We don't have to go where they went."
"I'm not really hungry," she said softly, looking him straight in the eye. "Why don't we just take a nice long ride? I love riding on your scooter."
He understood, nodded, grinned, and kicked the starter. In a few minutes they were heading out of town at thirty miles an hour with the wind blowing hard in their faces.
Her hands tightened on his waist when they came to the side road Jimmy had taken that night, then relaxed when he drove on by. He took her to the same spot he'd taken Diana that time, hoping his experience wouldn't be the same.
He parked the scooter under the same tree and took her to the same grassy spot illuminated by moonlight. They sat down, then lay back, and she moved easily and eagerly into his arms.
Gay put his hand flat against the base of her throat when he kissed her. Her mouth was responsive and she sighed happily. This kiss was different from the kisses in the theater. Now there was demanding intensity, the giving and receiving of pleasure.
The pulse in her throat throbbed against his fingertips and she shuddered when he swept his hand lightly along the front of her body. His hand climbed the peak of her bosom, attained the summit, and swept down the reverse slope. The hand went lightly over her ribs and stomach and continued on down one rounded leg to the point of her knee.
He repeated the action several times and her kisses became harder, more demanding. She crushed her lips against his. Her mouth rolled from side to side on his.
She slid her hand to him and he winced when she touched a bruised spot. She pulled her mouth back from his.
"Is that where you hurt? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Her tone was tender yet intense.
He smiled. "That's not all that bad."
"Let me see," she said, rolling to her knees and pulling at the bottom of his shirt. "Let me see where you hurt."
She pushed his shirt high on his chest and stared at him. In the pale moonlight the bruise looked much worse than that really was. She touched him gently, very gently, and leaned forward to kiss the bruised place.
Her lips brushed lightly against his skin and that was like being touched with a live wire. He groaned passionately and his entire body tensed. One of his hands rested lightly on the back of her neck, beneath the sheaf of her hair.
Her lips fluttered all over his chest, rising to the hard, square pectoral muscles, then returning to the bruise on his ribs. She kissed him from the tops of his trousers to the bunched tails of his shirt, and all the while a soft crooning sound burbled in the back of her throat.
Clay had never felt anything like that. His skin burned and prickled, his lungs gasped again and again for air. He felt dizzy with the delightful sensation.
When he could stand the torture no longer he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her to him, and kissed her wildly. She twisted toward him, her breasts yielding against his chest.
He could feel the warmth of her flesh through the layers of her clothing. His hands swept down her back and clutched brutally at her buttocks.
She went absolutely wild then, completely out of control. For a moment he was afraid he had hurt her with his strength. Then he realized her biting, scratching fury was all passion.
The soft crooning sound became a high, shrill screech, and that was loud in his ear. There was nothing for him to do but hold her tightly and let her work things out for herself.
She stopped as suddenly as she'd begun. She went rigid for a moment, then went limp. He loosened his embrace and soothed her. Her heart was racing like a triphammer and he could feel that against his chest.
Long moments later she sighed and rolled away from him. He sat up and looked down at her, at the dreamy smile on her face, at the look of utter contentment.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Mmm. Yes."
"What happened? I thought I hurt you, or something."
"I couldn't help that," she said softly. "When you touched me like that I just lost control. I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"No, no, I should," she said, sitting up to face him. "That wasn't at all fair of me."
"Why not? I don't understand."
"Well, I ... you know ... I finished, and you didn't."
He smiled. "We're not ready to go home yet."
Her face was troubled as she sought for the words to explain. "But now you've got the wrong idea. You'll hate me."
"Why should I hate you?"
"Well, now you expect to-to-go all the way with me. And I can't. I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"I don't know what you've heard about me, or what you think of me, but I never have before. Oh, sure, I want to as much as any other healthy girl. Sometimes I want to terribly. But so far I've been able to control myself. That hasn't been easy, and after all the torture I've been through I wouldn't want to give up now. Do you understand?"
Clay said nothing. He understood all right.
"I know what you're thinking," she said softly, looking away from his contorted face. "You think I'm just like Marcella. That's not true. I'm not like her. I'm not! I'm not a tease, or a phony. There are lots of things we can do. We can both be satisfied. But you have to promise me not to take advantage of me or try to force me. We can do everything else but go all the way." Clay remained silent.
"I know that wasn't right," she went on. "I should have told you all this before we got started, before we ever got out here. But I couldn't. I was afraid you'd call the whole thing off and I didn't want that."
She looked back at him again and searched his face for understanding. "Oh I guess I've ruined everything," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.
He put his hand to her shoulder. "Don't do that. Don't cry. That's all right. Really it is."
She moved into his arms and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt warm tears sliding down over his skin and soaking the waistband of his trousers.
"Come on now, don't cry. Please!"
She turned a tear-stained face up to him. "You don't mind, then? You understand?"
Yeah. Sure. There's nothing crazy about that."
She was busy then, knocking him back to the ground, covering his face with quick little kisses, stroking her hands against his bare chest. Her lips went down the side of his neck and over the hollow of his throat. Her hair was soft and silken against his jaw and smelled clean and sweet.
"I'm going to be good to you," she murmured, as her lips worked against his skin. "I'm going to be so good to you."
The abrupt transition from tears to passion rocked him for a moment. Then he gave up trying to figure her out and relaxed to let the passion flood through him.
She nipped at his chest with her small white teeth, leaving behind tiny red marks. Her lips went all the way down to the top of his trousers, and his body reacted automatically. He doubled up at the waist, drawing his knees up toward her breasts, and captured her face.
She kissed him and bit him while her hands fought with the button and zipper of his trousers. She got his pants open and pushed the halves out of the way.
Her slender hand went to the elastic waistband of his shorts and electric shocks ran through him. His legs straightened out and he lifted his hips from the earth so she could shove his pants and shorts down to his knees. Then she was standing up and reaching down to grasp the cuffs of his trousers and tug them off. His shorts followed a moment later and he was bare from the chest to the ankles.
She looked at him and smiled. He sat up to reach for her but she danced away, giggling merrily. He was about to leap to his feet to pursue her when she stopped, turned back to face him, and reached for the buttons of her blouse.
She shrugged out of the blouse and sweater at the same time and let the two garments fall to the grass. Her white bra was whiter than her flesh in the moon-light.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked him as her hands bent up behind her back for the hooks of the brassiere.
"Yes," he answered, honestly.
"Did you ever look at a live naked woman before?" she asked as the bra straps slid down her arms and the cups fell away from her breasts.
"Yes," he answered again.
"Did you like looking?"
That was a foolish question, requiring no answer. Any normal fifteen-year-old liked looking at naked women. "In just a minute," she said, panting from effort and excitement, "I'm going to be naked for you. I'm going to take off everything-even my shoes and socks. I never did that before for any boy.
While she talked she was shoving her slacks and panties down over her hips. Her middle wasn't flat. That was mounded gently, convex, like an overturned soup plate. Her skin looked soft and smooth, and the navel was a shadowed imperfection on the fine china flesh.
She got the slacks and panties down below her knees and kicked them off. Her shoes were already gone and it was but a moment's work to pull off her heavy wool socks.
He stared at her, awe-struck by her magnificence.
She stood braced on wide-spread feet, facing him. Her head rolled back and her dark hair hung behind her shoulders. Her slender white arms reached up as though to embrace the night sky.
Moonlight turned her flesh to silver and the angle of illumination struck a magnificent series of shadows and shadings on her alabaster body. The breasts were clearly illuminated, lifted high and round by the position of her arms. The nipples were hard black raspberries.
The promonotory of her bosom cast a shadow over her ribs and upper abdomen. The outside curve of one leg shone in the night. The other side of the same leg was in shadow. The pattern was reversed on the other leg.
She rose up on the balls of her feet and her toes gripped down at the grass. Her breasts bounced when she rocked back onto her heels.
"Take off that silly shirt," she said hoarsely as she started toward him. "You look stupid sitting there like that."
He had the shirt off by the time she reached him. One touch of her finger against his shoulder pushed him back against the earth. He felt the blades of grass flatten beneath his back and shoulders and buttocks.
She stretched out beside him and they rolled on their sides to face one another. They stopped when the tips of her breasts lightly grazed his chest and only their heads leaned forward. Their lips touched lightly, then mashed together.
She put her arms around him, and, with surprising strength, pulled him against her.
"Remember your promise," she whispered.
He pressed against her, enjoying the warm softness of her. Their kiss was long and deep, and he was unutterably thrilled by the slide of her bare skin against his own.
Her hands deftly stroked his back from shoulder to hip. Her glazed eyes stared unseeing at him. Her jaw hung slack and saliva dribbled down her cheek from the corner of her mouth.
She'd been the aggressor before. Now that was his turn. He moved, knelt beside her, and bent over to place his lips against her bare bosom for the first time.
She made a gaggling sound in her throat when he kissed gently against one side curve. Her shoulders twisted and his lips found their way to one turgid nipple. He kissed there.
"Aargh" she said, her hands moving to his face and her fingers curling in his hair.
All of her began to move then, each limb and part going whatever way they pleased. He let her feel his teeth and her nails pricked against his scalp.
"Oh," she groaned, snorting through flared nostrils for her breath.
"Aaah," she gasped when he moved to her other breast.
He brought her to the very edge of control by repeating everything with the other breast. His feet hurt from kneeling beside her and he shifted to a sitting position.
His lips moved and his hands foraged. She aided his searching hand and bent one leg at the knee. His hand worked.
"Mmm," she said, her voice rising and falling from deep in her chest.
The tempo of her body quickened and she gasped as his hand brought her pleasure. Her own hands did not remain idle any longer. They found him and stroked him high toward the peak of pleasure.
"Wait! Wait!" he heard her gasp as her hands pushed him away. "Listen! Do this my way!"
With panted words and pulling hands she showed him, then relaxed. He understood and began to move.
That was wild.
And that got wilder before the blinding cataclysm of the finish. And he knew from her ecstatic shriek that she finished when he did.
CHAPTER NINE
Clay had her at her door at a quarter of two, but they spent so much time in tender kissing and light stroking of one another that it was half past two before he got back on his scooter and headed for home.
He was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow and his mother let him sleep late the next morning. He was a little stiff again when he woke up and some of his bruises were more painful than they'd been before. A long hot shower helped a lot. Three helpings of flapjacks put him right on top of the world.
At noon he went out to make his rounds. He visited all his customers, collected his money, and chatted with them all to see that they were satisfied with the work.
There were no complaints from any of them and he had fifty dollars in his pocket when he got back to his house at three in the afternoon. Out of the ten dollars that belonged to him he repaid the two dollar loan from his father, and tucked all the rest of the money away in his wallet.
Clay phoned Nancy. They made smacking noises into the telephone at one another for more than an hour, and talked between kisses. He was surprised that he'd been on the phone so long. It seemed like five minutes. And he couldn't remember much of what they'd said to one another.
He'd wanted to see her again that evening, but she'd explained that her parents did not allow her to go out when there was school the next day. Besides, she'd told him, she had homework to do, clothes to iron, and her hair to wash.
He had to settle for picking her up in the morning and driving her to school.
Homework. He had homework, too. In fact, he had quite a bit of it. He hadn't gotten much done toward the end of the week. After supper he went straight up to his room and spent the entire evening catching up on back-logged school work.
At eleven he turned out his light and crawled into bed. As soon as his eyes closed his mind was filled with pictures of naked Nancy and with memories of their pleasure together.
Nancy had allayed the fears Diana had raised. Afterward with Nancy had been wonderful, the two of them clinging tightly in each other's arms as they floated gently on the sea of soft languor.
He hadn't wanted to be away from her the minute that was over. He had wanted to be close to her, to have her close to him. And just lying close like that, naked, had rearoused him very quickly. Nancy had been the one who finally brought things to a halt. She had pleaded total fatigue just when he was getting ready for another go-Sometime during the semi-delirious session on the grass she'd gone over every inch of him and kissed away the hurt of each and every one of his bruises.
He fell asleep with a picture of her, naked in the throes of ecstasy, bright and clear behind his closed eyelids.
There was a dream. He knew that was a dream, but he didn't care because that was a delightful dream. In the dream he was reliving the night with Nancy. They were both naked and he was in a highly excited state. She was promising to do all sorts of wonderful things to him and he could hardly wait.
The next moment he was wide awake. It was morning, the sun was streaming in the window and Jennie was sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. The sheet was thrown back baring his naked body. Her robe was open and she was touching herself with one hand while she gripped him tenderly with the other.
"What are you doing?" he gasped, taking her wrist and flinging her hand away from his body.
She cupped her naked breasts with both hands and grinned at him. Her nipples, hard as pebbles, peeped out from between her fingers and pointed accusingly.
"Mama told me to wake you up," she said softly. "I thought this would be a good way to do that."
"Get out of here!" he spat.
"Why? You're all excited. I can help you. You can help me, too."
"Get out of here before I throw you out. What if mom or dad should open the door? Get out of here."
Her lips curled back in a snarl and she started to say something, then changed her mind and silently left the room, clutching her robe tightly about her as she stepped into the hallway.
Clay glared after her. Damn her, he thought. Why couldn't she leave him alone?
He rose from the bed, grabbed up his robe, slung it around his shoulders, and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. An icy cold shower restored him to some semblance of calm. He brushed his teeth and combed his hair and went back to his room to dress.
Nancy must have been waiting for him. She heard the putt-putt of his scooter and stepped out of the side door and onto the driveway. Clay turned up the driveway, went past her, and turned around just before the garage door.
When he helped her onto the scooter he looked up and saw her mother smiling through the window. He returned the smile, hopped aboard, and sped off. Once they were out of sight around the corner, he pulled to the curb, twisted around on the seat, and gave her a light kiss of greeting.
"It was miserable yesterday without you," she told him. "Me too."
Her eyelashes fluttered at him for a moment. Then she said, "We'd better get going or we'll be late for school."
He walked her to her first class and stood outside the door talking to her so long the bell rang and he had to run like hell to his own class. He wouldn't see her again until lunch and the morning dragged.
She was waiting for him at the door to the cafeteria and they went in together. They carried their trays away from the steamtable and looked around for seats. Clay saw a couple of spaces at one of the long tables with a bunch of the other guys and their girls. When he pointed it out to her she shook her head and indicated two empties a couple of tables away.
When they were seated she explained. "I hope you don't mind. It's just that I'd like to stay as far away from Marcella as possible."
Clay shrugged. "Suit yourself."
They got through the business of consuming the meal as quickly as possible and hurried out into the sunshine. Outside they could walk together and talk quietly without having to worry about being accidentally overheard.
"It's lousy-the way our schedules cross," Clay said. "I won't get to see you again until after the last class. We don't have one lousy course together."
"There isn't much we can do about it."
"Maybe we could arrange to share lockers."
He was referring to the lockers which lined the corridors of the school. The students used them to store their coats and books and assorted paraphernalia. The lockers had built-in combination locks and at the beginning of each term two students were assigned to share one.
Of course, the sharing of lockers with persons of the opposite sex was frowned upon, but the rule wasn't enforced. Most of the steadies shared lockers and no one complained.
"Who's your locker partner?" she asked.
"That's just it. I don't have a partner any more. I had one when the term began, but he pledged to the frat and I didn't. So, he moved out."
"That's great. My partner won't mind if I move out. She's always got the locker jammed with junk, anyway. She'll be grateful for the room."
They spent the rest of the lunch period transferring her things to his locker. She wrote down the combination and tried it several times under his close scrutiny to make sure she could get the door open.
"Now, at least," he said finally, "I'll get a chance to see you between classes once in a while, even if it is only for a minute or two."
The bells summoned them to afternoon classes and they went their separate ways. On his way to class Clay passed a knot of boys. Several of them waved to him and he returned their waves. Jimmy was among them. He didn't wave.
When Clay was a few feet past them he heard them break into laughter. When he turned to look back at them none of them would look him in the eye. He had the inescapable feeling they were laughing at him. The same thing had happened while he and Nancy were in the cafeteria. He'd heard laughter from the other table, had looked over there, and had had his gaze studiously avoided.
He tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling but couldn't quite manage it completely. At three o'clock, after his last class, he met Nancy at the locker.
"Gonna come out and watch practice?" he asked her.
"Not right away. I've got a student government meeting. I'll be out when the meeting breaks up."
Clay knew there-was something rotten in Denmark when he got to the locker room. It wasn't the freeze-out any more. That was over and done with. All he had to go on were some very strange glances from some of the other guys. He didn't mind Jimmy's glaring sneer. He was used to that now. It was the looks from some of the other fellows that bothered him.
He suited up and went out onto the field with the team. The peculiar feeling gnawed a him. There wasn't anything special he could put his finger on. The guys treated him the same as always. They talked to him and kidded. It was only when they thought he wasn't looking at them that they gave him those peculiar looks.
The practice began with a long lecture from the coach. The game last Saturday, he claimed, was one of the lousiest he'd ever seen. The'd won only through pure blind luck. They'd played like a bunch of old ladies. The linemen had been kissing the opponents instead of blocking them. And the tacklers had been dancing with the ball carriers instead of knocking them down.
There were assorted groans from the team every time the coach made a point. They'd expected some congratulations and here they were getting chewed out for winning a game.
The coach put them through a grueling half hour on the blocking slide and tackling dummies. Hit that thing! Don't hug it!" he kept shouting.
Next they had to do wind sprints-one hundred yards up the field at top speed, then a hundred yards back again. And the slowest men were penalized with five laps around the field.
By four-fifteen they were an exhausted bunch of boys and tempers were short. When the coach had them ragged from exertion he set them up for a scrimage. The blocking and tackling were vicious. The guys seemed to forget they were playing against their own teammates.
On one play Clay got caught flat-footed and had the wind knocked out of him. He had to lie where he'd fallen for several minutes to catch his breath. The coach commended the guy who had knocked him on his butt, and punished Clay for getting suckered like that by making him run five laps around the field.
So, that's the way it's going to be, Clay thought as he started his punishment laps.
When he came around the field for the second lap he saw Nancy climbing into the stands. She waved at him to catch his attention and threw him a puzzled look. He shrugged his shoulders and continued running.
He was puffing like a racehorse when he got back into the scrimmage and he was out for blood. The coach put him in on defense and he got down on the line across from the boy who'd knocked him for a loop.
When the ball was snapped Clay sidestepped and lunged. As he churned through the line one driving knee caught the other player right under the strap of his helmet and sent him rolling head over heels backward. Clay made the tackle and the coach blew his whistle to end the play.
It wasn't until they were picking themselves up and dusting themselves off that someone noticed they boy lying in a heap where he'd fallen. Everyone crowded around. The coach and the trainer worked over the boy until they had him on his feet. He'd been knocked unconscious but he wasn't really hurt. The coach released him from practice and sent him back to the locker room with the trainer.
Clay fully expected some praise. He got ugly stares from the other team members and questions from the coach.
"What happened, Gardner?"
"His jaw caught my thigh pad when the ball was snapped."
"You didn't punch him?"
"No! I didn't."
"Well, take it a little easy from now on. I want you to play hard, but I don't want you to kill each other."
"Honest, coach, it was an accident."
"All right, all right. Let's play football."
The rest of the practice was murder. Clay had to fight for his life in every pile-up. He was kneed and punched and gouged at every opportunity. And on every play a different guy did it to him. On the last play of the scrimmage someone managed to slip a fist past his face guard and when he stood up his nose was bleeding.
He went back to the locker room in a black humor. No one was talking to him now and he was regarded with sullen expressions from every quarter. When he came back from the shower his locker stood open and empty. His clothes had been scattered around the room. They were all standing around waiting to see what he'd do about it.
Clay choked back the boiling rage and moved slowly about the room, gathering up his things. They seemed disappointed when he didn't make an issue out of it, and they all looked at Jimmy Sherman to see what the next move would be.
Clay was beginning to understand. Sherman was the leader of the move against him. Clay slipped into his underwear, turned his back on them, and sat down on the bench to don his socks. The locker room was deathly still and he could feel their eyes on him.
"Hey, Gardner," Sherman said in a quiet, mocking voice. "I saw your pig out there in the stands. Is she as good a lover as she used to be?"
"Watch your mouth," Clay growled, not turning around.
"She's a good one, all right," the other boy continued while Clay finished dressing. "When I tried her she'd do anything in the world. When you kiss that mouth of hers you think about what I did with her."
There were dirty snickers from the other boys and Clay leaped to his feet. When he turned around he saw Sherman gesturing. He was halfway across the locker room and trembling with rage before he brought himself back under control.
"This is the second warning, Sherman," Clay said. "You don't get a third. Keep that toilet of yours shut or I'll shut it for you!"
"You gonna knee me in the face, too?" Sherman taunted. "You can't make points with the coach now. He's gone home. Everybody's gone home. There's nobody here but us chickens."
"Who're you calling chicken?"
"I don't want to mention any names, but that's definitely an egg that just dropped out of your pants, Gardner."
Clay leaped across the room and thrust his face into Sherman's. He didn't want to fight, but it looked like there was no way out. He decided to try a little of Sherman's own medicine.
"You're nothing but a big mouth. And I wouldn't spit on that tramp you're dating."
Sherman wasn't bothered by insults. "Don't talk to me about mouths," he said thinly. "That girl of yours has the biggest mouth in town. I'll bet she's pleasured half the guys in school."
That was it.
Clay couldn't take any more.
He swung from the hip with all his strength. And had the blow landed it surely would have split Sherman's face in half. But the other boy was prepared for the blow. He blocked it with one hand, and punched with the other.
There wasn't time for Clay to get his guard up. He ducked and took the grazing blow on the side of his neck. He blocked the next punch and threw one to Sherman's mid-section, taking another one on his neck.
They clinched and stumbled about the floor, each one trying to throw the other. The watching boys were silent and the tiled room was filled with the hoarse breathing of the two combatants.
Clay was at a slight disadvantage. He was still in his stocking feet while Sherman wore shoes. The shoes gave Sherman much better traction on the slippery floor. Sherman realized his advantage and increased it by stamping down with his heel on Clay's right foot.
The pain was excruciating. It dizzied Clay, and Sherman threw him to the floor. He stood over Clay, fists cocked, waiting.
Clay shook his head to clear it, and leaped to his feet. Sherman came in with both arms windmilling. Clay took the blows on his shoulders and landed a solid punch to Sherman's head.
The other boy rocked back and Clay followed up with two to the stomach and another to the face. This second punch to the face started Sherman's nose bleeding. He, wiped the blood with the back of his hand, glanced at it, and went into a rage.
Sherman bellowed as he leaped toward Clay. He landed one to the eye and another to the jaw. Clay staggered backward, dizzy again, and fell over a bench. His head hit the corner of a locker.
Sherman pounced on him, straddled his chest, grabbed him by the ears and began to smash his head into the floor.
Clay twisted, knocking the other boy to one side, and rolled after him. As they grappled together he caught Sherman with a left to the forehead. It hurt Clay's fist more than it hurt Sherman. Clay could feel the skin over his knuckles split and he couldn't seem to clench his fist tightly any more.
They rolled over and over, coming to a stop with Clay on his back and Sherman on top of him. As the boy leaned back and drew his arm back to deliver a deadly punch Clay heaved upright and smashed his forearm into Sherman's face.
There was a crunching noise and Sherman rolled away. Clay scrambled to his feet and reached out to grab the other boy by the shirt front. But there wasn't the strength in Clay's left hand to pull Sherman up. He switched to his right, tucking the useless left in against his body, and wound up for a mighty blow.
Sherman's eyes were glazed and he was reeling, but he was conscious enough to kick out with his foot at Clay. At the last possible minute Clay twisted his hip and took the painful kick on the hipbone. Then he slammed his fist into Sherman's face.
The boy's arms dropped limply to his sides and he rocked dizzily on his heels. Clay hit him again and felt the cartilage in his nose give with a soft pop. There was time for one more-this one right on the hinge of the jaw-before Sherman toppled to the floor and lay still.
He was finished.
Clay spun about to face the others. "Who's next?" he mumbled through cracked and swollen lips. No one stepped forward.
Clay turned his face to one side and spat blood. "Come on, come on," he said thickly. "You were all with him before."
No one moved.
"All right, then, listen to me. What happened out on the field was an accident pure and simple. It's over and done with."
A couple of the boys stepped toward Sherman to see if they could bring him around. Clay stopped them in their tracks with a stare.
He continued. "Nancy Flood's my girl. That crud he was feeding you was a bunch of lies. He's just mad because he dated her first. Anybody thinks different step forward and we'll settle it right now."
Nobody moved.
"There's one more thing. You guys tried to freeze me out and it didn't work. Sherman tried this and it didn't work. Nothing is gonna work. I'll take you all on if I have to, but I'm not gonna quit the team. And when that crumb on the floor wakes up you tell him if I ever catch him so much as looking at me again I'll kill him."
Clay spat out the last words and keeled over in a dead faint. When he came to he was stretched out on the rubbing table and the boys were gathered around him. His left hand hurt like fury and he couldn't move his fingers. Both his lips were split, his eye was closed, and there was a loose tooth in his mouth. When he tried to bend his knee his whole leg hurt from hip to ankle.
The boys had managed to stop the bleeding from his nose and mouth. There wasn't much else they could do for him. But he knew from the solicitous tones as they all tried to give advice at once that they didn't hold anything against him.
They helped him to his feet and off the table and he wavered for a second before his head cleared. He saw Sherman sitting on a bench alone at the other end of the room. The other boy sat with his head down between his legs and blood dripping from his face.
Somebody helped Clay on with his shoes and jacket and by then he could walk without help. Somebody else wanted to drive him home but he waved the offer off.
Just before he went out the door he said, "In case anybody should ask what happened we'll tell them a locker fell on Sherman and me, right?"
There was a chorus of agreement as the other boys gathered their things together and prepared to leave. No one spoke to Sherman.
Clay opened the door and stepped outside. He had to stop for a moment. There was a painful stitch when he took a deep breath. Nancy saw him and came running over.
"Oh! Clay!" she screamed when she got a good look at his face. "What happened?"
He tried to grin reassuringly at her through his swollen lips. "There was a little disagreement," he told her. "Don't worry. It's not as bad as it looks. You ought to see the other guy."
She grabbed at his left hand.
He winced and tried to pull it back. "Easy," he groaned.
She put an arm about his waist and helped him over to the scooter. "Was it Sherman?"
He nodded and threw one leg over the scooter saddle. "Let me rest a minute before we go."
The rest of the team members came out of the locker room in groups of two's and three's. The offer of a ride home was repeated, but Clay refused again with a shake of his head.
Sherman was the last one out of the locker room. He came through the door bent far forward at the waist and holding a blood-soaked towel to his face. He wove like a drunk as he walked, and left behind a trail of droplets of blood. Clay and Nancy watched him stagger to his car, slide behind the wheel, and lean his head far back. He just sat there and didn't look over at them.
"Clay, you're really hurt," Nancy said, her voice tight with concern.
"No. I'll be all right. But with this hand I can't drive the scooter."
"Can you hold on from behind?" she asked. "I can drive a scooter. I'll take you home."
"I guess it's that, or leave the scooter and take a caL You sure you can handle it?"
"Well...."
"We'll take a cab. Get your things. We'll go around front and flag one down."
She wanted to help him walk but he shook her off. "I can make it. And I don't want anybody asking stupid questions."
They made it around to the street side of the building without running into any members of the faculty and it was ten minutes before an empty taxi came cruising by.
Nancy wanted to go home with him and see he was taken care of, but he wouldn't hear of it. By the time the taxi pulled to a stop in front of his house he was dizzy and nauseous and the driver had to help him to the door.
His mother came running. She only screamed once when she got a look at him. After that she was all business. She got him inside, upstairs, and onto a bed. When she picked up his left hand to try and remove his jacket he passed out.
He kept doing that-waking up and passing out. The next time he opened his eyes the family doctor was bending over him. Then, some time later, his father was there, too, and they were half carrying him down to the car.
There was a bumpy ride in the car, the antiseptic smell of a hospital, bright lights in his eyes, firm but gentle hands that brought additional pain.
There were questions he didn't have the strength to answer.
Then a nurse stuck a needle in his arm and everything stopped.
CHAPTER TEN
When he opened his eyes again his head was clear. He was in a hospital bed and he hurt in a hundred places. His left hand was in a cast halfway up the forearm and his face felt stiff and dry. His father was sitting in a chair beside the bed. "How do you feel, son?"
"Better than before," he said, licking at dried, swollen lips with a cottony tongue. "My mouth is dry."
His father lifted a water glass with a straw to his lips. Clay sucked water into his mouth and swished it around. The tooth was still loose but at least it hadn't fallen out.
"Thanks," he said, lifting his mouth from the straw. "What time is it?"
"Three o'clock."
"In the morning?"
His father nodded. "What happened, Clay?" he asked in a quiet but serious voice.
"Just about what you think, I guess. It was a fight. I couldn't avoid it."
"Did you start it?"
"No."
"How many of them were there?"
"Only one. Do I look that bad?"
"Well, your hand is broken, you're badly cut and bruised, you've got a cracked rib and a possible concussion."
"Was that why I kept fainting?"
"Probably."
"I feel all right now. My head is clear. It doesn't even hurt."
"They shot you full of pain killer, boy. You're gonna hurt plenty when it wears off. Now you tell me who did this to you. The police were here. They'll be back in the morning."
"The cops! But it was just a fight! I wish we could forget the whole thing, Dad. It was a fair fight and it's over now."
"You want to tell me what it was about?"
"Aw, some guy has had his back up for me since the beginning of school. A lot of little things contributed to it. Anyway, he started it and I finished it and it's all over now."
The older man's brow furrowed with puzzlement. "You mean you won the fight?"
"I guess you could say that. I was still standing when it was all over."
"Good God! Were you using baseball bats on each other?"
"Just fists. I wish we could forget it, Dad. I didn't start it and I tried to avoid it. Believe me."
The older man was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I believe you, son. We'll forget it. I'll talk to the police. You try and get some rest now. I'll be back to see you in the morning with your mother. If the pain gets bad call the nurse. She'll give you another shot."
"You mean I have to spend the night here?"
"Easy, tiger," his father said with a grin. "You'll be here more than one night. The doctor said at least three days and probably a week. They want to keep you under observation for that concussion."
"But I feel fine," Clay protested. But when he tried to sit upright a wave of vertigo washed over him and he fell back limply to the pillow.
"See? You stay in bed and do what they tell you. Your mother and I will be back tomorrow."
The older man left and a moment later a nurse came bustling into the room.
"So," she said cheerfully. "The prizefighter is awake. How do you feel?"
"I was fine until I tried to sit up," he told her.
"Are you in much pain?"
"It only hurts when I laugh," Clay cracked.
"Well, stop laughing and hold this under your tongue." She shoved a thermometer into his mouth and picked up his right wrist to take his pulse.
She held his wrist only a few inches off the bed and close to her white covered body. The side of his hand rested against the stiffly starched skirt of her uniform.
Her lips moved when she counted and her eyes were fixed on the face of her wrist watch. Clay held the thermometer in his mouth and looked at her.
She was about twenty-five or so, medium height, long black hair, and olive skin. And she really filled that uniform, top and bottom. The buttons strained across her full bosom and the skirt was tight over her rounded hips. Yet the belt cinched in over a very tiny waist.
She dropped his wrist, made a notation on his chart, and took the thermometer out of his mouth. She read the thermometer, shook it down, and made another notation.
"Nothing startling," she said, snapping the metal cover of the chart closed. "Now let's turn out our light and go to sleep."
"You shouldn't make such attractive proposals to a boy in my condition," he told her.
"You can't be very sick if you can be so fresh," she shot back. "You've got some nerve talking to me that way. Why, I'm almost old enough to be your mother."
Clay was properly abashed. "I'm sorry," he said, blushing furiously. "I didn't mean to be fresh. I was just trying to make a joke."
She gave him a forgiving smile. "Forget it. I shouldn't have snapped at you, either. Try and get some sleep now. If you need me just press that call button pinned there beside your head."
She turned out his light and left the room.
Clay closed his eyes and dropped right off to sleep.
He was in agony when he was awakened four hours later by a clatter in the corridor outside his room. His head hurt. His left hand hurt. And when-he clenched his teeth against the pain it only made it worse. He was dripping with sweat and holding himself rigid when his searching hand found the call button and pushed it.
It seemed to take forever for the nurse to come. And when she showed up she wasn't the same one who'd been in the night before.
"Where's my nurse?" he asked the elderly, uniformed woman who came into the room.
"If you mean the night nurse, she went off duty at four. What seems to be the matter?"
"I hurt like hell," he gritted.
She opened his chart, glanced quickly through it, and started for the door. "I'll be right back with something for you," she told him over her shoulder.
It took ten minutes on the clock and a year in bed before she returned with a hypodermic and a rubber-stoppered bottle. He watched her fill the syringe, expel a little of the clear liquid through the needle, and swab his arm.
There was a pinprick, and then the swab again, and Clay relaxed with a sigh of relief.
"Man! That stuff works fast. Will it put me to sleep?"
"Probably not," the nurse answered as she unscrewed the needle from the syringe.
Clay felt warm and drowsy and light-headed all at the same time. The nurse blotted the perspiration from his forehead and left the room. A few minutes later a male attendant brought in his breakfast tray. But Clay wasn't hungry. Besides, his face felt too stiff for him to eat.
Whatever had been in that needle was powerful stuff. Time seemed to float by. Before Clay knew it, it was nine-thirty and the doctor was in the room.
The doctor checked the chart and Clay's pulse, then helped him sit up. The stethoscope was cold against his bare back and for the first time Clay relized he was wearing one of these hospital gowns that went on backward and only tied at the back of the neck.
"Take a deep breath and hold it," the doctor said.
Clay inhaled.
"Relax. Take another one."
The doctor nodded to himself as he stuffed the stethoscope into his pocket and helped Clay lie back. "Does it hurt when you breathe?" he asked.
"No. Nothing hurts now. I had a shot at seven. When I woke up it was going great guns."
"Where did it hurt?"
"Well, my hand and my head mostly. And my leg a little bit."
"Did you feel dizzy when you sat up?"
"Not really. Just a little light-headed for the first few seconds."
"And when you lay down again?"
"No. I was fine then. Can you tell me what's wrong with me?"
The doctor told him about the wrist and the rib, which he already knew, " ... and we're not sure about the concussion so we'll have to keep watching you. There's a nasty lump and a cut at the back of your skull."
"Yeah, I hit my head against the metal leg of a locker."
"That explains it. Also, you've got a pretty good bone bruise on you left hip. That's why your leg hurts."
"How long will I have to be here?"
"Oh, three days to a week. You can't be too careful with concussion. It's a tricky thing. Sometimes it doesn't show up immediately. You rest now. I'll be back to see you this afternoon."
A few minutes after the doctor left, Clay's parents came in. His mother's eyes showed signs of recent tears, but she didn't get too bad there in the room. Clay guessed his father had talked with her.
There wasn't much to say and they couldn't stay long. His father had to get back to work. His mother said she'd be back in the afternoon and wanted to know if she could bring anything. He asked for something to read, magazines, books, anything. His father said he'd order a television set for the room.
Lunch came but Clay still wasn't hungry. And after they removed the untouched tray a technician from the TV rental people showed up and hooked up the set.
The effects of the last shot were wearing off and the pain was coming back, but Clay didn't ring for the nurse right away. He wanted to see how bad it would get, first. It didn't get too bad and he decided to see if he could do without the pain killer.
There was a quiz show on when he turned on the television set and he watched that. But the next program was a soap opera and he turned the set off.
At one o'clock the nurse came in and he was surprised to see his old friend of the night before.
"Hi," he said brightly. "I thought you were on night shift."
"I switched to afternoons today," she told him as she went through the routine with the thermometer and pulse.
"How do you feel?" she asked when she finished with his chart.
"All right. I hurt a little bit, but not bad."
"Want a shot?"
He shook his head. "But I'd sure like to know where the bathroom is."
"No bathroom for you, sonny boy." She bent down and took out a bedpan from the bottom of the night stand.
He made a face and shook his head. "Forget it. Just tell me where the bathroom is."
"I'm sorry. Doctor's orders. You're not supposed to get out of bed."
"Look," he pleaded. "It's bad enough I have to lie here helpless like this. I won't make it worse by using one of those degrading things. If you won't show me where the bathroom is I'll find it myself."
He winced as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Don't you dare get up."
"You're not strong enough to stop me," he told her. "I'll find it with or without your help."
He stood up and his legs almost buckled under him. The nurse leaped forward and caught his arm.
"All right," she said in a resigned tone. "It's right over here. But you've got to promise not to try and get to it unless I'm in the room with you."
"I promise."
She helped him across the room and opened the door wide, locking it into the opened position with a doorstop. He stepped inside, shook her off, and pulled the door closed.
"Oh, all right. But don't lock it," she said.
He was in there for quite a while. After a few minutes she called out, "Are you all right."
"Yes," he answered indignantly.
When he came out she was waiting to help him back to bed. "If you tell the doctor about this I'll be in hot water," she said as she tucked him in again.
"Who? Me? I never left this bed."
She gave him a grin and a wink and he watched the sway of her hips as she left the room. He reminded himself to ask her name the next time she came in.
The pain was a little worse, but still bearable. A little while later his mother came in. She had some magazines and his school books and a solicitous expression. He had to reassure her several times that he was feeling better and that he was getting adequate care.
Before she left he gave her a list of things for his father to do. The boys who worked for him had to be paid and the lawns all had to be checked.
The doctor came back again, but had no spectacular information to report after the examination. The nurse was in and out a couple of times during the afternoon and he found out her name was Theresa Vaccarella. She didn't mind if he called her by her first name.
About four-fifteen Nancy showed up. She sat beside the bed and told him how everybody in school was talking about the fight. He groaned. That meant the principal and the coach and everybody and his brother would be in on it. He'd catch plenty of hell from them when he went back to school.
Nancy also told him Jimmy Sherman had been in school that day. His face was a mess and three of his front teeth were missing. They weren't sure if his nose was broken but it sure looked badly bent.
Clay cursed himself. The winner of the fight was in the hospital and the loser was back in school the next day.
When Nancy had to leave she kissed Clay lightly on the mouth. The swelling of his lips had gone down mostly, but they were still tender.
While they were kissing the door opened and Theresa came bustling in.
"Ooops," she said. "Sorry."
Nancy backed away from the side of the bed and blushed a beet red. "I was just leaving," she said. And she left.
"It's probably a good thing I interruped," the nurse said as she bustled about the room. "In your weakened condition you shouldn't be stimulated."
"If I was that weak I'd be dead," he told her. "A little loving never hurt a guy."
"Oh no? We've had, more than one corpse in the morgue from too much of that stuff." She was kidding with him. "It's all right with a kid like that, I suppose. But if a real woman came within five feet of your bed you'd probably pass out."
"Why don't you come over here and find out?"
"Not me. I wouldn't want you on my conscience."
Clay's first visitor after dinner was the coach. He came in with a grim expression on his face. And after the perfunctory inquiries into Clay's condition he got right down to business.
"The story is a locker toppled over on you and Sherman."
"That's right coach."
"Everybody on the team swears to it. I thought, since you were in here, you might have something else to tell me."
"Nope. A locker fell on us."
"All right, Gardner. Off the record then. What really happened? I know there's been some bad blood between you and the rest of the team. I won't stand for any foul play."
"Off the record, coach, it was a fair fight. Just me and Sherman. He started it and I couldn't avoid it. So, I finished it."
"It looks like you finished it, all right. You're in the hospital and he's still in school."
"You ask some of the other guys who was still standing when it was all finished. I busted my damn hand on his hard head. And I hit my own head when I fell."
"Okay, okay. Don't get so hot and bothered. Is there any bad blood still between you two?"
"Not as far as I'm concerned. If he steers clear of me I won't bother him. But what's going to happen about the game this Saturday?"
"From what the doctors say, both you and Sherman will be out for the rest of the season. You were two of my best players. This just might ruin our chances for a league championship."
"I'm sorry, coach. Are you going to kick me off the squad?"
"I thought about that and decided just to list you as inactive. When you get back to school you can work as assistant trainer, or something."
"Thanks, coach."
"The principal's going to want to see you when you get back. There's not much I can do for you there." Clay shrugged.
The coach told him to take it easy and left.
Clay felt immensely improved the next day but the doctor still wouldn't let him out of bed. Somebody from the school board showed up with a list of assignments for him to work on while he was in the hospital so he wouldn't fall too far behind.
Theresa came on duty at noon and she checked to make sure he'd eaten his lunch. Later on in the afternoon she shwed up again, this time wheeling a small tart in front of her.
"Bath time," she said brightly as she entered and closed the door behind her.
"Where? There's no shower or tub in the bathroom."
"Right there in bed. I'm going to bathe you."
"Aw, do you have to?"
"Don't worry. You won't shock me. I've seen that all before."
She cranked his bed down and pulled the top sheet down to his waist. He sat up and she helped him out of the hospital gown, then he lay back again. There were two bowls and a pile of towels and fresh linen on the cart. One of the bowls was filled with warm soapy water and the other with clear water.
"Roll over," she ordered. "We'll do your back first."
He eased himself over onto his stomach and she pulled the sheet all the way down to the foot of the bed. His bare skin turned to goose flesh and he felt helpless and exposed.
She washed his back and teased him by pinching his buttocks, then did his buttocks and the backs of his legs. First she used a washcloth with warm, soapy water, then another cloth with clean water, and finally a towel.
Lying on his stomach like that, and with her tender and skillful hands touching him, he couldn't help getting excited.
He was blushing furiously when she made him turn onto his back. His excitement was readily evident. She looked at him, grinned, but didn't say anything. And he was grateful for that.
She washed his face and ears and neck, then his chest and armpits. The more she worked the more excited he became. When she reached his navel she skipped down to the tops of his legs and washed all the way down his legs.
"I always save the best for last," she said lightly and he blushed all over again.
When she finished with his feet and turned back he held his breath with expectaction. His eyes were closed and he waited tensely.
Her warm hand enfolded him and held him gently. He gritted his teeth but could not suppress a groan. His skin burned and tingled and his heart beat wildly in his chest.
"Hey, take this easy, tiger," she said softly.
"I'm sorry," he told her in a miserable tone. "I can't help that."
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," she said. "In a way that's kind of a nice compliment that I can get you so excited. But we can't leave you in this condition. You'd scare the night nurse right out of her panties. I guess we'll just have to do something about you."
Her hand tightened and moved and his eyes shot open. She was watching his face intently as her warm hand caressed him. She went on and on and on, turning his body into a roaring inferno of desire and pleasure.
"Relax," she whispered. "Don't fight me. Let that happen."
"I'm trying," he said through clenched teeth. "I can't. I don't know what's wrong."
"Maybe this'll help,' she murmured as she bent forward and softly kissed his chest.
He could feel her breath fanning against his skin.
"Can I touch you?" he pleaded.
She nodded quickly.
She was standing about level with his waist on the right side of the bed. He reached, put his hand on her hip, then slid that back to cup one full buttock. He hefted the solid roundness of her there and squeezed gently.
A light, rippling shudder seemed to course through her and she whispered, "Does that help any?"
"I-I think so," he grunted.
He moved his hand from her hip to her full bosom and was rewarded when her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then his hand went back to her hip and she bent farther over him.
In that position the back of her skirt was raised high up on the backs of her legs. He reached down low, got his hand under the hem of the skirt, and touched the stockinged backs of her legs. The muscles twitched.
He raised his hand to the bare, smooth flesh above the tops of her stockings. Higher still and only the thin cloth of a pair of panties was between his hand and her body.
She moved slightly and he slipped his hand under the elastic of her panties. The skin of her buttocks was wonderfully smooth and resilient. That was like holding a handful of silk.
He stroked her, squeezed, then moved his hand again.
Her body stiffened and she hissed between her teeth.
Her hand gripped him tighter now and worked faster. Her lips flicked against his chest for a moment and then moved upward. She kissed his throat and the line of his jaw as she worked her way toward his lips.
"Oh! Don't stop," she murmured just before their mouths merged. "Whatever you do don't stop."
He reached his peak then and thrilled to the sensation. Her hand worked frantically and he knew the wonder of completion.
She still had a long way to go. Her lips remained glued to his as his hand caressed.
He kept on until he felt her stiffen, and then heard her sigh a long relaxing sigh.
There was a moment's embarrassment. But then she was smiling and her eyes were glinting merrily.
"See," she said. "That wasn't so bad. And we both got something out of that."
Then she was all business again as she finished up his bed bath, helped him into a fresh gown, and changed the bed linen. Before she opened the door to leave she winked and blew him a kiss.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After five days and much ranting and raving, Clay managed to get the doctor to release him from the hospital. But it was a conditional release. They sent him home on Sunday and he had to stay home from school for one additional week.
He was just as happy about that. But once he got home he was almost sorry they hadn't made him stay in the hospital. He missed his nurse, his one and only favorite nurse. They'd developed between them something more than a mere medical relationship.
Oh, there'd been no protestations of undying love on either side. But bath time, for obvious reasons, had very rapidly become his favorite part of the hospital routine.
Each day at about the same time Theresa would slip into his room, lock the door, and for a half-hour or so they would be borne away on the wings of passion. Before he left he managed to secure her address and phone number, though he hadn't promised to call her or anything.
It hadn't been all fun and games in the hospital, though. Most of the time he'd been bored and lonely, with nothing to do but think. And there was only one thing for him to think about-Nancy.
He couldn't get those nasty cracks Jimmy had made about her out of his mind. The harder he tried, the louder they echoed. The worst part of it all was that though he refused to let himself believe the things Jimmy had said, deep down inside he knew them to be true.
After all, she wasn't an inexperienced kid. Though technically a virgin she was passionate and warm-blooded. She'd proved that to him herself. And when he thought about her with the guys who'd undoubtedly been before him, Jimmy among them, he was revolted.
He knew the things she did, the way she liked to do them. He knew how she got when she was in the throes of passion. Surely she'd done the same things with other boys as she'd done with him.
He could beat up every guy in the school and he wouldn't change that fact. He might be able to get them to keep their mouths shut but he wouldn't be able to stop them from thinking.
Yet, in spite of it all, he felt he really liked her. He liked her more than any other girl he'd ever known.
It was a knotty problem.
How could he continue to go with her when the thought of her previous boy friends turned his stomach? What if he thought about that when they were alone together sometime and giving one another pleasure?
And at the same time he could neither explain his feelings toward her nor throw her over without an explanation. She'd come to the hospital to see him every day. She'd brought him books and candy and aftershave lotion. She'd sat and talked with him and kept him company during some of the lonely hours.
Damn Jimmy Sherman. Damn him to hell, anyway.
If it hadn't been for those cracks that day in the locker room things would have gone along wonderfully. Nancy would have been his girl and that's all there would have been to it. But Jimmy had brought into the light a hidden part of their relationship. And once in the open, that had to be accounted for.
There was another facet to the problem.
If Clay elected to remain with Nancy, if he could clear his mind of all those dirty pictures, she would want them to live by her cardinal rule. That had been all right in the beginning, but Clay knew he wouldn't be satisfied with her games forever.
There would be a time, he knew, when he would not be satisfied with anything less than the actual act of love-making.
What would happen then?
He couldn't force her to his will. And if he was going steady with her he couldn't find his pleasure elsewhere.
How did other couples solve their problems? Surely not every pair of steadies actively engaged in love-making.
Every time Clay pondered the question it became more complex.
At home now, at least, he wouldn't be quite so bored. He would have less time for deep introspection. And Nancy might be around to visit him a little less often.
But if there had been problems in the hospital there were also problems at home. Sometimes, in the afternoons, when his mother was out of the house, Clay was at his sister's mercy.
She just wouldn't take no for an answer.
When they were alone for a couple of hours she might come waltzing into his room stark naked. She would tease him touching herself everywhere and talking to him in the foulest imaginable language.
And if he was asleep when she came home and discovered they were to be alone in the house, he would invariably awaken to find her touching him, exciting him.
That exact thing happened on Wednesday. After lunch he fell asleep flat on his back in his room. When he awakened, in a highly excited state, his trousers were wide open, and his shorts were pushed to one side. Jennie was perched beside him on the bed, her eyes glazed with excitement as she touched him.
Her skirt was bunched up about her hips and her panties lay nearby on the floor. He awoke to such a roaring inferno of desire that he couldn't help himself when his hands instinctively reached for her.
She was expert with her caresses, knowing how to prolong things for him, knowing when to slow down, and when to stop altogether until he begged her to continue. She could play him as though he were a Stradivarius and she was the world's finest violinist.
She rose from the bed long enough to drop her skirt and strip away her blouse and brassiere. Then she was back on the bed beside him and helping him with his own clothes.
She made things last nearly a full hour that time. And when that was over they were both exhausted and dripping with perspiration. They lay panting beside one another while their heartbeats slowed and their breathing returned to normal.
As always, afterward with her, Clay hated her and himself.
"Why can't you leave me alone? Haven't you got enough boy friends to take care of you?"
"That's different with them," she told him, smiling a cat-like grin. "With other boys once we get started that's whee and all the way. But with you I get a special kind of kick because I know we have to draw the line short of the real thing."
"You're sick."
She shrugged. "Maybe. Who cares? There are lots of other things we could do and still stay in bounds, you know. We've never once used our kisses for each other. You're lucky. I don't want any of the real exotic stuff. I like that just the way we do things. The limitations are the real kick."
"Get out of here," he spat. "You make me want to throw up."
"Oh, don't be so self-righteous. You get your kicks, too."
"I don't want my kicks with you."
"Well, I do with you. So you're stuck with me. I'll tell you something. When you touch me, or when I touch you, that's different than when I'm with some other guy. I mean, that feels different. I get more excited just touching with you than when I make love with somebody else."
"Go away, will you. Leave me alone."
"I'll go away for now," she said, rising and gathering up her clothes. "But I'll be back and you know I will. I don't see why you should complain, anyway. This is your own fault. You started this."
"I started this?"
"Sure. If you hadn't played Peeping Tom that night I never would have had to do anything with you so I could make sure you didn't squeal. Then I never would have known how good that was."
"Did you ever think that maybe that was your fault? If you hadn't been fooling around with that guy right downstairs I never would have had the opportunity to peek."
"Uh uh, brother. You can't shift the blame to me. Nobody twisted your arm. Nobody made you look. And after you looked nobody made you try to use that as a weapon over me."
Clay turned his back to his sister and buried his face in the pillow. She gave a ringing laugh and stalked, stark naked, out of the room. A long time after she'd gone, he rose and donned his clothes again.
He was wearing only shoes and socks, his trousers, and a tight red T-shirt when he stormed out of the house. He wasn't yet allowed to ride his scooter but he had to get away from the house and from Jennie for a while. So he walked.
Blindly, he walked, digging his heels viciously against the sidewalk with every step in his anger and frustration.
At fifteen he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had the body of a man-six feet tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, upper legs like tree trunks and arms like bands of steel. Yet his mind and emotions were confused and searching, those of a young boy trying to be a man.
He was too deeply involved with himself and his problem to realize that in ten or fifteen years his present problems would seem laughable.
And it was right that it was thus. This was the time of thunder, the time of trial and testing. This was when a boy learned to be a man. Oh, the basic character had been formed long before in infancy and childhood. And it was a good character. But this was the time of learning the actions and responsibilities of manhood.
Clay felt better when he finally stopped walking, rested for a few minutes, then started back home. He hadn't come to any decisions, but at least he'd eliminated some of the pent-up anger and frustration.
Only four days more, he told himself, and then back to school. Somehow things hadn't been as bad when he was busy most of the day. Jennie didn't have as many opportunities to bother him. And there was always something that needed doing so a guy didn't have to spend so much time thinking.
During his convalescence Clay had received visits or calls from most of the guys on the team. They all wanted to let bygones be bygones. They wanted to be friends again and let the past be forgotten.
Sherman was the one who was on the outs with the team now. None of them had realized what kind of a guy he really was until they saw him fighting dirty. Clay had almost forgotten how Sherman had tried to beat his brains out against the floor, and how, at the last minute, he'd tried to deliver a kick.
It didn't seem at all curious that he felt less antagonistic toward Sherman. He'd expressed through violence his feelings and had been cleansed of them. The others resented having been taken in and led by Sherman.
Still, Clay wasn't one hundred per cent sure how he would react the first time they faced each other.
On Saturday Nancy came over. She kind of hinted around that she wanted Clay to take her out that night but he begged off by pleading fatigue. And when she left he felt relieved.
That same afternoon he had another long talk with his father.
"Well I guess you won't be playing any more football this year," the elder Gardner said.
"Nope. I'm out of it for the rest of the season."
"What are you going to do with your free time?"
"I don't know. The coach said I could stay with the team as an assistant manager or something if I wanted. He wants to keep me on the roster. That way I'll still be able to get my school letter in athletics."
"Is that why you played? For your letter?"
"Not really, but if I can get it anyway why not? Besides I haven't really made up my mind yet."
"I thought you'd be eager to expand your landscaping business. Especially now that you've got more time to devote to it."
"I hadn't thought much about it but it's a good idea I could get more guys working for me and could handle some of the work myself now. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get more circulars printed up and distributed."
"New customers are fine," his father said. "But there's also a lot more you could do with the ones you have. Lots of those people in the new tract must be about ready to get some landscaping done. And I'll bet a lot of them have forgotten you do that sort of thing too."
"You mean I ought to pay a few visits to my customers and see if I can sell them?"
"It couldn't hurt. All it would take is a little time. You've got nothing to lose by trying."
"You know, you're right. I think I'll make the collections tomorrow myself. I start school on Monday anyway. Let's see what happens."
The older man had been a little off the mark. Most of the people Clay talked to the next day hadn't thought at all about additional landscaping. But several said they'd consider it.
On Sunday night the doctor came to the house for the final checkup. He was pleased with Clay's progress but didn't feel he was quite far enough along yet to start using the scooter again.
So the next morning Clay took the bus to school. He was greeted warmly and didn't run into either Jimmy or Marcella.
During second period he was called down to the principal's office.
"I want you to know young man that I don't for one second believe thait cock and bull story about falling lockers. It's as plain as the nose on your face that you and Jim Sherman had a fight right here on school property. It was a flagrant violation of the school rules. If you hadn't missed so much time already I'd suspend you. As it is I'm putting you on probation. We're going to watch you very closely from now on. And if there's the slightest hint you're involved in anything like what happened before I'll expel you so quickly you won't know what hit you. Understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Is there anything you'd like to say?"
"No sir."
"Very well then you're dismissed. Return to your class."
Clay was smiling as he rose to his feet. "Yes sir. And thank you"
The old man looked up and frowned over the rims of his glasses. "For what?"
"For understanding," Clay said as he left the office. The lecture and threat he knew had had to be delivered if only for appearance's sake. But if the principal hadn't understood, things would have been a lot rougher. There would have to have been conferences with his parents and all kinds of other nervous things before it was all over. He was getting off lightly and he knew it.
Clay was glad to be back in school. He'd managed to keep up with most of the work and now he settled easily back into the routine. There was one funny moment when he walked into the cafeteria at lunch time with Nancy beside him. A hush fell over the normally noisy room. Everyone looked at him, and then over at Jimmy Sherman.
Clay hesitated in the doorway for a minute then turned his back on Sherman and went with Nancy to the steam table. The conversations picked up again and soon the students were as boisterous as ever.
There was a change though. Jimmy and Marcella were not sitting with the gang. They were off by themselves. The guys at the table waved Clay and Nancy over to two empty seats. After they all finished eating they crowded around him, kidding him and writing funny things on his cast and signing their names.
Clay and Nancy were too busy during lunch to have anything like a serious talk about themselves, but Clay sensed that Nancy was troubled by his cool attitude.
After his last class Clay went down to the locker room and talked to the coach. There really wasn't any point in his hanging around with the team when he couldn't play. He told the coach he'd wait until until next year to get his letter.
While he was down there Clay got the names of a couple of other fellows who were interested in working for him.
Nancy was waiting for him outside when he left. "I think we ought to have a talk" she said.
"Yeah I guess so. Let's go sit in the bleachers."
"What's wrong?" she asked when they were seated. "Don't you like me any more?"
"Sure I do. It's just that things were happening so fast before. I mean one date and we were practically going steady. Now I've had time to think about it. I still feel the same way about you. I'd like to take you out. But I don't want to go steady-not with anybody. I don't want to tie myself down."
She nodded and he saw her lip trembling with the effort to hold back the tears which welled up in her eyes.
"It's more than that, though, isn't it," she said when she had herself under control once again. "It's those terrible things Jimmy said in the locker room that day. Oh I know all about what happened in there. You can't keep any secrets in this school."
Clay was just a shade too late in protesting. So he never got a chance to protest at all.
"You wouldn't believe me if I said that it was all a lie," Nancy said.
"What's a lie? That you necked and petted with other guys before I came along?"
"No. Not that. But the part about all those dirty things he said I did."
"How can I not believe him?" Clay groaned. "You did all those things with me didn't you?"
"That wasn't the same and you know that," she cried, sobbing into her cupped hands.
"Yeah I know," Clay said in a small lost voice. "That's what makes everything so darned awful. Those things weren't dirty when you did them with me. They were wonderful and beautiful. They weren't dirty until somebody called them dirty. And now they can't be clean again."
Clay turned away from her and stared up at the pale blue sky. "I've tried to tell myself I'd never think about that. But I can't be sure. Why can't we try this my way for a while? We'll date each other, but we'll date other people, too. Maybe, later, things'll change."
They parted, without coming to any real conclusions. Nancy went home and Clay went into town to see the printer about circulars.
For the next two months Clay kept pretty much to himself. He didn't date at all and only saw his friends in school. Nancy of course moved her things back to her other locker. They were cool to one another when they met. Every once in a while Clay would hear that this or that boy had asked her for a date and had been refused. She wasn't dating anyone either.
At first Clay kept himself occupied with his business. He did half a dozen small landscaping jobs and picked up a couple of hundred dollars. He picked up a few customers and added a couple more employees.
The bigger the business got the more time it took. It took longer to make his collections. There were complaints he had to see about. And one or another of his boys was always getting sick. It wasn't so bad when the sick one had only been carrying one lawn. When the guy was carrying three or four it got to be real drudgery.
Then, when he finally got things running fairly smoothly once again on the larger scale it was exam time at school. There were tests to study for and papers to write. Clay managed to get to most of the football games but always watched from the stands.
With all the work it was a peaceful time. Jennie didn't bother him at all, and for some happy but unexplainable reason he didn't feel the tiniest pang of desire. Oh, he thought of love occasionally, but not in the same way he'd thought about that before.
He realized that since his first experience last summer and in spite of all the activity there'd been he'd only once actually made love the regular way. And that one time had been a fiasco because of his after-reaction.
Then, after exams were over and the grades were in, Clay became restless again. He fought the baser urges as long as he could, several times coming within inches of calling Nancy and begging her for a date.
When things got too bad he dug up Theresa's number, called her, and went over to visit her one evening. She answered the door wearing a robe, with no makeup and her hair brushed back loosely over her shoulders.
He was shocked. Not at her attire but at her appearance. She looked much older than he'd remembered.
She let him into the apartment, sat him down at the kitchen table, and served coffee. They sipped and talked about things that had happened to each of them since Clay had been discharged from the hospital. The conversation wound around and around until they found themselves talking about the things they'd done inside the locked hospital room.
"Do you ever think about that?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Do you ever want that to happen again?"
"Yeah but I want more than that. I wanted more even then but that was out of the question."
She smiled at him. "Nothing's out of the question tonight."
He answered her smile with one of his own. "I know. That's what I've been hoping for ever since I walked in here."
They rose together and walked side by side directly into the bedroom. Theresa closed the door, turned on one small bedside lamp and took him into her arms. He felt himself smothered against the soft front of her body beneath the robe as their lips met.
They kissed and his hands found the way beneath the robe. He touched her bare breasts and her hips and legs, then pulled himself back for a moment and opened the belt of the robe to bare her to his gaze and caress.
She opened his clothes, looking at him and smiling as she murmured, "Hmm you're as big and beautiful as I remembered you."
"You are, too," he answered as he urged her gently back toward the bed.
She shrugged out of her robe and kicked off her slippers before she stretched out to wait for him. His eyes feasted on her beautiful nakedness as he hurried out of his own clothing.
This was the first time he'd seen her naked and he grew drunk on the heady sight of her.
He got onto the bed and they played gently with one another for a long time, letting the fires of desire build slowly. When they were both ready she took him to her, guided him with skillful hands, and taught him some of the finer points of technique.
He learned quickly and well and that very first time they reached the peak at precisely the same moment. Just when he felt the ecstasy burst over him she hugged him with all her strength and shook him violently as her pleasure coursed through her.
They rested for a short while then made love again, and again, and again. In the end his youthful virility outlasted her rapacious desire and she was the one who begged for mercy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The winter, mild, as it always was in that part of the country, passed, and spring blossomed forth on the land. In that time Clay made half a dozen visits to Theresa's apartment. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. She thrilled to his stallion-like performances, while he became quite expert under her knowledgeable tutelage.
Then, in the spring, she went away, to another town far away, another hospital, perhaps another young boy. Clay didn't really mind. That spring he was so involved with his business that he hardly had time to do his school work.
Suddenly illogically everyone in the world seemed to want landscaping work done. He made a young fortune. In two and one half months he made over twelve hundred dollars.
The school term ended and he was able to devote his full time to the business. Also, many more boys were available for much more work. By the time the full heat of summer was upon them Clay had almost one hundred customers listed on his books.
There were some aggravations, too. In the summer it was harder to keep the boys at work. They skipped appointments or did slipshod work, and he had to ride herd on them like a drover.
One afternoon in mid-July he got a phone call from Madeline Curtis. She wanted him to come over to her house right away. There were a couple of things hanging fire and it was almost an hour before he got there.
The blonde housewife greeted him at the door in the now-familiar tight shorts and loose fitting halter.
"Come inside," she said. "That sun could kill you."
Clay thought he smelled a trace of alcohol on her breath as he walked past her. They went into the living room and she told him to sit down.
"How about something cold to drink?" she said.
"All right. Coke, if you have it."
"We have it. I'll be right back."
She went out to the kitchen and he watched the roll and shift of her buttocks beneath the shorts' as she left. When she came back, concentrating on not spilling the Coke, she seemed a trifle unsteady on her feet. Clay guessed she'd had a couple of drinks.
He took a sip from the glass. "Uh, what was it you wanted to see me about?"
"Two things," she said, pouring herself a drink from the bar and sitting down opposite him.
She leaned back and crossed her legs, and he heard the whisper of her silky skin as he legs moved.
"First of all, the kid who mowed the lawn the other day did a lousy job. And he left without trimming the hedge."
"I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," he assured her. "What was the other thing?"
"Oh, yes. My husband wants another shade tree for the back yard. He told me to get it done while he's away. He's away for two weeks with the Army Reserves, you know?"
"No, I didn't know. I mean, I knew he was in the reserves but I didn't know when he went away."
"Oh yes, two whole weeks. He's a colonel, you know?"
"That's nice."
"It's not nice. It's lousy. I hate it when he goes away like this. I think he only does it to get away from me for a while."
"Well, now, what about the tree?"
She stood up. "Come on out back. I'll show you where he wants it."
They walked through the doorway into the kitchen together and their bodies brushed. Clay was aware of the soft, yielding warmth of her beside him. She stopped in the kitchen doorway to point out into the yard and Clay stood close behind her, looking over her shoulder.
He could see the light sheen of perspiration on her shoulder and his nostrils were filled with her musky perfume. He felt a dizzying wave of desire and fought to control himself.
"Over there," she said, lifting her arm and pointing. "About ten feet from the back fence and ten feet from the side fence. He wants something big enough to shade the patio in the later afternoon."
"Yes. I see the place."
Clay wasn't looking where she was pointing. He was peering over her shoulder and down at her bosom. Her raised arm made the loose halter gap away from her body on one side and he could see a white, pink-tipped breast nestled there in the sahdow.
He swallowed hard and stepped back from her. "It shouldn't be too difficult," he said as she turned back to face him. "I think I could do the job for about three hundred dollars."
She was regarding him with a curiously thoughtful expression. "That's as high as my husband said to go. But isn't it a lot of money for one little old tree? Why, the woods are full of trees and they didn't cost anyone anything." She took a step toward him and he took a step back. Their eyes met and locked.
"Uh, it's not really much money at all. Remember, these aren't wild trees. They're specially grown. One the size your husband wants has to be at least fifteen or twenty years old. Then there are the costs of digging the tree up, carting it here, and replanting it."
"What happens if the tree dies?"
"I'll guarantee it for one full year," Clay told her.
He was talking about trees, but he couldn't keep his eyes from her lush figure. She knew he was looking, too, and she seemed to enjoy that.
Clay backed up another step. "Well, if that's all you had on your mind I guess I'll be going now. I'll call you when I've located a good tree and we'll go look at it. And I'm sorry about the lawn. It won't happen again."
"Do you really have to go so soon?" she asked, taking another step toward him. "I thought you might stay for a while and we could talk. It's so lonely here."
"Uh ... well, I guess I could stay a while."
"Good. Let's go back into the living room and sit down."
He sat on the sofa this time and she sat down beside him. "Can I get you another drink?" she asked. "I've still got most of this one."
"Well, at least let me put something with a kick into it."
"I don't drink liquor, ma'am."
"Oh, call me Madeline, Clay. And that's nonsense. One little drink never hurt anybody. You certainly don't have to worry about it stunting your growth."
"Well, maybe one light one wouldn't bother me. If you really want me to have a drink."
"Good. I'll put a little rum in your Coke." She took his glass, went to the bar, poured a generous dollop straight from the bottle, added another ice cube, stirred, and came walking slowly back.
He couldn't help watching the way her breasts shifted and slid with each step she took. She gave him the glass and sat down beside him again, closer this time, much closer.
Clay took a gingerly sip from his glass, and discovered, to his surprise, that he liked the flavor of rum and Coke. He took another small sip and then a healthy slug.
Madeline was sitting half turned toward him with her arm on the back of the sofa and her knee on the cushion m close to his leg. She was bent forward slightly. Her shoulders were relaxed and a rather dangerous amount of cleavage was thus exposed. Every time she inhaled and her breasts rose, Clay was sure the nipples would come popping into view.
She smiled when he looked up from her breasts, saw her watching him, and blushed. "A handsome young man like you shouldn't be looking at an ugly old woman like me that way," she said lightly. "I'll bet you have all the girls in town chasing after you."
"I don't have a girl," he said. "And you're not old or ugly."
"I'm not? What am I then?"
"You're beautiful," he blurted. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"Oh," she cooed, moving closer to him and putting her hand on his leg. "It's very nice of you to say that but you shouldn't make such hasty judgments."
"That's not hasty. I've been thinking about you ever since last summer."
"Well, you still can't be one hundred per cent sure I'm beautiful. Maybe the parts you can't see are ugly."
He could have told her he'd seen her nude that night last summer but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
"Would you like to see the rest of me and then decide?"
This was still no time for talking and he answered with a nod.
"You sit right there and watch," she said, rising to her feet and walking a few steps away.
He stared and her hands rose slowly to the bow of her halter there between her breasts. She pulled the bow out and the two cups of the halter swung away. Her shoulders shrugged, doing crazy things to her breasts, and the halter dropped away.
The shorts were fastened with a button and a zipper.
She opened the button, pulled the zipper halfway down, then paused to raise both hands to her white-blonde hair for a moment. She was teasing, and she was driving him crazy.
Her hand went back to her hip, tugged the zipper down all the way. She wriggled her hips to work the garment down, and the way everything was bouncing he couldn't see straight. His heart was leaping about wildly inside his chest and his lungs burned.
She got the shorts down, stepped out of them, and kicked them away. Then she posed prettily for him with her hands on her hips. Her breasts seemed bigger when they were bare. And he hadn't remembered that the aureoles around the nipples were so big. From where he sat they looked as big as pie plates and seemed to cover nearly the entire front surfaces of both breasts.
She turned slowly in place so he could see her back and buttocks, too. Her buttocks were heavy and rounded, with tiny dimples on either side. Then she was facing him again.
"Well?" she asked. "Do you still think I'm beautiful?"
Now was the time for him to say something. Now! Now! "I know how you look," he told her softly. "But I don't know how you feel."
That was exactly the right thing to say. She smiled broadly and came striding toward him. There was a moment of panic and he almost turned and ran.
But then she was slipping onto his knees and looping one arm lightly around the back of his neck. "Go ahead," she whispered intensely. "Touch! See what I feel like."
He put one hand on her hip and the other on her breast. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her head lolled back on her neck.
"That's right!" she hissed. "Touch me! Touch me!" He was hypnotized by her nudity, completely under her spell. His hands stroked and clutched, trembling all the while with the intensity of his sensations.
She shifted her position on his knee. Her hand moved from behind his neck and she cupped her breasts up to his face.
"Kiss them, too," she whispered. "See if they really are as good as they feel."
He captured her breasts with his hands, the nipples scraping against his palms as they hardened, and buried his face against the muskiness of her breasts. He smothered himself there, trying to inhale her very flesh through flared nostrils.
"That's good," she groaned. "Oh, that's so good! Kiss them! Yes, bite them, too."
He had no idea how they moved from the living room to the bedroom. But the next thing he knew he was stark naked and flat on his back on the middle of her bed. She was kneeling beside him, bent over him, and her mouth was doing the most thrilling things to him.
He groaned with disappointment when she pulled her head back. He clutched wildly at her but she eluded his grasp.
"Oh, honey, baby," she breathed as she rose to full height on the mattress. "Let's do this my way. Please."
"Yes, yes. Anything. But hurry. I'm dying."
She moved to him. The first velvet touch of her was like nothing he'd ever felt before. He saw her shut her eyes, gnaw at the corner of her lip. He hesitated, then sighed luxuriously.
For a long moment neither of them moved. That was too good just the way that was. The warmth of her was incredible. And when she began to move, finally, the muscular control she exerted was like something out of a passion dream.
He didn't have to move at all. He simply lay there and let her do everything just the way she wanted to. Her tempo increased and she added a slight alternate movement that made his eyeballs roll back in their sockets.
She squeezed and stroked him and he could no longer keep himself still.
He clutched at her breasts and kissed and bit while their mutual passion burned them to a fiery cinder.
Clay was so late getting home that night he missed supper altogether. It didn't matter. He wasn't hungry. And he didn't have the strength to sit down and eat. Again and again she'd excited him and demanded he please her. And for the first time in his life he had been the one to beg for mercy, to beg to be released from her exotic spell.
And yet, the very next afternoon, he found himself returning to her house as though he were obeying some post-hypnotic command. He knew they only had two weeks in which to be together and he wanted to gorge himself.
She was waiting for him and there was no need at pretense any longer. When he entered the house he found her already naked and eager. They didn't bother with drinks. There was no time. They rushed toward the bedroom, both of them tearing at his clothes.
She was merciless and he loved every second of the torture. When his body could no longer respond she taught him how to give her pleasure with his lips.
He went back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. She no longer even bothered to come out of the bedroom, but waited naked on the bed. He would enter the house and rush straight to her waiting embrace.
She tyrannized him, ruled him with her body as though with an iron hand.
And one day he went rushing into the bedroom, his clothes already half off, to find two naked women waiting for him. He stopped abruptly and stared.
"Clay, honey," Madeline said from her supine position on the center of the bed, "This is Ann. She's a friend of mine. I was bragging to her about how good you are and she didn't believe me. So I invited her over to prove that to her."
Ann was a little older, with a thicker, softer body. Some of her hair was even gray. But Clay didn't care. He didn't care about anything any more.
He made love to one, then the other. And then the three of them made love at the same time in half a dozen different arrangements. And when he was tired and needed a rest, the two women made love and he watched.
When his strength returned they had new challenges for him. Ann had a little specialty she favored. Madeline, having seen that done, would not rest until she'd had that done. Between her screams of pain, she urged him on. That was so fantastic that frightened him.
From then on Ann was always there when he arrived. Sometimes they used him mercilessly to the point of actual abuse. Other times they made him stand by and watch them make love, not letting him participate until he'd begged and wept and pleaded.
That was over as abruptly as that had begun.
As Clay approached the house one afternoon toward the end of the second week he heard two loud screams. The screams were followed by two relatively quiet explosions.
When he raced into the house he found Harry Curtis standing over two naked female bodies with a smoking revolver in his hand. There was a glazed and vacant expression on his face.
"I caught them," he said dully, turning to face Clay. "I caught them." His voice held a note of incredulity. "I got an unsigned letter up at camp that there was something funny going on here. I expected a man. Two men even.
Before Clay could move a muscle Curtis thumbed back the hammer, thrust the nuzzle into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.
When the police came they found the three dead bodies and Clay squatting, rocking rhythmically back and forth and humming softly to himself as endless tears streamed down his face.
It was a month before he recognized anyone and six months more before they let him out of the hospital. Every day of those six months Clay spent at least two hours talking to his doctor. He told the man the whole sick, disgusting story. He began with Jennie and her boy friend and included every detail up to the day Harry Curtis shot the two women and killed himself.
And after he was finished telling everything, Clay and the doctor discussed that. They picked everything into little pieces, then carefully inspected each piece. Some parts they decided to keep. The rest they threw out.
Clay was lucky. He came out of the hospital a much better person than when he'd gone in. He'd learned a lot about himself, had matured. He'd come to realize that there was no absolute right or wrong, but also that some things were righter or wronger than others.
A man had to compromise between what he wanted and what was available or possible. It was the kind of thing Nancy Flood had done with her rule. Her body made certain demands upon her and she gave in to those demands, up to a point.
He wrote her a long letter while he was still in the hospital, not really expecting her to answer. She answered, and when he was discharged she was waiting for him.
