Due to the spaciousness of the place, the frantic backstage activity appeared to be well-channeled, almost orderly. While the musicians smoked, tuned their instruments, or talked to the few groupies who had somehow gained admission to the promised land, six burly stagehands shoved the heavy amplifiers into position on the revolving stage. Electricians scurried around checking and rechecking each connection of the hundreds of yards of cable that lay in apparent disorder everywhere. Up above, suspended from the flies in a cage of disconcerting delicacy, the light show technicians worked at their projectors, transforming the blue rear-projection screen that separated the performers on stage from the activity behind them into a field of blossoming color. It was Saturday night, showtime at the Nova Auditorium.
Peter sat apart from the hub of activity, perched casually on a broken amplifier, dead wreckage left behind by some earlier group. He watched without comment as one of the stagehands fastened the floor mike in front of his bass drum, and then turned back to his tarot cards, an opening night gift from Rita. Turning the pasteboard rectangles over in his hands, he studied the color and design of each one. He didn't know how to read diem and had no real intention to learn, but they were pretty and it was a way to kill time. The second group had just gone onstage. Peter had over an hour to waste.
When the stagehand had finished adjusting his drum set Peter put the cards away, pulled the drumsticks from beneath his belt and walked onto the huge turntable. He squatted onto his stool and tapped the head of each drum experimentally to make sure they were tight enough.
"Everything okay?" the stagehand asked.
Peter squinted critically. "The floor torn is too high." The stagehand plucked a small tool out of his pocket and advanced on the offending instrument. Peter waved him away and began to fidget with the drum himself. The stagehand stood by watching, anxious to be of help.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"We've played in public before," the drummer answered without looking up.
"Not here," the stagehand countered. "The Nova is big time."
"Big deal," a third voice interjected. Peter glanced up from his work to see the bear-like figure of Monster, born Ronald Avrams, unpacking his guitar.
"No nerves, Monster?"
"All guts," the big man answered. The group's lead guitarist, Monster, was the one who named the quintet Triphammer. It was he who, together with Peter, had organized and directed the group through the early, lean times. For two years Triphammer had played bars, dances, and teen fairs for food money. Now, with an album selling well and concert dates across the country, things were looking better for them. Holding the guitar lovingly in his huge paws, Monster laid it reverently atop the bank of amplifiers and turned to Peter.
"Let's cop a smoke," he suggested, patting his pocket significantly. Peter gave the drum a tap and, apparently happy with the timbre, laid the sticks aside and stood up. "All right, let's."
Rita was in the shower when she heard the door bang shut, heralding Mark's return. Letting the waters rinse her slender body one final time, she twisted the faucet off and stepped out of the stall. Although the hotel was well-heated, the sudden step from the steaming shower to the dry half of the bathroom chilled her, and she hurriedly wrapped herself in a thick terry bath towel emblazoned with the hotel's name and coat of arms. Stripping off her shower cap, Rita stepped into the bedroom.
Mark was loading the bed down with packages of various sizes. Seeing her enter, he stopped arranging the packages and looked at her.
"Nice," he said appreciatively, walking over to her and kissing her lightly on the neck. Rita snuggled against his breast gratefully, dampening his shirt slightly.
"How much time have we got?"
Mark released her and returned to the bed, where he began transferring his purchases from the mattress to the top of the bureau. "A little over an hour," he answered carelessly. "I suppose that you ought to start getting ready."
"I guess," Rita sighed. "What's the matter, nervous?"
"No. I'm okay."
Mark looked at her critically. "The pipes are all right, aren't they?" he asked. Rita's singing, as a number of reviewers had already pointed out, was Triphammer's strongest point, and Mark was a little frightened at the possibility that Rita might not be feeling well. At this point, a bad concert could do irreparable damage to the group.
Rita dispelled his concern with an easy, bubbling laugh. "It's not that," she explained. "I feel great, really great. There's just no way we can miss tonight, so rest your head."
Mark heard her words clearly, but there was a tone to her voice that alerted him and told him to disregard her statements. After two years of living with her, Mark had come to know each of Rita's moods intimately, but she sounded different to him this time. He was anxious to know what was troubling her, but his instinct told him to wait, to let her tell him in her own time.
"Okay," he replied. 'We're a sure hit, then. You better start getting ready."
"I thought you said we have better than an hour."
Mark stripped off his wet shirt, tossed it on the bed and started towards the closet for a fresh one. "We do."
"In that case," Rita purred, placing herself between him and the closet, "what's the hurry?" She touched his chest lightly, letting her damp fingers trace little trails of coolness over the rough, hairy surface. Mark looked down into her happy eyes and smiled through his beard.
"No hurry."
Rita slid her cool hands to Mark's waist and began to struggle with the heavy buckle of his belt. He let her work fruitlessly for a few moments before lowering his own hands and skillfully guiding her through the movements. The belt out of the way, she hurriedly applied herself to his fly. Mark's pants fell to the floor. Rita sucked her breath in sharply as her eyes lit on the healthy bulge of his crotch.
"You look anxious," Mark observed, smiling slightly and slipping his feet out of his boots.
"Hurry up!" The pitch of Rita's voice revealed her growing urgency. She stepped back and let the towel drop to the carpet In spite of their long and unusual relationship, the sight of Rita naked never failed to excite Mark. Each flowing curve of her strong, slightly tanned body complemented the others. Her breasts were small and very solid; they swung upward in a natural curve that terminated in small, dark nipples. It was easy to see why Rita never wore-didn't own-a bra. Her slender body was its own support. Beneath her flat stomach, her dark pubic thatch spread over her skin in tight glistening ringlets.
Mark shrugged out of his underwear hastily and leaped towards her instantly. His muscular arms closed around her waist and he tossed her effortlessly onto the bed. Instead of following her at once, Mark paused to admire the sight of her nude body stretched out on the snowy sheets. Her hair lay in disarray on the pillow, forming a sort of halo around her smiling face. At that moment Mark considered her to be more beautiful than any time since he had known her. Still smiling, Rita opened her legs. Through the tangle of jet Mark saw the pink cleft opening for him, beckoning to him.
"Hurry," her lips said soundlessly.
The bedsprings shrieked their protest as Mark threw himself atop her. He was more excited than he realized, and his hips began to thrust involuntarily at the first touch of her cool, still-moist flesh. The head of his rigid weapon banged ineffectually against the interior of her soft thighs a few times before he felt her hand close around the throbbing shaft and guide it to her. The throbbing head of his weapon opened her slick labia smoothly, and Rita's breath became heavy as she felt the thick intruder slide into her hungry cunt.
"Work me," she hissed, digging her nails into his shoulders. "Break me." Still digging at his back with her nails, the frantic girl curled her legs around his hips and pulled herself still further onto his conquering phallus.
With mind-snapping exactness, Mark began a slow in-and-out motion. Her moist opening rippled with each new invasion. Each time he thrust into her, a little squeak of need escaped her lips and her nails carved fresh trails over his back. He was lost between the warmth of her cunt and the delicious pain that her hands gave him. His thrusts became more violent, until his steely engine was hammering into her with the fury of a jackhammer. Her little sighs stopped, replaced by frantic gasps for air and moaning pleas for more.
"Please...." she begged. Then her orgasm shook her entire frame. As she came, Mark stabbed his pulsing manhood into her depths. He felt her crotch mesh with his own. Rita's hands fell to his buttocks and squeezed, just as her oozing cunt contracted around his prick.
With a groan of gratitude and happiness, Mark came, bathing her interior with his hot fluid. Just as he thought he was done, Rita's nails sank painfully into his ass and a fresh outpouring splashed into her, completing her orgasm as well as his. Exhausted, Mark collapsed atop Rita's sweating form. He stayed there until he felt himself go soft inside her. Everything was right In the street below, a police car wailed by.
After a few minutes, Mark reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and began to dress for the evening's concert Rita remained on the bed and watched him with smiling eyes-as he opened the closet and studied each piece of clothing critically before finally settling on a pair of striped bells and a lace body shirt. "Mark," she said softly as he slipped into the pants, "can we talk?"
Mark turned and faced her. "Sure," he answered, "but you'd better start getting ready. There's not much time left" He gestured towards the clock.
Rita didn't move. "It won't take long," she said. There was something in her voice that bothered Mark. Laying the shirt over a chair, he returned to the bed and sat down.
"Well?"
"It's about us," she said.
"What about us?"
"How long have we been together?"
Mark frowned. There was something coming, and with their first major engagement only half an hour away he could do without surprises. "Two years, you know that. Can't this wait until later?"
I'd rather it didn't."
Mark didn't answer.
"Two years together," Rita reminisced aloud. "Two free years." Though they lived together, the couple adhered strictly to a principle of non-jealousy. Though they were, for all appearances, a married couple, each was free to carry on as many affairs as desired. No restrictions.
"So."
"It's not going to change not, is it?" Mark looked puzzled.
"I mean, I know we've got to worry about image and everything now, but I don't want it if it's going to start changing things."
Mark laughed out loud. Standing, he crossed to where his shirt lay, picked it up and put it on. "Is that all that's bothering you?" he chuckled. Buttoning the shirt, he went back to the bed and kissed Rita lightly. "Nothing changes," he promised, still a little amused by her assumption that with success come limitations. "Now get moving! We've got to run."
Smiling, Rita bounded out of bed and began to dress. As they left the room for the theatre, she caught Mark by the arm. "Thank you," she whispered.
In the alley behind the Nova Auditorium, Peter and Monster leaned casually against the brick wall, passing a smoldering joint back and forth and trying to see the stars through the polluted New York air. An equipment van was backed up to an exit between them and the street. Thus shielded from prying eyes, the two men smoked and passed the joint openly. The cool night air flowed over them softly and as the grass disappeared both grew more comfortable. Peter even found himself half-liking the city, which ordinarily depressed him.
"Nice night," Monster observed.
Peter's beatific smile widened. "Mmmm. Probably hot inside, though."
"If it ain't, it will be."
There didn't seem to be any point to continuing the conversation, so both drifted off into their private dreams. Monster quietly hummed an old Beatles tune; Peter pulled an harmonica out of his pocket and joined in.
"You can't see me," a voice rumbled out of the darkness. Both men stiffened, though they recognized the voice.
"Show me yo' teef, so's I knows where you is," Monster responded, doing his best to affect a Negro accent. "No way," the voice answered. "You white."
"We ain't white, we're liberals."
"That's different" Sam, the group's bassist ambled out of the shadows at the end of the alley. In an age of black-is-beautifuL Sam could be considered living proof of that slogan. He was tall-nearly six feet four in his bare feet-slender, and well muscled. His skin was ebony, and glistened in the sunlight like onyx, and he moved with the sureness and easy grace of a cat gliding rather than walking. He was the newest member of Triphammer, having been with them less than a year, but his late joining had had no effect on his relationship with any of the other members. He just fit in, as Rita expressed it. "We now have a quorum," he observed lazily, leaning against the wall next to Peter. "Rita and Mark here yet?"
Monster lit a fresh joint and handed it to Sam, who took it eagerly, grinning his thanks. "Haven't seen them."
"Only fifteen minutes left," Peter observed, "they better hurry up."
As he spoke, Peter heard Rita's voice asking one of the equipment handlers loading the van where he was. He yelled out her name, and a few seconds later she and Mark appeared in the alley. Sam extended his hand towards them, offering the joint but both waved it away.
"What are you smoking for?" Mark asked anxiously. "We've got to go on in fifteen minutes."
"I said it first" Peter laughed.
"Nerve medicine," Monster offered, snatching the joint from Sam. Tutting the butterflies to sleep" Mark grunted his disapproval but said no more about the matter. His nerves were beginning to tingle, and he tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the others to finish the grass. A wave of applause from inside told them that the second band had finished, and they marched inside toward the stage.
Their first number was a long blues piece. It had been chosen, over Peter's ardent objections, because it built slowly, allowing each member of the band to have the spotlight for a few seconds. Sam went onstage first. While the audience applauded, he picked up his bass and began to thump out a very heavy, basic bottom. Peter was next. He stood just offstage and let Sam work for a little while, and then walked out quickly, picked up his sticks and joined Sam, working very lightly on the cymbals at first, then moving to the snare and finally on to the bass drum and tomtom. Mark was next, his guitar augmenting and softening the relentless pounding of the others. When Monster entered, the evening really started. Smiling at the crowd, his head rolling from side to side, the big man touched the guitar that in his hands seemed tiny and insignificant and brought it all together. While he smiled, his thick fingers flashed and the instrument began to snarl at the crowd. Within a few moments, Monster's shrieking, convoluted riffs had the audience moving in their seats. In the space in front of the stage, a handful of dancers were joined by others until the whole area was filled. While his guitar fired a sharp fine at the dancers, Monster turned towards the others and grinned. "Beautiful," his eyes seemed to say.
Rita was the icing on the cake. Striding on to the stage boldly, she snatched the microphone from its stand and howled at the audience. They loved it. The band had set the crowd up, and Rita laid them down. Twisting each word of the song until it seemed as though it would shatter before leaving her throat, hair and beads flailing wildly, Rita conquered them. From the corner of her eye she saw Bob Green, Nova's owner, in the wing, moving happily in time with the music. She looked at Monster. "Beautiful," he shouted.
CHAPTER TWO
The offices of Nova Enterprises occupied the floor over the auditorium. The approach was nondescript The inadequate lighting in the stairway and hall did little to hide the cracked and peeling paint and broken floor tiles. Most of the group, disturbed at being expected at ten in the morning, grumbled as they mounted the stairs and started down the corridor towards Bob Greens office. The common feeling seemed to be that it was bad enough to have to go anywhere before noon, and to have to leave their comfortable hotel to go to the run-down offices was depressing. Were it not for the fact that the occasion was the signing of a contract for a return appearance at the Nova, they probably would have turned back.
Sam, however, was cheerful in spite of their surroundings. Claiming the condition of the place reminded him of his childhood, he pointed out that only a very good businessman could afford to locate his offices in such a dump. "You can count on it," he gushed enthusiastically. "Some dude's on the make, he needs a showy office. It's like he sayin', 'Look here, I got all this cause I'm sharp. I'm good. You best do business with me.' But a man who got it made already can get away with a trap like this. He don't need to impress nobody."
"Judging from the looks of this place, then," Mark offered, "I'd say Green has got the world by the balls." Rita laughed and the company's spirits began to rise.
The sign on the door said:
NOVA ENTERPRISES ROBERT GREEN, PRESIDENT.
Monster listened at the door for a moment before twisting the knob and shoving the door open. The office was brightly lit and in noticeably better repair than its approach. Not that it was luxurious, it wasn't, but the walls were freshly painted in bright colors, the floor was waxed and polished, and the furniture, though starkly utilitarian, was new. In all, the place gave the impression of being well planned and well cared for.
Monster entered the room slowly, his eyes trying to find Green among the gaggle of young employees who hurried around from desk to desk looking serious enough for government employees. He could locate him nowhere. He moved a step or two further into the room before being noticed by one of the workers. She got up immediately and hurried over to him.
"You're Mr. Avrams, aren't you?" the girl asked.
From the doorway, Peter laughed to hear Monster addressed so respectfully. Beside him, her arm curled possessively around his waist, was a girl of seventeen whom he had met the day before.
"I know," the girl snapped. "Mr. Green is expecting you. Follow me, please."
"With pleasure," Monster answered with exaggerated politeness. The girl turned and started off. The group and Peter's groupie followed silently. She led them to a door at the rear of the room, opened it, and stepped aside.
"Come in," Green cried enthusiastically. He half stood as they filed into the office and found chairs. "Sit down anywhere."
They did as requested, Monster and Mark taking the chairs nearest to Green's desk. Peter and Wendy, the groupie, found an out of the way coiner and sat there. Beyond collecting his share of the profits, Peter was bored by business, and had come to the meeting more to please the others than to argue about contracts. While the rest of the group got settled down for the meeting, he looked around the office. Upon meeting Green a few days earlier, he found the rock tycoon rather dull. He guessed at that time that if Green hadn't made his money in the music industry, he would have made it in socks, kitchen appliances, or something equally prosaic. The office strengthened his conviction that Green was more businessman than cultural revolutionary, as a newspaper columnist had referred to him once. As in the larger front office, everything was plainly practical, and were it not for the huge pile of records on the desk, the stereo, and the framed pictures of some of the people who had appeared at the Nova, the cubicle could just have easily belonged to a clothier or sausage salesman. Peter thought it all rather depressing.
"Before we get started," Green said, "I'd like you to know that from what my people have been able to find out, the concert Saturday was an even bigger hit than we thought. If you can follow it up, you could end up as big as"-he paused and looked directly at Rita-"as big as, oh, Joplin."
Monster nodded his head and looked impressed.
"Of course, there's no guarantee, but all the signs are present," Green continued, his eyes still on Rita. "You can count on a good tour, if you keep moving fast. Word travels fast in this business."
"We got a couple calls this morning," Mark admitted.
"See. You do well here, or at the Fillmore or one of the West Coast halls and it's only a matter of hours before the word's all over."
"Been a long time coming," Monster mumbled.
"It'll be a long time gone, too," Green replied. "Take my advice. Keep moving, play as many dates in as many places as you can. Nothing's permanent. Get your money while the getting's good." His voice, without being really hard, had a firmness that could be taken for authority, and his movements too had a certain directness and purpose. Little by little, Rita felt herself becoming interested in the man.
"Well, let's get the business over with," Mark suggested. Green nodded and pulled a sheaf of contracts from his desk. He rifled through them until he found the correct bundle, and put the rest away.
"It's the standard form," he said, handing a copy to Monster. 'You can read it over if you like."
"We like," Mark answered, moving his chair closer to Monster's and reading over the bigger man's shoulder. Though they had a manager, the band handled some of their financial affairs themselves, both Monster and Mark being suspicious types when it came to money. While they silently went over the contract line by line, Green looked back to Rita and smiled. Rita smiled back.
"You made a mistake, here," Mark pronounced suddenly, trying to sound as nice as possible.
"Where?"
"Here." Mark shoved the contract over to Green. His finger rested on the amount they were to be paid.
"No mistake," Green answered simply. "It's the same as you got for Saturday's performance."
"That's just it," Mark snapped.
"Green smiled. "You want more, is that it?"
"That's it."
"No way. One performance can put the public on to you, but it doesn't make you superstars overnight. The price stands." Listening to him, Rita noticed that though he didn't raise his voice, he sounded sharper than before.
"We've got other offers already," Mark reminded him.
"Take them," Green responded quickly. "Remember, though, another night here can't hurt you, and the price is fair, even if you think otherwise. Future concerts, of course, are negotiable." As Green's voice rambled on, pointing out the advantages of signing the contract, Rita felt her interest in the man growing. She had, naturally, dealt with businessmen before, but something about Green seemed different. He seemed both hard and soft at the same time. She was almost certain that he could be dangerous, and she was beginning to think that he'd be good in bed.
"Oh, sign the goddamned thing," she burst out suddenly, "all this talk is giving me a headache."
Mark and Monster conferred with each other and finally agreed to accept the job for the price offered. Neither seemed very happy about it. Green smiled, but offered no further sigh that he was pleased with the arrangements. He took the papers silently, added his signature to one copy, and handed it to Mark.
"Well," he said, rising, "see you in three weeks, then."
"Right" Sam said, speaking for the first time since entering the office. "Now I gotta split. Got some people to see." He turned and was out of the office before anyone could ask him his destination.
The business out of the way, Green came out from behind the desk. He seemed friendlier, more at ease than he had been earlier. "Anybody care for a drink?" he asked.
"Me," Rita piped up.
"Anyone else?"
"No thanks," Monster demurred. "I have to meet someone at the hotel."
"We'll go along with you," Peter announced from his corner. He stood and slipped his arm around Wendy. Monster nodded to Green and led Peter, Wendy and Mark, who was rereading the contract and frowning, out of the office.
"Let's go somewhere," Rita suggested as soon as the others were gone. "Somewhere expensive. I want you to treat me like a star."
Smiling, Green reached for his coat.
Leaving Monster and Mark at the hotel bar, Peter led Wendy upstairs and to his room. He didn't speak to her, either in the elevator or as they walked down the long wide corridor to the room, but simply steered her by gentle pressure on her arm. His silence, however, did nothing to tone down Wendy's exuberance, which had been growing steadily since leaving Green's office. She had been thrilled, in the first place, when she met him quite by accident the previous day. When he asked her to come to the hotel the next morning, she was ecstatic, and now that she was actually there, her enthusiasm was impossible to contain.
"Hey," she said as Peter unlocked and swung open the door to his room, "this is nice." Stepping inside, she removed her coat with effortless grace and slung it carelessly over a chair.
"It's expensive," Peter confided, "but I'm a hopeless comfort addict."
"Only way to be. What's in here?" As she asked, Wendy pulled the door in question open. It was the bathroom. "You know," she laughed, closing the door, "I stayed in a hotel when I first got here. There were two Johns on each floor and the place was crawling with horny old creeps and speed freaks. Just taking a piss was an adventure-never knew who you'd find, drunk, nodding out, or dead in the bathroom."
"Sounds charming."
While Wendy walked around the room, examining the furniture and talking about the hotel that she'd stayed in, Peter kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed. From there he watched her without comment as she continued her monologue. She was short, less than five feet, but full bodied. Peter knew taller women who would have envied Wendy's full, round breasts and plump buttocks. Her fight brown hair hung to her waist. Peter let her continue her story for a few minutes and then interrupted her.
"Come here," he ordered.
Wendy looked over to him and smiled. "What do you have in mind?"
"Come here and find out." He quickly shrugged off his shirt and started to remove his slacks. The girl's eyes widened in anticipation. While she watched eagerly, he slid out of the rest of his clothing.
"It's beautiful," she gulped, eyeing his huge cock, which stood proudly up from his crotch.
"Well?"
Without replying, Wendy moved slowly to the edge of the bed and sank to her knees between his legs. Licking her lips, she lowered her head to his prick and kissed the ruby tip. Then she rubbed his hotness over her face. Wendy looked up at him, awaiting his orders. "Suck me off," he said.
She smiled at him and then moved her lips down onto his aching root. She took his huge prick into her mouth and slowly began to suck on it. As her heat grew, her lips crept closer to the thick base. Peter leaned back on the bed, supporting himself on his elbows, and watched as his rigid phallus slowly disappeared between her pouting lips. Her tongue rubbed and tantalized his pulsing cockhead while she kept up a steady, gentle suction. As Peter felt the flood building within him, Wendy's lips slid up and down his shaft more quickly. Each time her head descended, Peter felt his manhood ram against the back of her throat. Wendy's warm, wet mouth took him away from himself, the band, everything. With a sigh, he came, watching the muscles of the girl's throat work frantically to swallow all of his hot fluid as he exploded in her mouth.
Wendy sucked that last bit from him and then stood quickly and began to undress. Naked, she was even more attractive. Her skin was a pure, flawless white and her breasts were firm in spite of their size. Looking at her, Peter felt his tired prick awakening. Within a few seconds it stood as proudly as it had before. He fell onto his back on the bed and waited for Wendy to come to him.
"Now make me scream," she ordered as she joined him on the mattress.
"Roll over."
Wendy did as she was told, raising her ass to make his entry easier. Peter poised himself behind her and wound one arm around her waist. His hand opened her dripping cleft and found her clitoris. Under his caresses, Wendy began to sigh softly, and with a mighty thrust, Peter stabbed his pulsing cock into her tight anus.
Wendy screamed her happiness into the pillow.
CHAPTER THREE
Upon leaving the offices of Nova Enterprises, Green took Rita's arm and steered her gently but firmly to the curb. He raised his hand and a taxicab swerved sharply across three lanes of traffic and lurched to a halt in front of them. Mumbling an address to the driver, a short heavy man masked with three day's growth of beard, he opened the door for Rita and they slid into the back seat.
As the cab fought its way through the heavy Manhattan traffic, its driver silently intent upon maintaining some imagined advantage over other drivers, especially other taxi drivers, Rita resumed her examination of Green. She guessed him to be about thirty-five or so, though the smoothness of his complexion made him appear somewhat younger. His taste in clothing was good, if, Rita thought, somewhat conservative. As befits a man of capital, he wore a business suit, but no tie. To the girl, his dress seemed to indicate that he wished to take a little from both the world of finance and the world of the young, who were his consumers. Fashionably longish without being radical, his hair curled slightly over the collar of his shirt. As she continued her scrutiny, he looked up and smiled.
"Do I meet your approval?" he asked.
"That's yet to be seen. Let's just say you haven't failed yet. Where are we going, anyway?" Muttering a curse at some adversary, the cabbie swerved the car into an open lane and stomped the accelerator hard. The sudden burst of speed pressed Rita back into the seat.
"Little place I know uptown," Green answered nonchalantly, fishing a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. Lighting it, he turned to Rita and grinned. "A place fit for the patronage of a star," he said.
Green didn't seem inclined to expand his response, so Rita, feeling that she'd gotten the only answer she was going to, let him smoke his cigarette in silence, resuming, meanwhile, her study of the young tycoon. In the office, she was merely interested in him, but as they sped on towards the vague destination, the girl found that interest turning into attraction, and it bothered her that she couldn't find a reason for his magnetism. He was good-looking, but there was nothing outstanding about his features. He certainly wasn't the rugged type that usually excited her Still, there was something there, and Rita could feel it. Silently, with no apparent exertion, Green was holding Rita rapt. By the time the unkempt cabbie, leveling a fresh volley of obscenities at still another opponent, wheeled the car to a stop in front of a small restaurant, she was hooked.
The bar Green had chosen was small, dark and decorated in an Old English motif. The bartenders welcome was enough to let Rita know that Green was known there. There were no other customers, it being rather early to begin drinking, so they sat at the bar.
"Long time," the barkeep offered, reaching over the counter to shake Green's hand.
"Been busy," Green returned. "Archie, meet Rita. Rita's going to be a big name one of these days."
The bartender s eyebrows arched and he smiled. "Is that so?" he asked. "A few years ago I thought there was a little show business in my blood, too. Hope you have more luck than I did."
"No luck to it," Green corrected him. "She's got what it takes."
Archie looked impressed. 'In that case, the first round is on me." As he spoke, he went quickly tp work behind the bar, producing, in a remarkably short time, two goblets filled with a frothy, cream-colored liquid.
"One of Archie's specialties" Green explained as the drinks were set before them. "Try it."
With the uncertainty of one who is approaching the unknown, Rita slowly hoisted the glass to her lips. The concoction was a pleasant drink, with a flavor somewhat like coffee. She turned to Green and smiled her approval. "You may not have been an actor, Archie," Green said, "but you can mix a drink."
"It runs in the family. My father was Irish. I've had a lot of practice with liquor."
They finished their drinks slowly, ordering a second round and moving from the bar to a corner table when the bar began to fill with the lunchtime crowd. "Hungry?" Green asked.
Rita shook her head.
"You sure?" he prompted. "You look a little pale."
"It's just these people," Rita answered, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the businessmen who had begun to people the room. "I feel a little out of place."
"We could go to my place," Green offered, "it's only a few blocks from here."
Rita looked at him. The liquor had not diminished the fascination with which she regarded him, and she found herself more than ever wanting to know what made him tick. "All right," she said simply, "let's go."
As Green had said, his apartment was but a few blocks from the bar, so they walked. During the journey Rita's attention shifted-intermittently from her companion to the crowds of Madison Avenue types who hurried along the sidewalks. They all seemed to her to be identical. They could have all been related for all she knew or cared, so similar were their "uniforms." She was beginning to feel uncomfortable when Green steered her to the left and through the front door of a tall, very modern apartment building. A doorman held the door open for them and nodded to Green as they entered.
"You live here?"
"That's right," Green answered. "Do you like it?" Rita looked around critically. "Pretty plush," she said finally.
"The fruits of my labors," Green replied, pressing a button to summon the elevator.
Green occupied the penthouse of the building, and though she had for some time been contemptuous of people who indulged themselves with overly luxurious living quarters, Rita could not help but be impressed by the splendor of the apartment. Everything about the place recalled wealth, from the handsome walnut furniture to the fur rugs that were spread over the floor with deliberate casualness. Green cast his sport coat over the back of a chair and disappeared behind the bar to fix them another drink. In a few minutes he returned with two glasses of the same concoction they had drunk at the bar.
"Very nice," Rita murmured, gazing around the apartment.
Green handed her the drink. "Do you really like it?" he asked. "I'm glad. Some people think it a little too showy, but I think it suits me. There's no sense making money unless you know how to enjoy it."
By silent agreement, they went over to the couch and sat down. It, like the floor, was covered with a throw fashioned from the skin of some animal. "And you know how to enjoy your money, is that it, Bob?"
Green grinned. "I think so."
"There are some things you can enjoy without money," Rita returned huskily. Green sensed what she was referring to, but sidestepped.
"It's a shame, really, that you're already under contract to a record company," he said, taking a long draught of his drink.
"Really." Rita was a little put off by Green's abrupt change of subject, and tried to make her response as cold as possible.
The subtlety was lost on the young promoter. "Yes," he responded, putting his glass down and picking up a bundle of documents. "I've gone as far as I can with the auditorium. We're trying to get our own label going now. Nova Records. I would have liked to have recorded you." Green held the bundle of paper out towards her, as if offering proof of the sincerity of his words.
Rita ignored the gesture and looked at his eyes.
"Are you stupid," she asked, "or just addicted to business?"
The question seemed to upset the man. "What do you mean?"
"Do you think I came up here to talk business?" Rita delivered the last two words of the question with such stinging acidity that even Green could not miss what was on her mind.
He opened his mouth to frame a reply, but no words came. With a sigh, Rita stood and pulled her blouse off and cast it over the back of the couch. Beneath it, she was naked and her breasts stood out proudly, bobbing with each slight movement of her torso, issuing a silent challenge for the businessman to reciprocate. While Green devoured her with his eyes, she slid her hands to the waistband of her bellbottoms and opened the clasp. The loose garment dropped to the floor, and Rita stepped out of it, leaving her boots behind at the same time. As usual, she wore no undergarments, and her nest hovered provocatively before the stunned promoter's eyes. "Come on," she whispered, gliding back to her place oh the sofa.
The apparent reluctance with which Green had met her earlier sexual innuendos disappeared completely at this point, and he struggled with his clothing in a frantic attempt to remove it before Rita changed her mind. The girl watched with quiet amusement as one article of clothing after another was thrown hurriedly aside until he was as naked as she. When he raised his eyes to Rita, Green discovered that she had turned towards him slightly and opened her legs. The long white hairs of the fur throw mingled with her own shorter black patch and threatened to invade the pink slit that lay slightly open before him. With a short grunt, he heaved himself towards the girl, but Rita stopped him.
Her hands on his shoulders, Rita pushed his head down until his nose brushed lightly across her dampening cunt. "Kiss it," she ordered.
Green didn't have to be told twice. Substituting his own enthusiasm for the pressure of Rita's arms, he slipped his hands under her and clasped the roundness of her ass. Pressing his face fiercely into her pubic hair, he opened her labia with the tip of his tongue and found her clitoris. While Rita bucked and moaned beneath him, Green tongued her clit relentlessly. Each movement of his tongue initiated a fresh outpouring from her, and soon his face was slick with her feminine juices. Then he moved to the mouth of her yawning cave. As his tongue entered her, licking and caressing the sensitive walls of her hungry vagina, Rita was shaken by a series of little tremors, as her body responded completely to Green's manipulations. She moaned as she felt him invade her further, his tongue lashing out against her dripping tissues with nerve-snapping accuracy. Rita began to shudder uncontrollably, and moan. Her hands found the back of Green's head and pushed it further into her cunt. She was oblivious to everything except the man's tongue and her own aching need.
Fighting to keep from suffocating, Green lapped her cunt with an enthusiasm that outstripped even her own. His tongue was an avenger, a warrior, and he strove fiercely to drive it into her. Then he felt her hands in his armpits, pulling him up on her. Planting a trail of wet kisses from her crotch to her chin, Green slowly stretched out on top of her.
"Please, Bob," the sweating girl pleaded, "please, now." Her hand closed around his stiff, throbbing staff and slipped it between the slick lips of her pussy. "Do it now."
Green drove forward mightily, and his thick organ sank fully into her. Rita sucked in her breath sharply. She pressed upward with her hips until their stomachs ground against each other. Within her, his rod moved slightly, and her tissues responded, flooding her canal with fresh bursts of her juices. Slowly, Green withdrew until only the pulsing head of his sex remained inside her. She raised her hips, quivering with want, and he slid into her again.
"That's nice," Rita whispered. "Oh, Christ, just keep doing it."
When they were done, Rita lay on the couch trying to regain her breath while Green padded naked around the apartment catering to their other needs. After calling his office and telling them that he'd be out for the rest of the day, he fixed them a couple more drinks, made a lunch out of cold turkey and cheese, and rejoined her on the couch. Their lunch was half over when Rita interrupted him to fuck again. Then they finished lunch. Green ate her for dessert, and they spent the rest of the afternoon experimenting with each other until Green, pale and bleary-eyed from his exertions, begged for a rest.
"I can't keep going forever," he gasped, taking a cigarette from the coffee table and lighting it.
Rita didn't complain, though she was still horny. She was aware that her sexual needs were greater than those of most people and Green had, in fact, lasted a good deal longer than she expected him to. She was happy.
At five she left, ignoring Green's plea to stay and explaining that she had promised to meet the rest of the group for dinner that evening and that she had to get back to the hotel to get ready. The doorman smiled at her in a strange way when she left the building alone, and Rita laughed suddenly, realizing that the man probably thought her a call girl who had done her job, been paid in full and dismissed. It seemed too funny for words, and she amused herself with the idea all the way back to the hotel.
CHAPTER FOUR
None of them had ever been to the restaurant that Monster had made reservations for that night, though they all had heard of the place. Monster had selected the place at the recommendation of a friend, who had complimented the food. (Monster's girth was testimony of his enjoyment of good food.) It was decided that they could tolerate pretentious waiters if the food was good enough, and the reservations were accordingly made.
The restaurant was located in mid-town Manhattan, and the taxicab bearing Monster, Peter and Sam arrived first. The doorman eyed them nervously as they loitered on the sidewalk in front of the place waiting for the rest of their party to arrive. To his cultured tastes they looked like barbarians and he found himself wanting to tell them to leave, for fear their presence on the sidewalk would lower the tone of the place and drive away customers. Monsters size persuaded him, however, to wait for them to leave of their own accord.
Within minutes, the cab carrying Rita and Mark came to a halt at the curb. Together, the five advanced on the doorman who, struck with the sudden realization that they intended to enter his employer's distinguished beanery, had begun to shake noticeably. Frowning, he held the door open for them and silently chastised himself for thus betraying his employer's trust.
If their appearance had unnerved the doorman, it terrified the maitre d' in the time it took them to walk the short distance from the front door to his station, the man had mentally examined and rejected a dozen possible grounds to deny them entrance. All too soon, they were there, standing right next to him. "Nothing to do but fake it," he thought privately, raising his eyes to confront the problem.
"Yes, sir," the maitre d' said to Monster, "do you have reservations?"
"Mr. Avrams and party," Monster replied.
The maitre d' flinched. He had taken the reservation himself and in doing so had identified himself. There was no chance of reneging now. He cast a final desperate look into the so-far undisturbed sanctity of the main dining room. There, unaware of the invading horde poised at the door, dignified representatives of New York's upper crust sat, eating peacefully and exchanging gossip. The maitre d' had known each man and woman for years, and he felt like a traitor, knowing that he couldn't keep Triphammer out forever. With an audible sigh, he dropped his eyes to the seating chart in his hands. A further shock awaited him there. Because of the size of the party, he had arranged for them to be seated near the center of the room, in plain view of everybody. He raised his eyes to the enemy. They at least looked clean, and he privately thanked God for that. Still, there was all that hair!
He was unable to hide the tremor in his voice as he addressed them. "Right this way, please," he said.
Monster and the others followed the man to the table. Seated, they looked around and appraised the place. It was nice, Monster thought, in spite of the fact that he personally didn't have much appreciation for French decor. The gilt mirrors that hung everywhere struck him as being a little ostentatious, but he reasoned that the regular customers probably approved and that was the reason they were kept. A few minutes later, a waiter appeared and distributed the menus.
"Would you care for cocktails?" the man asked. The others ordered various concoctions and the man turned finally to Monster. lemme have a Bud," Monster ordered casually.
The waiter's jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon," he stammered.
"Budweiser?"
"We do not handle domestic beer," the waiter retorted, his voice dripping with contempt. "If you would care for a rare imported ale from Denmark, we....
"It'll do," Monster returned affably, smiling broadly at the waiter. "Hurry it up, though."
Clamping his mouth shut, the waiter spun on his heel and exited. A few minutes later a different waiter appeared carrying their drinks. He set them down silently and left.
"Pretty haughty, aren't they?" Peter observed.
"Uppity," Sam offered.
Twenty minutes later, the second waiter returned and asked for their order. Monster's temper had soured considerably during the lengthy wait and he snarled his selection at the waiter and asked for another drink. That was when the waiting really started. Even Mark, who had once served time as a busboy in a similar establishment, commented on the time it took the chef to prepare their order. Forty-five minutes after their order had been taken, they had still not received their food, and Monster sat pawing the edge of the table with his huge hand, imagining that it was the waiter's head.
"Do you suppose they're trying to tell us something?" Rita asked.
Monster scowled at her. Privately, he had divined the reason for the waiter's behavior some time earlier and he was quietly trying to think of some way to repay the establishment for the insult. The expression on his face grew darker, more forboding, with each passing minute, until Rita, noticing the big man's rage, gestured to Peter.
"Nothing violent," Peter murmured to his friend, touching him gently on the shoulder at the same time.
"Nothing too violent," Monster answered, steadfastly refusing to give up the quiet rage that was by this time beginning to make itself felt amidst whispers and gestures at adjacent tables. It was obvious, even to the newcomers, that some black plan for revenge was taking shape inside Monster's shaggy head.
Over an hour after their order had been taken, the waiter appeared with the food. He balanced the tray holding the dishes precariously on his shoulder and served the party with his free hand. Monster was the last to receive his food and he glowered at it. The figure of the waiter started across the room towards the kitchen. Monster waited until he was almost at the door to the kitchen before acting.
"Hey, BOY!" he roared, preventing the waiter's escape at the very last minute and simultaneously shattering the quiet of the room. He was gripping his plate by the edge and for one brief moment Peter thought that he was going to hurl it across the room at the offending servant.
The waiter turned and gaped, his mouth hanging open in speechless shock.
"Let's have some ketchup, here," Monster bellowed. He held up his place so the waiter could see its contents, a delicate mixture of veal and noodles covered with cream sauce. The dish was a specialty of the house and regarded with reverence by both staff and customers alike. "How am I supposed to eat this stuff without ketchup?" Monster asked rhetorically.
The effect was immediate. Jaws and silverware fell. The waiter looked as though he would collapse at any second, and the maitre d' nearly burst into tears. Rita giggled. "Ketchup!" Monster yelled. The fierceness of his request seem to return some of the strength to the waiter's shaking legs, and he disappeared into the kitchen. Returning, he set the bottle before Monster with a vehemence designed to convey his hatred. While the man watched aghast, certain until the last moment that it was all a joke, Monster opened the bottle and shook a good deal of its contents into the middle of the dish. Then he stirred it into the veal and cream sauce with his fork. The result was a sickly brownish-orange mixture that seemed obscene to the prim waiter. Monster shoveled a couple of forksful of the violated dinner into his mouth and grinned up at the waiter.
"That's more like it," he said. He turned to Rita, who had ordered the same dish. "Try it," he said, holding the bottle out to her.
By this time, Rita was giggling uncontrollably, completely caught up in Monster's act and eager to help. The effect that it was all having on the waiter and customers made it worthwhile sacrificing the dinner. She took the ketchup from Monster and did to her plate what Monster had done to his. At this point, Sam, who had ordered a spinach souffle, turned to the waiter and politely requested a bottle of tabasco sauce. The waiter looked ready to commit murder.
For the next half-hour, they amused themselves by seeing how much they could insult the waiter, but found, much to their disappointment, that Monster's original request had so unsettled the man that nothing any of the others asked for subsequently could shock him. With the air of a martyr, he silently ferried to and from the kitchen, providing them with whatever substance they asked for. After a while, unable to get a response out of them an, the group gave up and, leaving the wreckage of the once-fine meal still on their plates, prepared to leave. They could find no one willing to accept payment for the meal so they left, as hungry as when they had come, but a good deal happier, feeling, somehow, that they had struck a blow for the revolution.
They were still choking with laughter when they arrived in Greenwich Village. Peter s friend, Wendy, had invited the whole group to a party at her place and they had accepted. Stopping at a corner store for pizza, they walked the last couple blocks to the apartment. Wendy met them at the door.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to come," she said, taking Peter's arm and nodding to the others. "Come on in and meet the rest."
Peter allowed the girl to draw him into the apartment and the others followed. The place was large, surprisingly large considering how rents had grown in the Village, and there were about a dozen people sitting around the floor. All but three were girls. Monster looked around, nodding and grinning at everybody, and finally settled on two girls who sat a little apart from the rest. One was blonde and well constructed, with tits that threatened to burst through the front of her tight pullover every time she breathed. The other girl was thinner and had dark hair, but in spite of the blonde's openly sensuous body, it was to this second girl, apparently a close friend of the first, that Monster felt drawn. While the others wandered into another room where more guests were waiting, he walked over to the girls and sat down, fighting, as he did so, a long thick joint that he had taken from his shirt pocket. "Hello," he said.
"Hi," they answered in near unison.
"You're Monster, aren't you?" the blonde queried, smiling openly. Monster nodded that he was and took a deep drag on the joint. Then he handed it to the blonde, and turned to face her friend. He couldn't talk without losing the smoke, so he just stared at her. The girl didn't mind, and smiled invitingly while returning the man's gaze. Monster exhaled noisily.
"What's your name?"
"Elaine," the dark-haired girl answered. "And that's Shirly." She gestured at the blonde. "Hello Shirly, Elaine."
The girls nodded and struggled to hold the intoxicating smoke down deep in their lungs. Monster reclaimed the joint and took another drag before returning it to the girls. None of them talked until the joint was gone. They simply passed the smoldering stick around and grinned at each other. Monster felt like he was in kindergarten again, shyly making friends at the sandbox. The image was a funny one and he laughed, losing a puff of the precious smoke.
"Great stuff," Elaine observed when the roach was too small to hold any longer.
"Friend sends it to me from overseas," Monster said.
"Great friend."
"Not that great," Monster answered. "I send him things, too. Money, mostly." Though it was a perfectly normal thing to say, this comment struck Shirly as impossibly funny and she cracked up.
"Shirl's like that," Elaine said by way of explanation. "One time she laughed for an hour straight."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It was at a party like this and some guy was trying to ball her, but he couldn't keep it up."
"Why not?" Monster asked.
Elaine shrugged. "Didn't like all those people watching him, I guess. I don't know."
Monster looked around the room. The scene seemed pretty sedate to him. One or two couples were making out, but everyone that he could see was fully clothed, or close to it. He wondered what was going on in the other rooms. When he turned back to ask the girls, he noticed that Shirly's laughter had subsided somewhat and that Elaine had unbuttoned the front of her blouse. He caught a glimpse of the thin lace bra that supported her breasts and found himself instantly horny. Raising his eyes, he saw that Elaine was looking directly at him and smiling. The invitation inherent in her expression was obvious, even in the dim light. Monster leaned back against the wall and returned her smile.
"Come here, Elaine," he said.
Wordlessly, Elaine got up and moved over to him. He guided her down onto his lap as gently as if she were a child. Without speaking, she laid her head on his shoulder and waited for him to do with her what he would. She had no special preference. Upon raising his hand to her chest, Monster found, much to his delight, that the bra hooked in front, between the twin swells of her breasts. He unsnapped it and the filmy lace garment dropped away, revealing the smooth flesh of her tits, which didn't really need a bra anyway. Monster gently began to massage her firm chest and Elaine responded, arching her back and pressing hard against his hand. Her mouth opened slightly, and her eyes closed. Monster slipped her blouse down over her shoulders and shrugged it away.
Like stoned dancers in a dream, they undressed each other without speaking. Elaine lay in his hands completely ready to accede to his slightest wish. Within moments they lay side by side on the floor. Both were naked and Elaine's hand had found and roused Monster's huge cock. It towered over them as a monument to his lust. Moving slowly, Elaine got up and straddled the thick staff. Moaning, she rubbed it back and forth along her cleft. The movement, and the friction on the throbbing head, thrilled Monster, and when he felt her slit grow wet he was uncertain as to who had provided that moisture, whether it was the first secretion of her fluids or the first signs of his own climax. It was Elaine's, and as soon as she was certain she was wet enough, she opened her hot lips with his prick and squatted down.
Half of Monster's aching sex sank into her. Though she was too small for him, Elaine was by this time in no shape for rational action. She knew only one thing. She needed him inside her and he wouldn't fit. She struggled to impale herself further on his bloated cock to no avail. With each fresh exertion, she felt herself stretched more than before. Slowly, her dripping cave swallowed his huge weapon. Little by little, his sex disappeared within her. Finally it was all in.
Rolling over, Monster brought the shivering girl beneath him. Feeling the floor against her back, Elaine raised and opened her limbs as far as she could. "Rip me in half," she growled into Monster's ear. "Shit, I don't care." Slowly, Monster began to stroke, and with each movement of his rigid sex within her, Elaine gasped. The pleasure he gave her was well worth the pain, just as she had known it would be.
After they had come, and were lying side-by-side on the floor, smoking, Monster discovered that the scene was no longer as sedate as it had been before he started screwing. He didn't know if he and Elaine had initiated it, but on the floor around him, five couples were engaged in torrid lovemaking, while a few others sat around the perimeter of the room watching. Shirly was where he had left her, but she was now nude. He crawled over to her.
"When did all this start?" he asked.
"You and Elaine started it."
"Oh. Where are the others?"
"In the other room," the girl answered. "I've been waiting for you."
Monster felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Elaine. The fucking had evidently taken its toll of her. Her face was pale and her eyes glazed. "Wow," she muttered, kissing his arm gratefully.
"You all right?" Monster asked.
"Never better," the girl answered, kissing him again and smiling. "Just a little weak."
"I was afraid I'd hurt you."
"No," she answered, "but we can try it again if you want to." Though her face was pale, she was smiling, and Monster felt not the slightest doubt that he could, if he wanted to, break every bone in the girl's body, violate her in every conceivable orifice, or subject her to the weirdest, most debasing perversions he could think of, and get no response more fierce than a muttered "Thank you" and an offer to "Try it again." He put his arm around her and kissed her on the forehead.
"Let's go into the other room," Shirly suggested.
"They've got some acid. Nude, Elaine leaning most of her weight on Monster, they headed toward the rear of the apartment.
CHAPTER FIVE
At the door to the room where the rest of the party was going on, Monster hesitated. It hadn't occurred to him earlier, but he suddenly thought that the people behind the door might be fully clothed. Considering the situation in the front room, Monster knew that it was not likely, but he hesitated nonetheless, not wanting to make a show of himself. Shirly noticed his hesitation.
"What's the matter?" she queried.
Monster gestured at the door. "What are they into?"
Shirly laughed. It was a low, throaty chuckle that seemed to both put him down for his caution and beckon him on to further delights. "Nothing you wouldn't approve of," she said finally, "unless you're a prude."
"I'm not that."
"I've noticed." The blonde leaned over to him and whispered conspiratorially. "Do you really want to know what they're into?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
Shirly grinned and winked at Elaine, who was still supporting herself mainly by leaning on Monster's hairy torso. "They're ... perverts," she whispered.
Monster laughed, aware, finally, of the joke. "Is that why you keep them locked in the back?" he asked.
"You got it."
"My kind of people," Monster bellowed. He twisted the knob and pulled the door open.
Sam was the first to notice Monster at the door, and he yelled a greeting over the din of the stereo, from which a primitive, earthy blues pounded at an incredible volume. Standing in the middle of the floor fully naked, his black body glistening with sweat, Sam waved at Monster and the two girls to come in and join the party. They did so, pulling the door closed behind them. There were about as many people in this room as had been in the front room, and they were all naked. Looking around for a place to sit down, Monster's eyes lit on Rita and Mark sitting a little apart from the crowd in a far corner of the room. Both were beaming in stoned bliss and completely oblivious to his entrance. Monster guessed, correctly, that they had already taken some of the LSD that Shirly mentioned. Peter was nowhere around and he guessed that he had been dragged off to some more private part of the apartment by Wendy.
"This is fantastic," Sam gushed, temporarily abandoning his dancing partner and rushing over to welcome the three new arrivals. "These chicks know how to make a guy feel right at home. Name your corruption, brother, you won't be disappointed."
I've been doing okay for myself," Monster assured him.
Sam glanced from Shirly to Elaine and then back to Monster. "I can see that, brother." He looked back to Shirly. "I surely can."
Monster belched and scratched his stomach. "Where's the acid?" At a signal from Sam, a girl appeared and handed Monster three scraps of paper. In the center of each one was a small brown circle. Monster handed one each to Elaine and Shirly, and then dropped the third in his mouth. "You done it yet?" he asked Sam.
"I get my stimulation in other ways," the bassman leered, wrapping one of his long arms around the shoulders of the girl who had brought the acid.
"Right on!"
Still flanked by Shirly and Elaine, Monster made his way across the crowded floor. He was about to settle for a seat on the floor when he noticed that the couch had been vacated by the couple who had been sitting there. He made his way over to it quickly, sat down, and waited for the acid to take effect.
"You want anything to drink?" Shirly asked. Elaine shook her head and Monster ordered a beer. Watching the retreating form of the girl as she want to fetch the drink, he found the provocative rolling of her ass reawakening his lust. Elaine noticed it, too. Leaning over him, she planted a light, wet kiss on his reawakening sex. Across the room, Mark and Rita had fallen into each other's arms and were screwing furiously. Watching Mark plunge home with seemingly insatiable need, Monster felt his weapon grow to its former proud stature. Elaine lowered her head and kissed it again, and it began to throb. She was opening her mouth to receive him when Shirly reappeared with the beer. She handed the beer to him with one hand and, reaching down, squeezed his prick with the other. It was her way of telling both him and Elaine that it was her turn.
Monster took a long gulp of the beer. Lowering the bottle from his lips, he noticed the label. It was Budweiser. The image of the stuffy waiter returned and with it all the events that had taken place in the restaurant. Transformed by the acid, the waiter seemed even more offended as he denied handling any domestic beer. Then he melted, and Monster laughed. The sound of his laughter seemed strange, and the big man listened harder. Not even conscious that he was making the oddly melodious sound, he continued to laugh and to analyze the sound. He recognized it as his own, but it was different, somehow, apart from him, even alien.
Looking around the room, it seemed to him that the lighting had grown softer without obscuring any of the faces or objects in the room in the slightest. On the television screen an image flickered silently. It was a detective of some sort. He was climbing an oil rig in pursuit of his prey, a faceless lawbreaker with whom Monster identified immediately. As the minutes passed, both men climbed until Monster was surprised that he could still see both of them clearly. And the detective kept gaining on his prey. Monster wanted to yell out a warning to the man, to tell him to get his ass moving before the pig got him, but the words stopped in his throat and would go no further. He couldn't help. The man was on his own. The cop had almost reached the man when, like the waiter, he melted, oozing off the screen with a fluidity that Monster had to admire. Having won, the lawbreaker executed a perfect swan dive into the void. Full of approval, Monster laughed and applauded.
From the television screen, Monster's eyes slid to the forms on the floor. Everyone seemed beautiful, almost too beautiful, surrounded, as they were, by amorphous blobs of vibrant color that changed their shapes continuously so as to keep the form of the human always within their boundries. Sam's was red-the red, Monster thought, of jungle fires. As Sam sank to the floor between the legs of the girl who had given him the acid, the red darkened, mixing tentatively with her blue. Privately, Monster wondered what color his own aura was, and he turned to Shirly to ask her.
Shirly was looking at him and smiling. The smile Was so intense that Monster forgot what it was he wanted to ask her. He reached out toward her, wanting to touch her smiling face, but discovered, in doing so, that his hand still held the bottle of beer. Continuing to look at Shirly, he raised the mouth of the bottle to his lips and began to swallow. He kept swallowing until no more liquid was forthcoming. He dropped the empty in back of the couch.
"How do you feel?" Shirly asked. Her words seemed to be out of time with the movements of her mouth.
"Just fine," Monster answered.
"Good vibrations?" she pressed.
'Incredible." Dropping his eyes from her face to her throat, Monster followed the lines of her body over her shoulders to her breasts. Monster was struck by the whiteness of her skin, and wondered why he hadn't noticed it earlier. Reaching out to her, he took one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it lightly. Shirly moaned and moved an inch or two closer to him-close enough for her to find his cock with her own hand. Still caressing her nipple, delighted by the way it stiffened and stood out under his touch, Monster dropped his eyes to Shirly's lap.
Her cunt was lightly downed with soft, brownish-blonde hair, and though her legs were more closed than open, he could trace the slit from the top to where it disappeared between her soft, round thighs. He took his hand from her tit and touched the inside of her thighs lightly. Feeling his touch, Shirly shifted her position a little and opened her legs for him. Monster watched his hand move up the smooth skin inside her legs to the down mound. With his fingers, he parted her labia. The pink tissues within gleamed with the wetness that his first touches had produced. Placing her back against one arm of the couch, Shirly raised her knees and opened her thighs in a wide V.
"It's right there," she told him, taking Monster's hand in both of her own and pressing it tightly against her hot, rapidly moistening cleft.
Like an automaton, Monster lowered his head and pressed his lips to the mouth of her beckoning hole. His tongue darted inside, caressing her inner tissues, and Shirly moaned and pressed her cunt upward against his lips. While her hands gripped frantically at his long hair, Monster pressed his face against her muff and ate her, relishing the way her juices mingled with the hair of his thick beard. She was quivering, her eyes open and riveted on the ceiling, when he brought his face away from her gash.
"No, please...." she begged, feeling him abandon her crotch.
Monster stopped her protests by pulling her down on the sofa and filling her mouth with his aching root. Seeing what he wanted, she adjusted her position so that she was between the V of his open legs, kneeling on the floor. One of her cheeks brushed lightly along the inside of his leg as, with a slow, deliberate motion, she slid her lips up and down as much of his length as she could fit in her mouth.
The musician watched with pleasure as his weapon disappeared between her pouting, clinging lips. While she sucked him, she kept a constant friction on the head of his cock by rubbing the surface of her tongue over it. Wanting it to continue but unable to contain himself any longer, Monster let himself go, filling her mouth with his hot, sticky fluid. When she had sucked the last drops of his orgasm from him, Shirly collapsed on her back before the couch. Finding his staff still rigid and his lust still high, Monster followed her down to the floor. She raised her legs at his first touch and he slid into her easily and began to fuck her with a slow easy motion.
CHAPTER SIX
Summer turned into fall and fall into winter without the fortune or the reputation of Triphammer changing significantly. Bob Green's admonition to tour and get the money wlule it was there to be had seemed to all to be a reasonable suggestion, and with the help of a booking agent and a secretary borrowed from Green's office staff they put together a tour itinerary that lasted from July until late November. During those months, they were scheduled to play in thirty-six states and two Canadian provinces, and they started out like kids on summer vacation. After years of work, practice and failure, they were finally getting a return on their investment.
The tour they planned was a demanding one that required them to perform nearly every day. If they weren't playing at an auditorium, they took less lucrative jobs in small blues clubs. Peter preferred these gigs, claiming that though the pay was lower, the audiences and acoustics were better and that it was more satisfying to play under those conditions. In theory, the others agreed with him, but playing the big halls meant big money. Big money meant freedom from the petty hassles that made life difficult. The equation is common among showpeople. Big money equals freedom equals happiness. Like countless other acts before them, Triphammer opted for the big jobs.
Though he didn't complain, Peter didn't try to hid his dissatisfaction with the cramped schedule and hurried life style it forced them to adopt. He didn't mind the loss of creative satisfaction that the large jobs imposed. Early in the tour he had decided that he would rather be a dissatisfied artist who ate well than a starving, completely "fulfilled" purist. What bothered him was the constant travelling required. The large halls and auditoriums changed their acts every weekend, and that meant that playing that circuit required constant moving, since each job was good for only one, two, or, in certain rare instances, three nights. When playing the smaller clubs, they were generally hired for a week at a time. It was still living out of a suitcase, but the pace was considerably slower and more to Peter's liking.
Early in September, they played for a week in Fort Worth and then left for another three weeks of one-two night stands. Monster noticed the strain on Peter's face as soon as he sat down on the plane that was to take them to the Coast.
"You don't look so good," he observed as Peter settled into the adjacent seat.
Peter didn't bother looking up. "Compared to how I feel, I look great."
Monster lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring. Like a halo, it hovered over the bald head of a man occuping the seat in front of them. "Anything special bothering you?" he asked finally.
Peter shook his head and snatched a cigarette out of Monster's shirt pocket. "Nothing I can do anything about, anyway," he added as an afterthought. "Just the travelling getting to me again."
"Only three weeks to the next long gig."
"Three weeks and eight cities," Peter corrected him. "You left out the cities."
"The money's good."
"I'm not complaining."
The drummer's response seemed to settle the matter and by mutual agreement they dropped the conversation. Monster didn't much like talking to Peter about travel anyway, since he enjoyed flying from city to city and thought it rather strange that Peter, who hated it, should have chosen pop music as a way of making a living. To Monster's way of thinking, it didn't make sense at all.
They maintained their silence halfway to the Coast, Monster smoking and Peter reading a book given to him by an admirer at the club in Fort Worth. Monster, looking over to see what it was that held his friend so rapt, noticed that Peter's expression was even darker than usual. He reached over and snapped Peter's book shut.
"Out with it," he ordered. "There's more bothering you than flying."
Peter signed and pocketed the book. "That's most of it," he said.
"What's the rest?"
"I think it's time we got back into the studio."
"Another album, huh?"
"Why not?" Peter argued. "We've got enough new material for two, at least. All the personal appearances in the world won't do any good if we don't keep a record on the charts. That's the name of the game."
Monster nodded and considered his friend's words. It was true that they had more than enough material for a new album and that their first one had been out for over six months. Before too long, he found himself agreeing with Peter. It was time to get to work on another record. Privately, he cursed himself for not thinking of it himself. Getting up, he --edged past Peter into the aisle and started for the rear of the plane to consult with Mark and Jerry, their newly-hired road manager. Fifteen minutes later, he was back.
"It's settled," he announced, settling back into his seat and fighting a cigarette.
"What's settled?"
"Jerry's canceling everything for a month after this week. We can get to work on the record by next Wednesday at the latest."
As Monster had promised, they were in Hollywood at work on TRIPHAMMER/SECOND COMING eight days later. The preparations were necessarily rushed, but Jerry proved that his was worth his salary by having everything arranged to their satisfaction in time. The record company promised that if they completed the master on time, the record would be on the stands by the beginning of December, guaranteeing them the financial bonus of a slice of the accelerated holiday sales.
Because of the last-minute nature of the preparations and the time limit imposed by the record company, cutting the album proved, in fact, to be harder work and more physically tiring than the tour had been. Another aspect to be considered was the absolute professionalism with which all of them undertook the recording session. Unlike the cutting of their first album, which, precisely because it was their first, was flawed by a number of mistakes that more seasoned performers wouldn't let pass, their second album was to be as perfect as they could make it, even if it meant working nonstop.
It very nearly did require such effort, and when the tapes were finally ready, edited and mixed to everyone's satisfaction, all five of them were so exhausted that two more weeks of concert dates were cancelled to give them a chance to rest. Mark delivered the tapes to the company two days before the deadline and they all began to wait. In many ways, this album would be more important than the first. They all realized it, and awaited its release nervously.
Released on the last day of November, SECOND COMING was an instant hit. Within two weeks it had climbed to number three on the trade paper album charts, headed only by new releases by the Beatles and the Rolling Stories. The rapid sales were to be expected, considering Triphammer's growing reputation, but no one, not even the members of the band, expected anything like what happened, especially since none of the cuts on the album had been released as a single and any air play they got was on "hip" FM stations.
Always on top of new developments, Bob Green called them from New York to congratulate them on the success of the record and to make arrangements for them to reappear at the Nova. Other promoters began calling from towns that most of the band didn't know existed. They found themselves in the position of having to hire a secretary to help Jerry with arrangements and another to coordinate extracurricular affairs, such as television commitments and fan club photo sessions. And through it all, none of them seemed to change. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that it was something that wouldn't last and to count too heavily on the continuation of their popularity would be a mistake. A vote was taken and, Bob Green's advice remembered, Triphammer was back on tour two days after Christmas.
His face glistening with perspiration, his beard and hair matted, Monster leaned into the microphone and growled at the crowd, "All right now. We're gonna do one more for you, now. Just one, and it's a song Blind Lemon, old Blind Lemon Jefferson, left behind." Stepping back, he dropped his hands to the guitar and spun off the first cracking, snarling line of "See That My Grave is Kept Clean."
Recognizing Monster's opening riff and knowing what was coming next, the audience, composed mainly of University of Washington students and Seattle-based hippie-types cheered briefly and began to clap their hands and stomp on the floor in time with the earthy blues. Rita stepped up to the mike alongside Monster and together they started into Blind Lemon's anthem.
"Well, there's one kind favor I'll ask of you....
See that my grave is kept clean!"
Rita stepped back and swayed to the music, her firm breasts swaying freely under the loose satin of her blouse, as Monster, holding his ax as if it were his only child, launched a burning, funky solo that had made the tune, old as it was, one of the group's most popular numbers. Like a single unit, the audience rose to its feet as the big guitarist's nasty, insinuating runs made it impossible for even the most tone deaf to sit by calmly. On stage, Monster was more than a musician. He was an experience, and hearing him burn through the old favorite, the audience knew they were in the presence of a certain kind of crude, busic genius.
Rita rejoined him for the last verse of the song and together they sewed it up. Rita's hard and bitter alto mixing with Monster's hoarse, atonal holler, gave the song the kind of down-home tone that it was meant to have. The crowd loved it. And then they were gone, leaving the audience still on its feet and wanting more. "Always leave an audience up," Peter kept saying. And they did.
Excusing himself and telling the others to go ahead without him, Peter sidestepped an invitation to the post-performance party and slipped out alone, anxious to get back to the hotel, shower, and sleep until it was time for the group to leave in the morning. It was only a few blocks from the auditorium to where they were staying, so he decided to walk, hoping that maybe Seattle's December rain might wash some of the sweat from his face. Thanks to the darkness, he walked along the streets unnoticed, secure in his temporary anonymity. A couple of times he turned around, thinking that someone was following him, but he saw nothing either time, and continued on to his hotel feeling relieved that, for once, he would get a good night's sleep.
The water sputtered out of the shower head at a temperature close to the boiling point and Peter, chilled as he was by his walk in the freezing rain, was grateful for the warmth it gave him. When the scalding water started to sting rather than soothe, he twisted the cold water tap until the result was to his liking and ducked again under the shower. He stayed there until he felt sufficiently relaxed and then padded, still toweling his body dry, into the bedroom. He turned off the light without bothering to look around and, casting the towel carelessly on the floor, crawled beneath the soft covers.
He was in bed for perhaps two minutes before becoming aware that his was not the only body that rested there. For a few seconds he was confused, thinking that he might have entered the wrong room. He discarded the notion, however, reasoning that since his key opened the door it had to be his room. He was ready to snap on the light and order the intruder out of his room when he decided to investigate first. Moving slowly, he slid his hand along the surface of the bedsheet until it encountered the other form in the bed.
It was flesh that his fingers felt-warm, soft, undeniably feminine flesh. Deprived of the use of his eyes due to the lack of light in the room, Peter continued his investigation by feeling. Moving his hand over the mound beside him, he discovered that it was indeed a girl. Her large breasts sagged only slightly and as he moved his hand over the surface, he could feel her nipples tighten and her breath grow shallower.
He moved his hand downward, passing over her smooth flat belly until his fingertips met the first curls of her pubic hair triangle. When he touched her sex, the girl moved, sliding her legs apart so that the outside of her left leg rested against his right. Peter felt his crotch tighten in spite of his fatigue. Moving closer to her, he slipped his hand between her thighs and opened the smooth lips of her hot mound.
She was already wet, already open, ready for him. Finding her small, hard clit, Peter rolled it back and forth with his thumb while he slid his middle finger into her.
"Please," the girl begged, "don't play." As he pushed his finger into her, she raised her ass from the mattress and groaned urgently.
"Who are you?" Peter asked, feeling that he had the chick at a disadvantage.
"Not now," she whimpered, "later." He felt her hand slide rapidly over his body to his stiff phallus. Gripping it tightly in her sweating palm, the girl used it as a handle tugging at it to draw him closer.
"What the hell," he murmured softly to himself, feeling the tiny ripples that the touch of his finger set off in her cunt walls.
Rolling on top of her, Peter found that the girl, whoever she was, knew what she wanted. He was no sooner atop her than she raised her knees and inserted the pulsing knob of his rigid rod between her burning labia.
"Now," she moaned. "Quickly."
Peter thrust forward, and with a satisfying squish his throbbing prick sank into her. Feeling their stomachs pressed together and the head of his thick sex pressing against her, the girl started bucking, thrashing upward in a blind, frantic attempt to feel his cock stab into her. Peter reciprocated as best he could, drawing back and pounding into the girl's clinging warmth with all the fury he could muster, but he was not a match for the frantic, almost insane, passion of his anonymous partner.
"More," she urged, thrusting her hips upward to meet his stroke.
"Take it slower," he urged, "it'll last." As an illustration, he slowed his pace, ploughing in and out of her. Slowly she began to respond. Her legs came higher off the bed and locked around his waist. He felt her mouth go slack against his ear and her hot breath come less evenly. Instead of pounding upward, she began to rotate her ass on the bed, forcing his prick to rotate within her.
"That's nice," she gasped. "God, that's nice."
Smiling to himself, Peter jabbed his steaming pecker into her and released the flood, bathing her insides with his hot come. Thinking he was done, he started to withdraw, but the girl had different ideas. Pulling him back into her, she exercised secret muscles, tightening her cunt around his heavy organ and locking him within her. For the second time within seconds, Peter's sperm flowed into the secret girl's delicious pussy.
Laying on his back beside her, Peter lit two cigarettes and passed one to her side of the bed. She took it, caressing his hand briefly in doing so, and he looked on, still Unable to make out what she looked like, as the glowing tip flared with each drag she took. During this time, his mind returned to the question of her identity and, more generally, what she was doing in his room While she smoked, he tried to think of a delicate way to approach the subject.
"That was great, Peter," she said finally, giving him the opening he sought while shocking him slightly by mentioning his name.
"I enjoyed it too," he answered. He wanted to ask her how she knew his name, but was afraid to do so, feeling that he might have been expected to recognize her from her performance in bed. After a few minutes his curiosity got the upper hand over caution. "Am I supposed to know you?" he asked.
"No," she returned. "But it doesn't matter. We know you. I think you're the best I've ever had. I hope Sara enjoys it."
"Sara?"
"My friend."
Feeling like it was all a dream or a science-fiction movie, Peter was almost afraid to ask the logical question. "Why," he stammered, "is Sara supposed to enjoy it?"
"Because it's her turn and she's my friend."
Moving with speed he wasn't aware he possessed, Peter lunged to the side of the bed and snapped on the light. Sure enough, there was a second girl sitting on top of the desk, awaiting her turn. She was nude and all set to go. He turned to the girl in his bed. Not knowing what to expect, he was pleasantly surprised to find that she was a stunning redhead who looked every bit as good as she felt. While he watched her, she got up, dressed, and went to take Sara's place on the desk. Sara got up and advanced on the bed.
"Hold it!" Peter shrieked, momentarily arresting Sara's progress. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"We're fans," the nameless redhead answered in a tone that implied that the matter had already been settled in a higher court. "As a matter-of-fact, we're probably your biggest fans."
Peter's brain seethed. Uncertain as to whether he was in the company of nymphomaniacs or dangerous lunatics, he was sure only that something wasn't right. "Don't you believe in fan clubs?" he managed to mumble.
"They're for the teeny boppers," Sara replied. "We want the real article."
"The real article," Peter repeated.
"Right. Tina"-she pointed to the redhead-"specialized in drummers. I like all musicians."
Suddenly, with no warning, the truth dawned upon the confused and groggy drummer. They were neither nymphos nor crazies; they were groupies. He was ashamed that he hadn't thought of it before. Groupies! He held up his hand to stop Sara's advance.
"Well, gang," he said, "it's been a real pleasure. Good night." Sara's face dropped and she started to turn to Tina when a strange idea took shape in Peter's head. "I don't want you to think that I don't like you," he pronounced, "or that I'm not grateful. It's just that I'm tired. You wouldn't enjoy it, really."
Sara looked unconvinced.
"How'd you like to. add Monster to your list?"
Sara looked happier instantly.
"Room 667," Peter said. "He should be back in an hour or so."
Thanking him profusely, Sara dressed and she and Tina hurried out of the room to find a hiding place near the door to Monster's room. Peter went to sleep almost immediately, dreaming of Monster and the ambush awaiting him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Monster shook his head, ran his fingers through the thick tangle of his hair and peered over the table at the rest of the group. They listened to his continuing narrative with expressions ranging from quiet amusement to stifled hysteria. The latter response was Peter's. apparently Tina and Sara had not mentioned to Monster that they had visited Peter before ambushing him.
"It was fantastic," Monster was saying, "I have no idea of where they came from. I just opened the door to the room and there they were, right behind me, pushing me in."
"What'd they look like?" Peter queried.
"Who had a chance to look? They were all over me before I had a chance to turn on the light." He fit a cigarette and motioned to the waitress. She came over to get their order and Monster ran his hand up and down the back of her leg while asking for a Danish and coffee. She turned to the others and Monster s hand started up underneath the skirt, reaching for her plump ass. Only then did she move away, glancing at the big man with a look that bespoke more regret than reproach. "Sorry, lover," she seemed to be saying.
"So anyway...." Sam prompted, anxious to hear the rest of Monster s story.
"Right," he answered, tearing his eyes away from the waitress, whose unavailability seemed somehow to make her more attractive, "anyway, like I said, I was unlocking the door to my room and these two girls came out of nowhere and followed me in."
"And that's it?" Rita asked.
"Not quite."
"What, then?" urged Rita.
Monster seemed to color slightly before answering, as if he were embarrassed. "Well, you might say they raped me," he announced at last. "It was sort of rape, anyway."
"Oh?" By this time, Rita was beginning to get interested, and found herself doing most of the questioning.
"I mean, they had me undressed before I knew what was corning off...."
"An interesting choice of words," Peter mused aloud, happy that the two girls had not revealed his part in the affair.
"... and before I knew it I was in bed with them." He stopped and looked across the table at his listeners. "Naturally, I took over then." He cackled nastily and gulped his coffee.
"The proof of a star," Mark offered, "charisma."
"Yeah."
Monster didn't seem inclined to speak of the affair any further, or to go into details, so the matter was dropped. They finished their light breakfast in comparative silence and sat around the table nursing their coffees and waiting for Jerry, who was supervising the loading of their equipment onto the plane, to reappear. Fifteen minutes later he arrived, looking typically harried and bearing the information that their departure would be delayed for an hour while the flight engineer played games with the plane's radio.
"I don't know if I can take another hour's worth of this coffee," Rita muttered, looking morosely into her cup.
"Chin up," Jerry chirped. "Anyone care for dessert?" From his jacket pocket, he produced a small vial of white powder. Sam snatched the bottle instantly and opened it.
"Jesus," gasped Mark, "not here." He looked around quickly to see if there were any police in the coffee shop.
Ignoring Mark's paranoia, Sam tapped the vial until a tiny pile of the powder lay on his left thumbnail. Carefull not to spill any, he raised his hand to his nose. Closing one nostril with his fingers, Sam inhaled sharply and the cocaine disappeared up the open passage. He waited until the skyrockets in his brain quieted slightly and then repeated the operation, this time using the other nostril. Grinning broadly, he passed the open vial to Peter. While Mark kept a sharp eye out for cops or anyone who looked like they might know what was going on, Peter snorted a small amount of the coke and passed it on to Monster. From Monster the dope went to Rita, Jerry, and finally to Mark. Although he thought the whole operation foolish and needlessly dangerous, Mark, too, took some of the powder. Jerry recapped the vial and dropped it in his pocket
"See you on the plane," he said. He turned to go back to his duties, then turned back to the table. "By the way," he remarked, "I understand you had visitors last night, Mons." Monster blinked.
"Ought to watch that." Jerry turned and was gone.
For the next five minutes the silence at the table was unbroken as each of them concentrated on his speeding brain. The bad coffee and worse food was forgotten as the coke slowly crept through their systems, transforming the unwanted waiting period into something at least tolerable. It was Rita who spoke first.
"He's right, you know " she said.
Mark raised his head and stared at her, his face a mask of incomprehension. "Who's right?"
"Jerry. We really ought to do something to keep fans from busting in on us.
"I didn't mind," Monster giggled.
Rita was adamant. "Really," she insisted, "once or twice might be fun, but if it keeps happening it would be a real drag. We're not public property, you know."
Peter nodded his silent agreement and then asked what they could do to stop it. Before, they had been just a popular band with a following. Since the release of SECOND COMING, however, they were stars, national attractions and everybody seemed to be a fan. Peter couldn't see what they could do, short of hiring a squad of rent-a-cops to protect them.
"I don't know either," Rita muttered, "but there ought to be some way."
Unlike most ideas born during drug sessions, which either disappear completely or appear insignificant with the passing of the influence of the dope, the notion that they had to do something to protect their privacy took root and grew. In the days that followed it was constantly in the minds of all of them and became, to Rita, a rninor obsession. Though there were no further occurrences of the sort that had taken place in Seattle, the possibility that such a thing might happen again was always present and it kept them busy trying to find a solution.
The answer to their problem presented itself during the last week of January. Glancing through one of the trade papers to keep an eye on the sales of their last single, Sam noticed in the classified section an ad for a mansion in Big Sur. Mentioning it to Mark, he remarked that some time earlier, another popular rock group had gone into seclusion in their own mansion when their popularity threatened to make their private lives too difficult, and that it might be a good idea for Triphammer to follow the other band's example.
Mark mentioned the house to Rita that afternoon and from that point on the idea began to gain momentum, as each of them came up with different reasons for buying the house ... the solitude of Big Sur, which would allow them the quiet they needed to work on new routines ... the (imagined) size of the place, which would allow them to live together without any loss of personal privacy. Each of them seemed to have his own conception of the mansion as Shangri-La. The fact that they had never seen the place dampened no one's enthusiasm, and the idea that the price might be more than they wanted to pay never occurred to them. Appearing as it did during their hour of need, the ad seemed to herald a new period in their lives, one that would be devoted to themselves and their art, not to the screaming hordes of fans. Jerry made the necessary arrangements and the next Saturday they left to inspect their "dream house."
As they had hoped it would be, the house was separated from the cluster of buildings that comprised the Big Sur community. Following the directions given them on the phone, they passed through the town and drove five miles further down the peninsula. At an intersection, they turned right onto a narrow, twisting road that threatened, after a few miles, to run off the cliffs and into the sea. A few minutes more brought them to the long drive of the house.
The house was even more than they expected. Perched on the very edge of the cliffs, it was a mammoth stone structure that complemented its surroundings so well that it looked as though it had grown here, a natural extension of the land. The grounds were enclosed by a high stone fence that ran all the way back to the cliff, a further guarantee of privacy. Looking at the building, Peter guessed that it contained at least thirty-five rooms, more than enough for their needs.
They were met at the door by the realtor, a short, paunchy, balding man who had the repulsive habit of chewing on an unlit half-consumed cigar while talking, and the owner, whom they recognized at once. Mild Jacobs was known to all of them for her much-touted, if short-lived, career as the new face of the mid-Sixties. Typed, hyped and merchandised as if she were a new brand of soap instead of a human being, Mild had a few years earlier appeared in a series of low-budget, Technicolor potboilers that made as much use of her body and as little use of her acting abilities (which, to tell the truth, were almost non-existent) as possible. With the increasing sophistication of the young, her promoters had found that they needed more than a cute ass and thirty-eight-inch bust to make money, and Mild had been accordingly relegated to the heap of big-studio rejects, where she had languished in near-obscurity for the last two years. Seeing her, they all understood the reason for selling the house. She simply needed the money.
While the others talked to the realtor about the price of the house, taxes, and other things concerned with owning a home, Sam kept his eyes on Mild. He was pleased to see that her looks had remained unchanged even if her career had deteriorated completely. Standing in the winter sun dressed in a tight pair of orange bellbottoms and a tank top that revealed an ample expanse of her famous bosom, she looked to Sam to be every bit as beautiful and exciting as she had been four or five years earlier, when her face and body had been the subject of some of his most pleasant fantasies. Ignoring his friends completely, he stared at the girl openly, fascinated by the way the wind tossed her long, sun-lit hair across her chest, accenting and calling attention to her tits. Moving his eyes upward from her cleavage, he found that Mild was returning his gaze and smiling. He blushed and felt a momentary happiness in knowing that she could not tell that the blood had rushed to his face.
Still smiling, Mild stepped forward and extended her hand. "Mild Jacobs," she said simply.
"Samson Peterson."
Mild laughed. It was a short, musical laugh that seemed to bubble spontaneously out of her throat. "Samson?" she giggled. "Really?"
Her easy humor put Sam completely at ease. "That's right," he returned, laughing a little himself. "Samson. My Mama used to sing in the church choir on Sunday and read the book the other six days. My brothers are named Abraham and Job." As he spoke, he heard the others go into the house. He made no move to follow them.
"Your friends are leaving," Mild said.
Sam cast a careless look over his shoulder and then turned back to Mild. "That's all right. I don't know nothing about houses, anyway."
apparently happy for his company, Mild smiled again and took his hand. "Let's have a drink while we wait for them," she suggested, leading him into the house.
The interior of the house was a beautiful, rustic combination of rough-hewn timbers and the stones of the area of which the building was constructed. Moving quickly through the main hall, Miki opened a door and stepped into the bar. Sam followed her in and stood looking around at the decor. Behind him, he heard her slide the bolt on the door.
"Make yourself at home," the girl called lightly, leaving the now-locked door and stepping behind the bar. "Any requests?" she asked.
A couple of requests occurred immediately to Sam, but he supposed that she meant liquor and so asked for Scotch. Fixing the drink, Mild bent forward more times than was necessary, offering Sam an unobstructed view of her mammoth knobs. It wasn't very subtle, but Sam enjoyed it nonetheless. Taking the drink from her, he crossed to a leather-covered easy chair and sat down. Miki stayed behind the bar long enough to fix herself a martini and then followed him across the room. When she sat down on the arm of his chair, pressing the firm roundness of her hips against his upper arm, it occurred to Sam that she was acting out one of her screen seductions, using him as her leading man. Transferring his drink to the other hand, he casually laid his arm on her lap and let his hand slide into the narrow space between her legs. She made no sign of moving when he started to rub the inside of her thigh; instead, she moved her hand to the back of his neck and returned his caresses.
I'm sure you'll like it here," she murmured. Little by little, she moved her hand downward until it rested between his neck and shirt collar.
Sam shrugged and inched his hand higher on her thigh. I'm not hard to please," he said, privately thinking how much he'd like to throw her onto the floor, rip off her clothing and take her. The impulse to do so was almost irresistible, but he hesitated. There was something about the girl's demeanor that told him she wanted it to happen differently.
While Sam was struggling with his desires, Mild slipped down from the arm of the chair and into his lap. Through the thin fabric of her slacks he could feel the crack of her ass pressing against his rapidly stiffening phallus. Mild felt him growing hard, and with a coy wink she shifted her position slightly, grinding her ass against his crotch. "Do you like me, Samson?" she asked.
Sam nodded.
"Show me," she challenged.
Sam wrapped his arms around her waist and found the clasp of her pants. He unsnapped it and lowered the zipper and then slid his hands under her tank top, searching for the snaps of her bra. Her drink forgotten, Mild locked her long white arms around Sam's neck and pressed her lips against his. As he opened her brassiere, she opened his mouth and drove her strong, experienced tongue deep inside. Sam broke the kiss long enough for him to pull off her bra and top, and Mild clung to him feverishly as he cupped her heavy boobs in his strong capable hands.
Testimony of her heat, her nipples went hard and as he moved them back and forth with his fingers, Mild leaned back and sighed. Seeing her heat, her beauty and her availability, Sam lost all control. With a hard tug, he pulled her slacks down to her knees. Mild moaned and smiled as she felt his fingers open the lips of her hungry cunt and begin to probe. Her fluids came freely under the black man's caresses, and her strength flowed out of her. Sliding off his lap and onto the floor, she kicked her pants the rest of the way off and raised her knees.
"Hurry," she said weakly as Sam stood and hurriedly undressed. "Hurry up, please."
Looking down, he saw her wet cleft open further as her legs fell fully apart. Glistening with her juices, the sight of her open gash spurred him to strip even quicker. Casting his underwear aside he towered naked above her, huge black prick fully extended. Mild gasped when she saw his mammoth tool. For a moment she was even afraid, afraid that his huge member would tear her in two, or wouldn't go in at all. Quivering with apprehension and passion, she stretched her arms upward.
"Let me hold it," she begged.
Kneeling, Sam straddled Miki's torso, bringing his hot, thumping pecker within easy reach of her mouth. Miki was at him at once. Grasping the object of her desire with both hands, she stared at it in silent admiration. Then she kissed the velvet tip and, opening her mouth, began to lick up and down the shaft. When she had wet it completely, she rubbed the steaming cock all over her face-on her cheeks, her lips, her eyelids, even her forehead.
The friction started his cock tingling and, ignoring her protests, Sam took it away from her. While she begged him to bring it back, to let her suck it some more, he changed his position and lay down between her legs. Mild moaned urgently at the first touch of his root at her crotch, and the farther he sank the delicious pole into her, the louder the moan became. Finally it was a wailing aria of want as Mild felt Samson drive his sex deep into her hungry hole. They both came almost immediately, but they continued to fuck anyway, slamming their hips together with almost-painful violence. They came twice more before Sam withdrew. Mild looked at his still rigid weapon longingly. She wanted desperately for him to put it back into her, but she was sore and she needed a rest. Still, she stared at his prick.
Turning onto her stomach, the starlet reached back and spread the twin hills of her ass. Her tight anus winked at Sam. "See if it will fit there, Samson," she called.
It did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Finding Mild Jacob's house perfect, Triphammer bought it the afternoon of their visit, and moved in two weeks later. The division of the building into personal suites was facilitated by the style in which it had been built. The second and third floors were designated living areas, the ground floor was for entertaining, business or general group activities, and the basement was outfitted as a practice room. With the help of Jerry and a couple of sound engineers, soundproofing and a bank of stereo tape recorders were installed, transforming the large cellar into a music room almost well-enough equipped to pass as a recording studio.
Although divided into suites that were, at least in theory, personal and private, the second and third floors in fact were one big apartment, with intercourse between each section being completely open and free.
The second floor, originally designated the property of Monster and Peter, was quickly converted by them into a series of rooms for private and semi-private entertainment. They retained only two rooms for their own use and used those only for dressing and sleeping. The rest of the time they spent either in the cellar, practicing, or in Sam's half of the third floor.
Mild had stayed in the house after selling it as a personal houseguest of the bassist, and during her residency had found all of the male members of the group to be as stimulating as her dark lover. Consequently, Sam's section of the house was much-frequented by the two residents of the second floor. Far from viewing their common ownership of her as something degrading or unusual, the fading starlet seemed to regard it as a challenge and tried her best to be a hbidinous and innovative as possible. While everyone in the group liked Mild, including Rita, Monster was especially taken with her and within a few weeks she was his woman and Sam was the visitor. Sam didn't mind. She was fucking him as much as always, and the issue of who had prior claim never really interested him.
Five weeks after buying the house, when they had made all the changes they deemed necessary, it was decided over a dinner of brown rice and boiled fish (Mild doubled as cook and was into macrobiotics) to have a party for some of their friends and associates. Peter was the only one opposed.
"Do you mean we've got to have people from the record company out here?" he moaned.
Monster grunted his agreement with Peter and speared an additional piece of fish off the platter. "It won't be much of a party with those creeps around," he said. "Bunch of grasping bloodsuckers."
"They bought this house," Mark the businessman reminded him.
Monster ignored the remark and went on eating.
"Okay," Peter sighed, "if it's got to be, it's got to be. But try to keep the white collar people to a minimum."
"I will," Rita promised.
Keeping her promise to Peter proved to be more difficult than Rita expected. With Miki's help, she managed to pare the guest list to a total of eighty-four, but of that number thirty were of the genre that Peter referred to as "white collar." The ratio was disturbing, even to someone as hungry for success as Rita. After a careful examination of the fist, she decided that two of the executives were of little importance and she removed their names. That left twenty-eight.
"That's it," she sighed, handing the list to Mild. "Tell Peter I'm sorry."
The party started early in the evening with the arrival of Daisy Chain, a rock group that had toured with Triphammer the previous summer and which was currently gaining in popularity. Physically, they resembled Triphammer, being composed of four men and a woman. The girl, Trixie, was a stunning blonde with whom Mark had struck an acquaintance earlier. Upon their arrival, Mark homed in on Trixie, leading her away from her friends and, eventually, to the third floor, where he entertained her in private. In her absence, the other members of the group lounged around talking to Monster and Peter and waiting for the other guests to arrive.
The guests came in pairs and small groups until an hour after the arrival of the first guests, the main hall and bar were filled with people bunched in small groups. To Peter, disappointed with Rita's failure to exclude all but the most important business people, the affair resembled nothing as much as the cocktail parties he was required to attend when, in his pre-Triphammer days, he earned his living as an assistant buyer for a small but very pretentious department store. After staying around the bar for a reasonable time, he sought out Mild and dragged her upstairs to his room.
"Lissen," a drunken vice-president bleated at Peter as he tried to lead Mild around the man, "I gotta talk to you about a double al-bum. Wancha t'do a double al-bum next."
Peter scowled at the man and started to step around him. The man moved, planting his corpulent carcass once more in Peter s path.
"Nah c'mon," he mumbled, "let's talk business."
Peter doubled his fist and was raising it with the intention of pounding it into the center of the man's repulsive gut when Mild stayed him by a gentle pressure on his arm.
"Forget it," she whispered. And to the man: "Go talk to Monster."
The man, apparently convinced that he'd been referred to a higher court, stepped out of their way and veered off in search of Monster.
"Come on," Miki whispered, tugging and the drummer's arm, "before he comes back." She was as anxious to escape the boring party as Peter.
By common agreement, drugs had been excluded from the party because of the number of straight people who were to be present, and at the .moment the drunken record executive initiated his search for Monster, the big guitarist was in the cellar studio, huddled among the amplifiers and tape machines, hungrily wolfing down the thick sweet smoke of a piece of Indian hashish one of the members of Daisy Chain had given him as a housewarming present. The first puff of smoke had sent a pleasant shiver through his body. The second warmed him, and everything after that was icing on the cake. He stayed in the cellar for what seemed like hours before it occurred to him that he was neglecting his duty as host. His brain buzzing, Monster clambered to his feet and stumbled uncertainly up the stairs to the main floor.
Opening the door to the studio, he discovered that during this absence many of the guests had decided that it wasn't worthwhile staying at the party and had left. Unfortunately, those who had left were the people he wanted to stay. It seemed that the only people who had remained were the straight executive types that had made the party such a disaster in the first place. For a moment, he considered going back downstairs until everyone had gone, but then he spotted Rita. She was standing across the room, leaning casually against one end of the bar and watching the party with a completely blank expression. To Monster, his brain reeling merrily along a thousand different wavelengths at once, the absence of joy in her expression signified unspeakable sorrow, and he decided that he owed it to Rita to rescue her. He closed the door behind him and started across the room.
"Bummer, ain't it?" he said, leaning against the bar next to her and signaling to the bartender.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered, almost on the brink of tears, "I had no idea it would turn out like this. I thought that...." She shook her head sadly and took a sip of her drink. "I don't know."
Monster was smiling broadly, completely unconcerned with the collapsing party. "Fuck 'em," he advised her, "don't let them get you down." He waved at the crowd of businessmen at the other end of the bar. "They'll drink until the booze is gone or they're too drunk to lift a glass and then they'll leave. It's not the end of the world."
Rita didn't answer.
"Come on," Monster urged, taking her hand and leading her away from the bar. "You need to cheer up and ole Mons got just the thing." Holding on to his beefy paw she followed lazily as he led her across the nearly deserted floor to the door to the studio.
"Downstairs?"
"Right."
Rita shrugged and followed. She was uncertain as to what Monster had in mind, but she was grateful for his company.
In the studio, Monster shoved a couple of amps out of the way and cleared a small section of the floor for them to sit on. Due to the soundproofing, they could hear nothing of the party going on upstairs. After three hours in the company of the noisy bores upstairs, Rita found the absolute silence of the studio comforting in an almost physical way. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing Monster, who had removed his shirt, and in a simple, spontaneous gesture of thanks for having delivered her from the party, she leaned forward and patted his bearded cheek. He smiled and began to unwrap the hashish.
Considering the strength of the stuff, the piece that Monster dropped into his pipe was much more than they needed, but the party had been such a drag that he figured they deserved a little extra pleasure. He handed the loaded pipe to Rita and held a lit match over the bowl. She inhaled lightly and felt relief with the smoke that made its way into her lungs. Without speaking, they passed the pipe back and forth until all of the hash had been consumed by the flame and consigned to the task of making them forget the dreadful party.
"You look good tonight," Monster said, surprised by the dreamy tone in his voice. Through the darkness, he saw the flicker of Rita's answering smile.
"How can you tell?" she replied. "It's too dark to see anything in here."
"I can tell."
"How?"
"There's magic in my eyes," Monster answered gravely. Rita giggled. "Bullshit."
"Bullshit yourself. R's true."
Rita pulled her dress over the head and cast it aside. "All right, then," she challenged. "What am I wearing?"
"Maroon dress," Monster responded.
Laughing, Rita threw her body, naked except for a pair of thin bikini panties, against his. Twining her slender arms around Monster's strong neck, she bit the lobe of his ear lightly and asked again: "What am I wearing?" Monster ran his hand down her smooth back and under the lace of her panties.
"Too much," he answered, cupping the roundness of her ass in his huge paws. Feeling his hands on her butt, Rita opened her legs slightly, enough to allow Monster to put his hand between them from behind and open the slick hole. She moaned slightly and moved closer to him as his finger slid into her, thrilling her and starting the juices flowing. Suddenly, though she had known him for years, she wanted Monster inside her, wanted him like she'd never wanted Mark. Removing one hand from his neck, she tugged at the flimsy panties until they ripped, leaving her fully naked.
Moving her hand to the waistband of the guitarist's pants, she struggled fiercely with the buckle of his belt, uttering tight little squeaks as she tugged at the leather. Monster let her continue her work futilely for a few moments before taking her tiny hands in his and guiding her through the operation.
"Dammit," she spat fumbling with his zipper. After a struggle, she got it down and was able to ease his slacks down to his knees. In doing so, the tip of Monster's large prick brushed against her cheek. Rita gasped. In the dark, his sex seemed to her to be even larger than she had imagined it. She pressed its length between her palms and shuddered. It was just tremendous!
Moving with the fluidity of a cat, Rita straddled the , guitarist's prostrate form and lowered herself until she felt the knob of his fleshy pillar push its way past the mouth of her yawning, longing sex. There she stopped. Monster groaned and thrust upward, trying, with one desperate movement, to impale her fully on his throbbing manhood. Rita resisted him, however, and waited until he stopped moving before settling another inch onto him.
With mind-bending exactness, Rita slowly took Monster's pulsing prick into her seething cunt. Screwing her body slightly from side to side, she savored every delicious inch of his cock as it smoothly entered her. Finally it was in-all the way in, and Rita sucked her breath in with a sharp hissing sound that signified her ecstasy. Monster, his brain reeling from the hash and his aching dick clamped comfortably in Rita's dripping pussy, kept hearing a song. It was an odd combination of "nothing could be finer" and "With a little help from my friends."
"Peter...." Mild began in a tone that let him know she was going to ask for something.
He turned. "What?" Through the floor, he could hear the sounds of the party breaking up, though not distinctly enough to recognize any one voice in particular.
"Tie me up." Mild made the request in the tone of voice that one would use in asking for the butter.
'What?" Peter repeated, thinking that perhaps he hadn't heard her correctly.
"I want you to tie me up," Mild said. She was sitting on the bed nude, the soft light of the bedroom highlighting the soft roundness of her tits, and the expression on her face let Peter know at once that she was serious.
For a few seconds, he studied her silently. She was beautiful, certainly, but there was something strange about the has-been starlet-something that Peter couldn't figure out. She was odd, very odd, even, at times, a little scary. Without saying a word, he stripped his belt out of the pile of clothing that lay on his desk. Mild stood and turned around and Peter bound her hands securely behind her. After a few preliminary tugs at the belt, she turned around, apparently happy that she couldn't break loose. She was smiling.
"What now?" Peter asked.
"Whatever you want," Mild answered.
For a moment Peter just stared, uncertain as to whether she had finally stepped beyond the fringe or this was just another of her games. When her smile increased, becoming almost mocking, all of the events of the evening carne home to him-the wasted time, the lousy party, Mild's insane demand to be trussed up like a prisoner. He lashed out.
It was a hard blow and it caught her squarely across the mouth. Driven back by the force of the blow, Mild stumbled, but managed to remain on her feet. When Peter looked at her he saw that there was a trace of blood at the corner of her mouth and that tears were welling in her eyes.
"Are you satisfied now?" he screamed, angry and ashamed for having hurt her.
Mild's answer was a smile, and it hit Peter like a punch in the stomach. Quivering with rage, he hit her again, harder. This time the girl lost her footing collapsed in a heap on the floor. Reaching down, Peter seized her hair and dragged her to her feet. Bound and crying, the naked woman looked strangely beautiful, and with a perverse pleasure, Peter stepped up to her and rammed his swollen prick into her mouth.
Since she was too weak, Peter supplied the movements for her, slamming his sex into her throat with such savagery that Miki gagged at every thrust. Her sobs increased his fury, and he pounded his meat into her as though he wanted her to choke to death on it. When he came, she was crying too hard to contain his burning load, and the sperm ran out of her mouth and down her chin, mingling with the blood that his slaps had put there. When his spasms subsided, he released his grip on her hair and let her fall into a convulsively crying heap on the floor.
"Thank you," she managed to gasp between sobs, "Jesus, thank you."
CHAPTER NINE
"Try it this way, Pete," Monster suggested. Letting his guitar dangle loosely from its neck strap, he turned to an amplifier and pounded out a beat on it, using the palms of his hands. "Something like that. I think it'll go better."
Peter, seated behind his drum set and surrounded by baffles, nodded and tried the suggested back beat a couple of times, changed it slightly, and nodded again to Monster.
"All right, then," the big man bellowed, "let's do it!" As the sound of his last word died away, his hands fell to the strings of his instrument, bringing forth the shrieking, screaming notes that characterized his style of playing.
Pdta stood near the door of the studio listening as the band followed Monster's lead through the song, the first instrumental number they'd ever recorded.
The song, one of their own compositions, was titled "Monster's Blues" and was to be the lead number on their third album, which shared the song's title. Standing at the side of the room hearing Monster bend the chords of the song through unbelievable changes without losing control, Rita could not suppress the shiver of excitement she felt whenever he was playing well. But her happiness with Monster's playing was only part of the general good feeling that Rita had. In the four months since the release of SECOND COMING, the group's time had been devoted almost entirely to fixing the house, which was taking on aspects of a commune, with other musicians and friends of the family practice. Rita didn't like layoffs. She preferred to be doing something; it didn't much matter whether it was touring or recording as long as it was something tangible. Now that they were back in the studio at last, she felt good. It was good to be working again.
Monster stepped up to the mike. "How'd it sound?" he asked.
After a brief pause the voice of one of the control room technicians crackled out of a loudspeaker near the ceiling. "Hang on for a minute," it said. "Well let you decide for yourself."
While he waited for the people in the control room to play back the tape, Monster extracted a large blue bandanna from his hip pocket, mopped his face with it, and then tied it around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. 'What time is it?" he called to Rita.
She glanced at her watch. "Nine o'clock."
Monster muttered something inaudible and stepped back up to the mike. "What the hell's going on up there?" he demanded. "One of you assholes lose the tape?" As he asked the question he heard his own voice cry "Let's do it!" and the opening notes of the number.
Watching Monster listen to the playback of the song, Rita studied his face carefully for any sign of displeasure. They had been in the studio since noon and all of the time had been devoted to trying to get "Monster's Blues" perfect They had played the song more times in those hours than Rita could count, but every one of them, according to Monster, had some defect. Because the song belonged to Monster, was named after him and written as a showcase for his guitar playing, he was determined to get it perfect before committing it to wax. Rita didn't mind waiting, but she knew that Monster felt bad about spending the whole afternoon on one number and she hoped for his sake that the last take would satisfy him.
The song ended and Monster looked around at his companions. No one said anything. "Play it again," he ordered. As he listened to the tape the second time, a smile spread itself slowly over the big man's face. By the time the song ended, he was grinning broadly. "That's it," he spoke into the microphone. "That's the one. Package it."
"Thank God," the voice from the control room answered. "You people gonna keep going or can I go home?"
Monster looked around. No one looked ready to leave. "Take a break and be back in a half hour," he told the engineer.
"Yassuh massah," the man answered. "By the way, there are some people here to see you."
Looking up, Monster saw Jerry's face behind the glass of the control booth. "Send them in," he said.
Within a few moments, the door to the studio opened and Jerry walked in. Miki was with him, as well as Trixie, Mark's friend from Daisy Chain, and a few other people who were frequent guests in Big Sur. In her arms, Mike cradled a magnum of champagne.
"I know it's corny," Mild confessed, "but I couldn't think of anything else to bring."
Rita looked at her quizzically.
"Why bring anything?" Sam asked.
"I told you they didn't know," Jerry exploded joyfully. "How could they? It wasn't out till this afternoon."
By this time, Monster was getting tired of all the mystery. "What wasn't out until this afternoon?" he demanded.
"The result," Jerry answered simply, obviously enjoying dragging the suspense out as long as he could.
Miki, however, was anxious to talk. She seemed ready to explode if she wasn't allowed to tell what she knew. Monster noticed her impatience and turned away from Jerry. "Out with it," he ordered, glaring at the beaming girl.
"Well," she began, "this is sort of a celebration."
"Of what?"
At this point Miki's self-restraint collapsed completely and she was giggling like a child as she handed Monster the magazine. "This," she cried happily.
Monster looked at the book. It was the new copy of Upbeat, a rather well-respected magazine for and about the music business. Try as he might, however, Monster couldn't see any connection between the magazine and the bottle of champagne perched atop one of his amps. He looked at Jerry blankly.
"The page is marked," Jerry offered.
Shrugging, Monster opened the book and flipped the pages until he came to one that had been folded in half. Opening it, he glanced at the printing. It was the results of the mag's annual Pop Music Poll, wherein Upbeat's critics named the top ten groups in each of a number of categories. Unlike fan magazines, which rate groups on the basis of audience enthusiasm, Upbeat's critics made their selections on the basis of artistic merit. Under GROUPS, Monster saw an entry circled in red.
4. Triphammer-comparatively new, blues oriented, very good and getting better. See Fern. Sing.
Flipping the page, Monster located the FEMALE SINGER column. There was another entry in red.
2. Rita Rayford-c.f. Triphammer above. Very heavy, gutsy voice ... rural, delta type. Could become one of the greats.
When the impact of what he had read sank in, Monster handed the magazine to Mark and with an inarticulate roar of joy seized Miki, kissed her sloppily on the cheek, and hoisted her into the air, setting her down on top of the amp that supported the champagne. "Open it," he ordered.
While the others gathered around Mark, reading the article over his shoulder, and Miki struggled with the cork of the wine bottle, Monster rummaged in his pockets furiously, looking for a joint. Jerry handed him the ever-present tube of cocaine instead. Monster dipped into the powder with the blade of his jack knife and sucked the crystals up his nose greedily. By the time his brain calmed and his eyes cleared sufficiently for him to see, pandemonium had broken loose in the studio. Mark, mindless of the guitar that still dangled from his neck, was hugging Trixie and whirling her around carelessly. Rita and Sam and Peter were performing an impromptu jig on the wreckage of one of Peter's drums. Jerry was helping himself to some of the coke while the other visitors waited their turn. Miki, for once, seemed to be the only calm one, as she went on tugging at the cork of the bottle with determination.
Finally it came off, and Sam grabbed the bottle from her and began to drink directly from it. A friendly tug-of-war soon developed over who would control the wine and while Mike watched impassively from her seat on the amplifier, Monster slid his shaggy head up under her dress and planted a lingering, probing loss on her hairy snatch.
Feeling her crotch invaded by Monster's hot lips, Mike felt happy that she had worn no underwear that night. His tongue opened the smooth lips of her sex, and she felt her juices start to flow. Raising her legs, she slung them carelessly over his shoulders and lay back, waiting for the big man to move her, as he always did.
Monster had intended only to kiss the girl briefly, but as her legs came up and encircled his neck his passion grew and his cock stiffened and pressed against the restraint of his pants painfully. Taking a globe of her ass in each hand, he pulled Mild toward him and buried his searching mouth in her wet, warm cleft. His flicking tongue sent wave after wave of fire through Miki's stomach as he sought out and caressed the most sensitive parts of her yawning canal. He felt her hands on the back of his head, tugging at him, trying to pull him up inside her.
"Keep going," he heard her gasp above the tumult of the party. "Don't stop, please."
Monster had no intention of stopping. His beard matted by her cunt juice, he surged forward eagerly, thrusting his questing tongue deeply into her yearning sex. Miki moaned, and as the waves of feeling became too much for her, she jerked her ass up and down feverishly, skmming it against the top of the amplifier. Still Monster continued to lap her, moving his tongue from the mouth of her oozing cave to her clitoris and back. He wanted to drive her out of her mind. Uttering a sharp cry of passion, Miki twisted quickly to one side, away from his conquering mouth. He had to catch her to keep her from falling.
She lay in his arms a satisfied woman. She was completely limp and her eyes were glassy. Knowing she didn't have the strength to stand, Monster bent down and deposited her gently on the floor at his feet. Straightening up, he discovered that he and Miki had evidently started something. In a far corner of the room Rita lay beneath Sam, rubbing his fuzzy head and cooing "Number Two," over and over again as the spade's strong manhood slashed into her inviting cunt.
He couldn't see Mark anywhere and assumed that he had gone off to some more private place to be with Trixie. Peter, too, was absent but Monster could think of no place the drummer could have gone. He spotted the half-empty bottle of champagne on the floor and picked it up. The wine was still cold, and it seemed to blaze a trail of coolness through him as he swallowed it. While he drank, he felt Miki's hands open his fly. He looked down and watched her drag his heavy member into the open. She opened her mouth to claim her prize, but Monster stopped her.
"This way," he said, raising her to her feet and pushing her forward so that her torso was supported by the back of a chair. She knew at once what he wanted and, reaching back, raised her skirt and spread the mounds of her ass for him.
Monster slid his thick member into her anus with some difficulty and Miki began to move her hips in a roughly circular motion as the happy guitarist, still drinking the wine, plunged in and out of her creamy asshole.
CHAPTER TEN
Although they had for some time been aware of their success, the results of the Upbeat poll further convinced the members of Triphammer of that fact. Such formal recognition seemed to make official what they had all suspected, that in the space of a year they had become more than a popular group. On the strength of two albums, they had become one of the major forces in popular music. The poll results were like a powerful narcotic, and each of them found himself in the enviable position of having to fight the inclination to start thinking of himself as highly as others already did.
Although all of them were in some way changed by Upbeat's pronouncement, it was Rita who was most visibly affected. While the men reacted to the poll by becoming even more committed to perfection in their music, realizing that they were no longer in a position where they could afford a bad performance, Rita reacted to it in a more personal way. Though she fought against it, she found herself reexamining her relationship with the others, and with the band as a group. She never articulated it, but the fact that Triphammer had been rated fourth while she rated second in her category seemed to her to question the validity of viewing her as just a member of the band. Increasingly, she began to think of herself as the star and the others as backup musicians.
In spite of her new interpretation of her role in the group, Rita's outward behavior changed little. Out of regard for the others, she went on working in the way she had from the start-as one part of a five-man band. Work on the new album continued as before, if at a slightly slower rate, and an observer could not have noticed any change in the group beyond a new seriousness-a quiet dedication to quality that the poll results had brought to the surface.
Two weeks after the publication of the Upbeat poll, another appeared in a different, but roughly similar, publication. As before, Triphammer was rated fourth. This poll, however, rated Rita first in the Female Singer category, and with this widening of what Rita had grown to consider the gap between Triphammer's performance and her own, the girl found it more difficult to conceal her feelings than before. Where once she would have accepted Monster's or Mark's arrangements without question, she found herself unable to keep from criticizing them. Her remarks were rarely serious enough to draw any answering fire from the men, but it was obvious to everyone that she was becoming more difficult to work with.
The conflict came into the open as they were eating dinner together after returning to Big Sur from the studio. Rita asked Monster what he thought of the idea of including "God Bless the Child" on their next album.
"It's not a bad song" he conceded, thinking her question was an idle one, "but it's not our style."
"I don't care," Rita answered aggressively. I'd like to do it anyway."
Monster laid his fork down and looked at her. "No way," he said finally. "It's too slushy. You need a fuller sound than we have to do that song. You need an orchestra, really."
"I want to do the song," Rita answered flatly. Mild, feeling the tension build, made a comment about the kitchen and left the table hurriedly.
"Don't be stupid," Monster snapped, his face flushing, "You're not Billie Holliday and we're not the Hollyridge Strings."
"You're not infallible, you mean. Why can't we do the song?"
His face growing hotter, Monster struggled to keep his voice calm. "I thought I explained that," he said. "The song requires a fuller sound than you get out of guitars and drums. It's not a bad number, but we're just not equipped to handle it."
"There are plenty of studio musicians around," Rita returned.
Peter nearly choked on his asparagus. From the very first days of the group, they had all been in agreement that the day they started making use of studio musicians, they'd start thinking about quitting. Their idea was that if they couldn't make the sound themselves, then it wasn't worth making. Looking up, he saw that Monster was looking to him for support. Peter shrugged.
"What did you say?" Monster asked Rita.
"I said there are plenty of studio musicians around. We could hire a couple of them to back me on the song."
"Why don't you hire the Hollywood Symphony while you're at it," Offered Mark, unable to contain himself any longer. "I hear they're between gigs right now."
Rita glared at him.
Knowing that the argument was going no where and that it would continue indefinitely if someone didn't stop it before it built up more momentum, Monster ordered a vote on the matter. As he expected, the result was four to one against doing the song. He considered the matter closed.
Rita didn't. "It's not fair," she wailed, unsettled by the quick manner in which they had dismissed the song.
"Can't get much fairer than four to one."
"If we keep doing things your way, we'll just stagnate. We've got to change-keep up with new things, like adding a brass section to the group," Rita sputtered.
Though the suggestion angered him, Monster managed to remain cool. "All in favor of a brass section...."
Rita raised her hand.
"Opposed? The motion is defeated. If there is no new business, I declare this meeting adjourned." Using his fork as a gavel, Monster rapped the table twice, leaned back in his chair and smiled at Rita.
The second put-down was more than the girl could bear. For a few seconds she stared at Monster, trying to think of an answer vile enough to suit her mood but able to utter only inarticulate growls. Finally she gave up and ran from the table, all the more angry for having been unable to answer Monster. Scooping the keys from a table near the front door, she took Peter's Land Rover and pointed it towards the freeway. She had no destination in mind, but the need to get away from the others was so great that the indefinite nature of the drive never occurred to her.
Hurt and indignant, Rita was near the outskirts of Los Angeles before she even realized in what direction she'd been driving. Beyond having some notion of how far it was from Big Sur to LA. she had no idea of how long she had been driving. A little calmer, but no less hurt than when she had rushed from the house, Rita decided that a drink or two might soothe her enough for her to think of what she would do now. Swinging the large vehicle into the appropriate lane, Rita began to pick her way through the maze of on and off ramps that require Los Angeles motorists to be the most steely-nerved drivers in the world. Her final destination was the Strip, and she was amazed to reach it without getting lost even once. It was the first victory she'd experienced all day.
Driving slowly to avoid hitting any of the thousands of bearded, beaded and belled juveniles who crowded the sidewalks and spilled out into the street, Rita finally selected a small club, feeling that it would be more crowded and there would be less chance of her being recognized. She surrendered the car to the lot attendant with an admonition to lock it, and walked into the club. It was early, and most of the patrons had yet to arrive, so she had a choice of places to sit. Without hesitation, she settled onto a stool in the darkest part of the bar and ordered a bourbon and water.
After the argument and the long drive, the liquor seemed to be just what she needed. She drank the first two quickly and ordered a third. After she had consumed five, Rita felt her whole body glowing with a gut sensation of security. The fight with the other members of the group soon faded into the background as she sipped her sixth drink and watched the other patrons of the bar, which had filled rather quickly after her entrance. Like the kids on the street outside, the people in the club were visitors-people playing at being members of the community. They came to the Strip from homes in either the suburbs or the better sections of the city and they would return to them after their few hours of acting were over. In the interim, however, all were intent upon convincing the others that they were the "genuine article," longhaired representatives of the Pepsi generation gone underground. Watching their smiple-minded posturing, Eita was reminded of the dandies of Pope's England, and she had to stifle the urge to laugh openly.
"They are amusing, aren't they?" a voice behind her said.
Turning, Rita found herself looking into the eyes of a man about thirty with long hair, blue eyes and a wildly untrimmed moustache that looked as though it had been tossed under his nose as an afterthought. His cheap, patched clothes told her at once that he had no suburban ranch house to retreat to when the evening ended.
"Very," she replied, smiling.
The man --edged up to the bar next to Rita's stool and ordered a beer. Sipping it, he turned back to her. "Sometimes I hate them," he said, "but most of the time I pity them. They're really poorer than I am. At least I don't have to change identities to feel free." His voice was soft, almost whimsical, and Rita felt instantly at ease. "By the way," he finished, "I'm Ralph."
"Rita. Tell me, why do you come here if they depress you?"
"I don't normally, but John"-he jerked a thumb towards the bartender-"owes me money. I am the Strip's Michelangelo and this is my Sistine Chapel," he pronounced grandiloquently, sweeping his hand around him to indicate the garish 'psychedelic' mural that covered the walls. "Sorry."
"No need to be," Ralph replied plainly. "It pays the rent and feeds me." He pointed to the ceiling.
"You live upstairs?" Rita asked incredulously.
Ralph nodded. "Trifle noisy, but very cheap. Why don't you come up? I have some wine; there are no plastic hippies in my living room, and I can promise you that you won't miss a single note of the music."
"All right," Rita answered immediately. "Let's go."
Ralph's apartment was proof that taste and money do not necessarily go hand-in-hand. Though small and furnished cheaply and incompletely, the rooms conveyed the artist's personality in a way that homes of wealthier people generally do not. Where there was brick, Ralph had exposed and varnished it, and where there was wood he had refinished it. In the tiny living room, where Rita sat, a fourth-hand oriental rug was spread on the floor, muffling the noise from the club. A reddish-brown cat with a badly ripped ear lounged in one corner of the room and watched Rita warily, ready to take off at the first sign of hostility.
"My one concession to the value of money," Ralph announced as he reentered from the kitchen. He held a bottle of expensive Portuguese rose. Setting two jelly glasses on the floor before the beat up sofa, he dumped a healthy jolt of the wine into each and then sat down beside Rita, tossing his arm casually across her shoulders. Smiling, Rita leaned into the curl of his arm and sipped the wine.
"Well," he said, "how do you like it?"
Rita looked around the room again. "It suits you," she returned. "I like it." Forgetting the wine, she slipped her hand into the open V of his half-buttoned work shirt and pressed his roughly haired chest affectionately. "I like you," she murmured.
The tone of her voice left little doubt as to her meaning, and Ralph didn't hesitate. Pulling her to him, he cradled her head between one hand and his chest while unbuttoning the back of her blouse with his free hand. Feeling his strong artisan's hands against her smooth flesh, Rita groaned happily and pressed her cheek against his chest. He finished unbuttoning the blouse and she shrugged the garment off and tossed it away. Her small breasts stood out firmly and proudly, the dark nipples already stiffening in anticipation.
Guiding her movements, Ralph laid Rita onto her back on the couch. While she squirmed impatiently beneath him, anxious to strip off her slacks and feel his tower of flesh hot within her, he lowered his head and took one of her nipples into his mouth. Cooled by the wine, his lips moved over the surface of her tits expertly, tantalizing her and making her even more anxious for his rigid cock. She found the buckle of his belt and, opening it, eased his pants and shorts part way down his muscular thighs. His thick, stiff organ pressed maddeningly against her pussy, and Rita felt the fabric of her briefs grow damp as her juices started to flow.
"Please," she begged him, "please undress me." She squeezed his heavy shaft impatiently.
Rolling off her, Ralph stood and hurriedly rid himself of his clothing. When he looked back to Rita, he discovered that she had removed her slacks, ripping them in her haste. She lay spread-eagled on the couch, waiting for him. While he watched her, she dropped her hands to her crotch and opened her cleft for him. She was taunting him-daring him to do his worst.
The sight of her glistening, yawning sex set Ralph's cock to throbbing furiously. With a short cry, he threw himself onto her.
Rita twined her legs around his waist and pulled his body toward her wet, unsatisfied mound. With a single, hard thrust, Ralph entered her fully, sending the entire length of his long prick into her clinging warmth. He felt her enclose him and came almost immediately. His first climax, however, did nothing to slaken Ralph's heat. The burning sperm had hardly left him when he began thrusting again, driving his still stiff prick into her hungry slit with increased passion.
"Harder," Rita panted, felling his slashing sex bring her to the brink of orgasm. "Harder. Please. Don't stop."
Half an hour later, Ralph finally did stop, too exhausted to continue. His limp dick lay vanquished on his thigh, and Rita stroked it with fond familiarity hoping for one more orgasm though Ralph had given her more satisfaction already than she could remember getting from any other man. Ralph plucked the bottle from the floor and gulped at the contents. Rita refused the liquid, remembering, suddenly that she had to drive Peter's car back to Big Sur.
"What time is it?" she asked, still weak from their exertions.
Ralph shrugged. "Around midnight, I imagine," he said finally. "I don't own a clock."
Though she was weak and tired and the liquor she'd consumed was threatening to give her a headache, Rita got up and dressed. Ralph watched her from the couch, sipping gingerly at the wine. When she was fully dressed, he stood up. "I know it's cliche," he muttered, "but will I see you again?"
"Am I welcome?" Rita asked.
"Anytime. The door's never locked "
Rita smiled and kissed Ralph lightly on the cheek.
"I'll be back then."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As she had promised, Rita continued her relationship with the artist, Ralph. Whenever the group had to go into Los Angeles, which was frequent, due to recording commitments, Rita found an excuse to disappear for a couple of hours. She never mentioned Ralph to the others, and they had no idea of where she was going when they were in town, but she always seemed in a better humor when she returned, so none of them ever questioned her. It was tacitly understood that she was probably meeting a man she didn't want them to know about for some reason of her own, but the mystery man's effect on her was beneficial and none of the others much cared about him. Privately, Monster rather liked him, though they had never met, since Rita was easier to work with for days following her visits.
In spite of the popular song to the contrary, no amount of good lovin is sufficient to hold together a group as torn by interpersonal disputes as Triphammer. In the early days of their success all had, as a matter of course, signed contracts that prevented them from leaving the group for a period of six years. The contracts still had over four years to run, so it was obvious that if the group continued to play at all, it would be with the same principals. They all accepted the fact and continued to work together despite the growing gap between Rita and the men.
The communal living arrangement, however, was a different matter. She could continue to work with them because she had no other choice, except to get out of show business altogether, the only escape valve provided by the contracts, but every day she found it more difficult to continue living at Big Sur with the others. Unlike office workers, who can leave the job in the office, Triphammer lived with its music constantly. Disputes that developed in the studio were not forgotten when they left. If anything, they were intensified, since they were all living together, providing an opportunity for the continuance of spats during non-working hours that might otherwise have been forgotten. A couple of weeks after the fight over "God Bless the Child," the situation had become so unbearable to Rita that she decided to leave the house and buy her own place.
When she told Monster her decision and asked him to attend to the legal details involved in removing her name from the deed he agreed with her. His words shocked her and for a few moments she felt hurt, but he explained that he could think of no alternative, that unless she met them only for work, the band would be destroyed by bickering. Rita realized then that what she had taken for a rejection of her was in fact Monster s agreement with her, and she left the house on better terms with the big lead guitarist than she had been for weeks.
After two weeks at a hotel, Fata took possession of a sprawling home in Laurel Canyon. The area is probably the closest thing to a hip suburbia in existence, and Rita's neighbors were mostly other rock musicians and actors who, though successful, were unwilling to spend their money in the ways that the public expected of them. Instead of status Beverly Hills mansions, Rita and her neighbors lived in smaller, mostly modern homes which were supported on the canyon walls by a combination of architectural know-how and faith. Because of an insufficiency of the former, as evidenced by a house that two years earlier had detached itself from the mountain and had spread itself over a large segment of the canyon floor, the latter quality was generally recognized as a prerequisite for living in the neighborhood.
Sam and Mark helped Rita move her belongings from Big Sur to her new home. Since her departure from the house, everyone found it easier to work together and there was no conscious policy of avoidance practiced. After installing herself properly, Rita decided to have a housewarming party, and it surprised no one when the other members of Triphammer were the first invited. Rita seemed to regard the party as a chance to bring her co-workers in contact with some people from the music industry who would support her suggestions for changing the group, and she was careful to exact promises from all of them that they would attend.
The party was already in progress when Peter, Sam, Mark, Monster, and the omnipresent Miki arrived in Peter's Land Rover. Seeing the number of Cadillacs parked in front of the house and the number of white shirts and ties inside, Peter had to struggle with himself to keep from turning the car around, aiming it at Big Sur and fleeing. Peter would have broken his promise to Rita willingly, even gladly, but Monster was adamant about attending the party. Thus cajoled by the group's de facto leader and distressed at what he considered his own weakness in agreeing to come in the first place, Peter brought the Rover to a halt between a Cadillac and a Continental and everyone piled out.
"We thought you got lost," Rita gushed, meeting them at the door and taking Mark's arm for the walk to the living room. She was dressed in a brightly colored pantsuit with trousers so loose that from a distance she appeared to be wearing a dress. The neckline of the top of the suit was cut low enough to reveal the preliminary swelling of her breasts, and in spite of the growing distance between them, Mark could not help growing a little excited at her touch. For all the trouble she had given them, Rita was still a very beautiful and alluring creature. With some annoyance, Mark noted that the sight of her body, draped provocatively by the flimsy material of her outfit, had started to revive some of his old feelings for her. Had he been able to do so, he would have stripped her on the spot and taken her on the floor. He considered doing just that, dunking that it might inject some life into what was otherwise going to be a very dull evening, but he finally rejected the notion as being too far out.
Upon reaching the living room, they found it full of the industry types that Peter held in such unreserved contempt. Keeping Miki nearby in case the urge to flee became too great, Peter entered the room cautiously, looking for kindred spirits among the businessmen. In a far corner, huddled together to present a unified front to the executives, he found two of the men from Daisy Chain, their singer, Trixie, a few other musicians whom he knew vaguely or by reputation, and a soul singer named Jimmy Rand, known popularly at The Ace of Spades, a moniker that the PR department of his record company had promoted. Rand was sounding on Trixie when Peter arrived, and getting nowhere.
"Peter," Trixie cried, glad for the opportunity to escape the Ace of Spades. "I'm surprised to find you here." She left Rand standing against the wall and rushed to Peter s side.
"Don't be too surprised to fine me gone," Peter answered. "This is even worse than I expected. Looks like a fucking stockholder's meeting." He glanced around the room nervously. Near the far wall, he saw Rita clinging to Mark's arm and introducing him and Monster to a man wearing a striped Edwardian suit
"Don't look now," Trixie said, taking Peter's free arm, "but I trunk most of these people are here for your benefit."
"Mine?"
"Triphammer's. The idea is to convince you to add a brass section."
Peter snorted. Patting Miki gently on the ass, he sent her off in search of a drink.
"Why don't we step out onto the porch?" Trixie suggested as Miki had melted into the crowd. It's cool out there and there's not an execu-type in sight."
"Would that be a hospitable thing to do?" Peter grinned.
"It's Monster she has to convince," Trixie answered lightly. "They'll never miss us. Come on." Tugging lightly at his shirtsleeve, Trixie led him out of the living room and onto a large, dark porch that hung out over the canyon. As she had predicted, they were the only ones present
"Nice," Peter said, gazing out into the moonlit canyon. "Almost nice enough to make up for in there." As he spoke, he felt Trixie snuggle against him for some protection from the slight chill.
"Beautiful," Trixie agreed. Peter glanced down at her and discovered that she was staring at him intently. The light of the full moon played lightly over her features and imparted to her face an ethereal look, an aura of calmness that had been absent in the brightly-lit interior of the house. His hand crept lower on her back until he was cradling one half of her firm, round ass in his palm. Trixie smiled and guided his hand to beneath her short dress. Through the frail lace of her briefs, Peter could feel her quiver slightly as he stroked and kneaded the flesh. Moving closer to him, she laid her head against his chest and lowered the zipper of his pants.
Slipping her hand inside, Trixie alternately squeezed and stroked Peters half-erect cock until the blood rushed to it, stiffening it and forcing the lengthy shaft to push its way out of the open fly. The enlarged pink knob, throbbing slightly under Trixie's insistent, tender touches, butted impatiently against the front of her body. Peter moved his hand from her ass to her tightly-curled muff. Trixie sighed and bowed her knees slightly as his hand slipped between her legs and one finger found its way into her vagina.
"Take me," she urged him breathlessly. "I need you right now."
In vain, Peter looked around the porch for a couch or a cot. As he did so, his hand kept busy in Trixie's moistening crotch.
"This way," Trixie offered, slipping out of his grasp and removing her panties in one fluid motion. Moving to the darkest part of the porch, she hoisted her tiny skirt to her waist and leaned forward, planting her elbows on the fence on the edge of the porch. Peter stood behind her and braced her by holding her waist. Slowly, his eyes alternating between the twinkling lights of other canyon homes and Trixie's smooth buttocks, he stuffed his gorging phallus into her hot cunt from the rear and fucked her with an easy, temperate motion.
Miki came out onto the porch to find Peter once, but seeing the couple's position and hearing the shrill, urgent cries that issued from Trixie's throat, she placed the drinks next to the door and left without making her presence known. She was back in the living room for perhaps three minutes when Rita found her. The singer's face was pale and the look in her eyes made it clear that something had gone wrong.
"Where's Peter?" she demanded, seizing Miki's arm with a fierceness that made the actress wince.
"Out on the porch," Mild answered, "but I don't think that...."
"Get him, please" Rita begged, maintaining her hold on Miki's arm.
"But . .
"Please!" Rita cried. "Get him. R's Monster. There's going to be trouble if something isn't done to stop it!"
Convinced of the seriousness of the matter at last, Miki broke away from Rita's grasp and hurried towards the porch. As she walked, she heard a loud exchange of words from the vicinity of the foyer, but was unable to make out either the speaker or the meaning. Remembering Rita's appearance, she guessed that the arguement centered around or involved Monster. She was uncertain as to whether the big guitarist was a violent sort, but his size made the mere possibility frightening, and she quickened her steps.
Peter was zipping up his pants when Mild burst onto the porch, by which time she looked almost as frantic as Rita had earlier. Peter noticed her agitation immediately. "What's the matter?" he barked.
"Something about Monster-trouble of some land. Rita asked me to get you."
Peter was concerned at once. "Where?" he demanded.
"The foyer, I think," Miki answered. "I'm not sure. Rita didn't say."
Muttering curses under his breath, Peter took Trixie's arm and hustled her back inside. Miki may have been unaware of Monster's views on the use of force, but Peter was all too familiar with them. A year and a half earlier the big man had become incensed when a redneck made a comment about "that nigger" in the band. In the ensuing fracas, which lasted only a few seconds, Monster had broken the man's jaw and left cheekbone. Monster could, when he deemed it necessary, be a very nasty person.
In the foyer, Peter found Monster facing the man in the Edwardian suit to whom Peter had seen him introduced earlier. Rita, in tears, was stationed next to the man and tugging at his arm in a futile attempt to get away from Monster. "I never said anything about leaving the group," she was saying, "now forget it. Come on."
The man didn't budge. "Why don't you let her go?" he asked Monster. "She deserves a career as a single."
"I never said that," Rita wailed. "Now please drop it!"
"I would advise you to take Rita's advice," Monster interjected. Though he was obviously angry, his voice remained calm and even. Peter moved to his side and attempted to draw him out of the room. Monster wasn't moving.
"Sell me her contract," the man whom Peter now recognized as an A&R man for a large record company shouted.
"No," Monster replied flatly.
"I can force you to," the man threatened. It was an empty warning and he knew it. A lesser group might be afraid of whatever influence he had, but Triphammer was too big to be afraid of him. "I can make you sell the contract," the man repeated, his voice wavering noticeably.
Monster wouldn't dignify the absurd threat by challenging it. He wouldn't even answer. Laughing, he turned to follow Peter out of the room, and it was then that the man made his worst mistake. To keep Monster from leaving, he grabbed his arm.
"Don't you...." he began.
Moving with a speed uncommon in men of his size, Monster whirled and swung on the man. Before anyone could step between them to stop him, he hit the man three times. The man collapsed onto the floor and lay face down in a slowly growing puddle of his own blood. For a moment it looked as if he were dead, but then he groaned and Monster turned to leave. He turned to Rita and glared at her for a few seconds.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," he said to Peter without taking his eyes from Rita. "This party isn't any fun."
CHAPTER TWELVE
While the legal ramifications of the beating Monster had administered to the A&R man dragged on for many weeks, its immediate effect was to bring Rita a little closer to the rest of the group. Though she contended publicly that she had nothing to do with what had happened, that she had never asked the man to seek her release from Triphammer, she realized privately that in asking someone outside the group to interfere in the workings of Triphammer, she had made the beating possible. Through she would never admit it, she did feel guilty over what had happened, and for a while she even dropped the subject of adding a brass section to the group, though it remained constantly on her mind, having become a minor obsession that she could not have dismissed easily even if she wanted to. With Rita going out of her way to avoid open conflict with Monster and the others, work on the album was finished nearly a month earlier than expected. Its premature release was accompanied by the ballyhoo usually associated with such events, and the record was a certified million-seller less than a week after appearing. No one had doubted that the album would be a success; the fact it was Triphammer's latest was sufficient to guarantee that. The rapid sales, however, astounded even the company bosses, who were generally impossible to excite. It was an unreserved smash ... an oddity even in a business built on oddities, and only part of its success could be written off to the fact that rumors of conflict within Triphammer had led some people to think that it might be the last album the group would record.
After MONSTER'S BLUES had been on the stands for a couple of days, Triphammer found itself innundated by requests for concert appearances. Because of the tension between the members of the group, touring was distinctly unattractive to most of them, the closeness in which it would force them to five was something they all wanted to avoid. Most of the offers, however, paid so much money for a single appearance that it was impossible to refuse. After an impromtu meeting, it was decided to do the tour. Jerry and his growing staff of helpers went to work immediately on the arrangements. The tour was to begin at the Nova in two weeks.
Bob Green met them at Kennedy airport, hustling them through the crowd and into the waiting cars as quickly as possible. Due to fog and a steady drizzle that had held up their departure from Los Angeles for nearly ten hours, they were late arriving in New York, requiring them to go directly from the airport to the auditorium. Show time was only two hours away.
"The equipment!" Mark cried suddenly, sliding into a cab with Green and Rita.
"No problem," Green replied brusquely. "It's been here since yesterday."
Mark leaned back into the seat and exhaled noisily. At least their instruments had arrived on time. He looked out the window. Rain was starting to fall. Mumbling unintelligible curses that seemed as necessary to the operation of the vehicle as gas, the driver swung the cab into traffic and headed for Manhattan. His eyes on the passing scenery, Mark noticed that the rain was steadily increasing. Within a few minutes, it became a deluge, requiring the driver to slow the cab down. "What a miserable fucking night," he said aloud.
"Don't worry," Rita answered. "It will clear up."
Green introduced them personally, standing behind a microphone at the edge of the stage and wearing a sportshirt that, when compared to the wild dress of most of the audience, made him look oddly conservative. Those who were unfamiliar with his face might easily have thought him to be a stagehand or someone who had walked onto the stage by mistake and now couldn't think of a way to leave gracefully. One hand on the mike stand, he waited for the audience to quiet down.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said simply when the place was still, "Triphammer."
The lights came up and they were on, their first public appearance in months. The screen behind them was a blossoming, undulating field of color and Monster's guitar seemed to flame in his hands as he stepped forward and fired off the first line of "Grasshopper," a song Peter had written only days before. Testimony of their professionalism, no effects of the bad flight, personal hassles, or spirit-dampening rain were visible in their performance. Monster burned through the opening of the song and then stepped back, his head lolling lazily from side to side and his strong fingers making the guitar shriek with mind-blowing intensity, and surrendered the front of the stage to Rita. Before beginning, she looked back at the band. Mark, Monster and Sam were clumped together, exchanging lines and nodding their approval. Peter, intent on his work, shattered a drumstick, spraying the stage with bits of wood, grabbed another and continued without missing a beat. Monster was laughing, and for a moment it seemed like they were back together-that nothing had occurred to threaten the survival of the act.
"This is like corning home," Rita yelled at the crowd. Their roar of approval was deafening. Then she began to sing, and they yelled even louder.
Because it felt so good to be back on stage, and because the audience looked ready to riot if they tried to leave, they continued to play even after they had gone through their planned set. Sweating and grinning, Monster stepped up to the microphone.
"We'd like to keep playing for you," he said, "but we....
Without hesitation, Sam started pounding out the bass fine.
Having accepted the first request, they found that after every song more tides were shouted at them. The longer they continued to play, the more the audience seemed to want. The requests included a number of songs that they had never recorded but played only in previous concerts. It dawned on them that some of the audience had travelled some distance to be in on this concert, and, knowing that, Monster became more determined than ever to give them more than they'd paid for. Rita complained of hoarseness, and one of the stagehands sprinted onto the stage and handed her a pint of bourbon. She laughed, the crowd howled, and they broke into "Drunk Again," a song taken from a Paul Butterfield album. Monster did the vocal, while Rita, standing at the rear of the stage, soothed her burning cords with the stagehand's gift. From there, she could see Bob Green standing in the wings. His face was a mask of amazement and admiration.
Finally it was over, Mark bringing the monumental three-hour set to a close by conducting an audience sing-along of "God Bless America." Stunned, the audience drifted out into the dark streets slowly. They were unable to describe it, but all of them realized that they had just witnessed a musical event that would probably remain unmatched for the rest of their lives.
"Fantastic," Green yelled as soon as they were offstage. "That was fantastic. Listen, I've got to talk to you. I have an idea you might be interested in." Asking the men to wait for him in the dressing room, he took Rita aside. "There's a cab outside," he whispered, pressing a key into her hand. "The driver knows where to go. I'll be there as soon as I can." Turning, he rushed towards Triphammer's dressing room.
For a moment, Rita looked at the key in her hand and wondered what door it unlocked. Deciding that there was only one way to find out, she glided toward the stage door.
The key unlocked Green's penthouse, something that she vaguely suspected all along. For a few seconds she was offended by the casual way the man had assumed that she was still interested in him. Her pride urged her to leave and let him come home to an empty apartment, but the penthouse was more comfortable than a hotel and in spite of her annoyance with him, Rita was still a little taken with Nova's owner and mastermind. Sighing, she tossed the key onto the coffee table and headed for the bathroom, anxious to cleanse herself of the sweat that was all that remained of the night's performance.
Alternating between the hot and the cold water, Rita leaned against the tiled wall of the shower stall and let the force of the needles of water power the dirt from her body and tone her muscles. She was tired, nauseous, and a trifle drunk from the bourbon, but for all of it she was happy. Rita had viewed the tour with even greater apprehension than the others, feeling that it would bring the dormant conflicts which all of them were aware of into the open again. The concert had shown her that that was not to be the case. The relief she felt was at that moment worth more to her than all of the money that they stood to make from the tour. Closing her eyes, she let the water drive the tension and nausea from her body.
She was nearly asleep standing up when she felt flesh pressed against her own and opened her eyes to see Bob Green standing in the shower with her. Smiling, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Their nude bodies pressed tightly together as Green stepped into her embrace, pinning her against the wall.
"Let me wash you," she said suddenly, squirming out of his grasp. She grabbed a bar of soap from the soap dish and began to lather his chest, moving slowly lower on his frame until her hands found his inert penis. Under the pretense of getting him "good and clean" Rita began to lather his crotch moving her slippery hands along the length of his organ until it stiffened and stuck out before him, swinging upward in a graceful curve.
"Nice?" Rita asked, obviously enjoying her work.
"Very."
He took the soap from her and returned the favor, rubbing his soap-lubricated hands over her pert breasts until her mouth fell slightly open and her breath came harder. Moving lower, he soaped the upper fringe of her dark triangle with obvious cunning, confining his activities to that area alone and refusing to go any further. Rita's eyes closed and she squirmed impatiently, anxious for him to get on with it.
"Good and clean," she mumbled, moving her legs farther apart and pushing Green's hand between them. Still lathering her, he opened the lips of her soapy cunt and found her clit. As he rubbed the pearly button, Rita began to pant and her knees bowed. She seemed almost in danger of falling. Wrapping his arm around her waist to support her, he let the soap fall to the floor and began to probe between her legs, eliciting a fresh groan from the feverish girl with every touch.
"Now," Rita whispered, her lips pursed at his ear. Her arms locked tightly around his neck, she pulled herself up on his upright body and twined her legs around Green's trim waist. Supporting her between his chest and the wall of the shower, Green entered her slowly, savoring the expression on Rita's ecstatic face as more and more of his hot prick oozed into her. Still standing, he pounded into her mercilessly until her cries told him that it was all right to let himself go-
"What did you want to talk to the others about tonight?" Rita asked later as they lay together in Green's huge circular bed.
Green snorted. "I wanted them to play again tomorrow," he said, "but they won't."
"Did they give any reason?"
"They don't feel like it!" he barked. Triphammer's refusal had obviously bothered him. "There's a lot of things that I don't feel like, either, but...."
"I've had my troubles with them, too," Rita purred, knowing that Green was undoubtedly aware of her troubles with the others.
"Oh well," Green said, his voice taking on a resigned tone, "at least I've got tonight on tape. Maybe we can work out a deal with your company to issue some of it as an album."
Rita raised herself on her elbow. "You recorded tonight."
Green nodded. "It took longer than we thought, but we finally got the Nova label going a couple of months ago."
Rita's brain tingled. She heard opportunity knocking. Maybe, just maybe...."You in the market for a female blues singer?" she burst out.
"Not if it means going up against Monster."
"Will you buy my contract from them if I can get them to sell?" Rita insisted, growing enthusiastic. The A&R man had been a small-timer, but Green just might be able to pull it off.
"Of course," he said, "but...."
"Don't worry," Rita cooed, her hands finding and claiming his slowly reviving organ. "I'll handle everything."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Knowing that Monster and the others would be unwilling to give her up and uncertain as to how to approach the subject, Rita waited for weeks before mentioning her desire to leave Triphammer and seek a career as a solo performer. Although her reluctance to face the others with news of her plans was responsible in part for the delay, the largest single factor she considered was the tour. It was a comparatively short one, running only five weeks, and she knew that to try to leave the group during it would get nowhere and might result in the same kind of violence that she had witnessed at her home. In addition, some private sense of propriety or duty urged her that she owed it to them to at least finish the tour before splitting.
After a day's rest in New York after the wild Nova concert, they boarded a plane to Toronto, where a series of outdoor concerts had been rescheduled in order to take advantage of their availability. The weather in Toronto was better than that in New York, but the audience was not. Beaten and badgered by the police, the residents of the Yorktown area, the people for whom the concert was really staged, were uptight about the presence of a sizeable contingent of Toronto's finest at the concert site, and tailored their behavior accordingly. Had the others not dissuaded him, Monster would have announced from the stage that the police were not welcome and requested them to leave. The sight of thousands of longhaired youngsters assembled to hear them play yet unable to let themselves go enough to fully enjoy the concert for fear of a police riot depressed Monster tremendously, and the others had to keep their eyes open for signs that he was about to say something that would trigger the situation. Somehow, they managed to get through the concert without any incidents, but it was obvious that none of them were very happy about it.
In Detroit, two days later, the situation was roughly the same, except that the American kids, born and raised in a climate of violence, reacted to what they considered an unreasonable police presence with open hostility rather than docile acceptance. During the day, reports came to Triphammer of rock and bottle fights carried on with police and other representatives of the government. The only serious injury reported was that of a cop who tried to arrest a boy for throwing a rock and got his nose broken by a missile hurled by one of the boy's friends for his trouble. A hastily scrawled placard appeared on the front of the bandstand announcing the cop's injury in the rhetoric of the revolution. Monster feared that the incident
People--l Pigs--0
would lead to massive retaliation by the police, but it didn't. Though the atmosphere was unbelievably tense, they managed to get through the concert and out of town without any serious violence.
The rest of the tour was conducted in relative calm, what little incidents that did occur coming, generally, during outdoor concerts, where the simultaneous presence in one area of police and drugs gives rise to a greater incidence of paranoia in both camps than is the case with indoor performances. In Texas, they were joined by Daisy Chain, who remained with them for the rest of the tour, playing the same dates as the special added attraction. In late August, they ended the tour with a free concert held near Los Angeles.
"What now?" Mark asked the others a week after the close of the tour. They were gathered in Rita's Laurel Canyon home to discuss their next move.
"How about a vacation?" suggested Peter, whose dislike for traveling had rendered the tour, to him, unbearable, and who felt that after all the work of the previous weeks they were entitled to more rest than seven days.
"You've just had one," Monster answered, responding in the way that Peter knew he would. "Now it's time to get back to work." Instead of being worn down by the tour, Monster had found it exhilarating, and he was anxious to get right back to work.
"An album?" Sam groaned. "Already?"
"Sam's right," Peter put in. 'It's too soon for another album. If you insist upon getting right back to work, let's try something a little different, anyway."
Sam nodded his agreement
"Movies?" Mark asked.
Listening to them talk, knowing that the plans they were discussing were intended to include her, Rita realized that she had to speak. Since making the decision, the resolve to leave the group had grown stronger with every passing day. Although there were moments during the tour when some of the fun of the early days returned to her, she was adamant in her refusal to reconsider. She was leaving; that was all there was to it.
"Listen," she said, interrupting Monster and Mark in the middle of a discussion about rock stars making movies, "I don't know what you guys have in mind for the future, but you ought to know that I won't be in on it. I'm leaving the group."
All of them turned to look at her. Though her announcement had been in the air for some time, it still landed with the impact of a cannon shell coming through the ceiling. Having no idea of how to react, no one said anything.
"I didn't want to spoil the tour by mentioning it earlier," Rita continued, struggling to keep her voice calm and avoid breaking down, "but I want to do different things, a different style of music, and I can't do it as long as I'm part of Triphammer."
"You've done all right doing our kind of music," Monster reminded her, finding his voice at last.
"I know, but that's over now. I want the freedom to do what I want to do. I'm tired of being just part of a group."
"She wants to be a star," Peter said flatly.
"Call it whatever you like," Rita countered, "but that's where it's at. I'm splitting. I want to buy my contract."
"We've been together a long time to end it like this," Monster said. His voice was sad. Looking at him, Peter feared for a moment that the big man was going to break down.
"Don't be maudlin," Rita snapped, allowing a new hardness to creep into her voice. "This is business. We can at least keep it that way."
Rita's harshness seemed to stir Monster. The emotion disappeared from his tone of voice and from his expression. "Business," he repeated, looking around at the other members of the group. "I always thought of Triphammer as more than a business, but if that's the way you want it...." He clapped his hands together and cleared his throat. Rita waited for him to lower the boom. "Your contract is not for sale, Rita, and you Couldn't afford it if it were. We stand to lose too much money if we have to replace you, so no sale. Business, remember."
Rita frowned. She hadn't expected such cold-blooded exactness from them. Looking around, she saw that there could be no doubt that Monster spoke for them all. She felt all her planned out argument beginning to crumble. "Do you mean that you would make me stay just to...." she sputtered.
Monster clucked his tongue. "You're getting emotional," he smiled. "This is business."
"I can leave anyway," she warned him, "with or without the contract."
"And I could sue your ass for every penny you've got if you ever try to sing in public before the contract expires."
"I can tie it up forever in court."
"And be kept working by a restraining order until the case is settled." Monster giggled and cracked his knuckles. "As the saying goes," he finished, "I've got your beautiful ass in a sling. Give it up."
Rita's blood seethed. She didn't know whether he could in fact do everything that he'd said, but his tone of voice made her doubt that he was bluffing. She sputtered impotently for a few seconds, trying to pick up the pieces of her argument, but was unable to think of anything to say.
"Fuck you!" she yelled finally, giving vent to her frustration in the only way that occurred to her. "Sue me, if you can. Now get out."
Not waiting to hear their answer, Rita stood and hurried out of the room. In her bedroom', she sat on the bed and peeved, frustrated and wanting to cry, but too angry to give the others even the small victory of hearing her sobs. She wanted to break something, but could find nothing nearby to throw. Smoking a cigarette, she listened. After what seemed to her an eternity, she heard the front door slam and the crunch of the Land Rover's tires as it vacated the driveway. Able, now that the others had gone, to offer herself the small consolation of a good cry, she found that the desire had passed, and she went into the living room to get a drink.
"Don't you generally offer your guests a drink?" It was Mark's voice, and Rita turned to find him standing in the doorway to the porch. She looked around the room frantically, half expecting the others to emerge from hiding places behind chairs and drapes.
"Where...."
"Don't worry," Mark interrupted her. "It's only me. The rest left." Crossing from the door, he plucked the bottle from her hand and poured himself a healthy slug. Then he gave the bottle back. "Where's the ice?" he asked in a tone of voice that implied that she should have the courtesy to keep such things in plain sight for her visitors.
"There isn't any," Rita replied, trying frantically to figure out why Mark had remained behind. She took a sip from the bottle. The liquor soothed her and helped her get her calm back.
"Doesn't matter," Mark breathed. "I don't much like firewater anyway." He set the glass of untouched liquid down on the bar and recrossed the room to the couch, where he sat down.
"What are you doing here?" Rita managed to stammer. "I thought that...."
I'm just saying goodbye," Mark answered, smiling benignly.
Rita took another belt of the whiskey before answering. There was something about Mark-some sound in his voice-that frightened her. In the years she had known him, she had never seen him as calm and deliberate. It was obvious that he was angry, angrier than he'd ever been before. Gulping again at the booze, she found her voice long enough to say: "We said goodbye earlier. Please leave."
"I know we said goodbye as businessmen, but I thought I ought to stick around long enough to say goodbye in a more ... a more personal way."
"Oh, Mark," Rita wailed, "that's been over for so long now. How could you think that...."
"You miserable bitch," Mark snapped, "you lousy cunt, do you really think you can kiss me off as easily as if I were hired help." As he spoke, Mark stood and skinned off his shirt. "Now strip!" he barked.
Though she feared him, Rita was not going to be ordered around. "Go to hell," she spat, "and get the hell out of my house."
Mark sighed and walked over to her. "If you insist" he said. Before she could move away from him, his hand grabbed the neckline of her blouse. It was the same outfit that he had found so tantalizing when she wore it at the housewarming party, and it thrilled him to listen to the sound of the cloth ripping as he tore it off her body. As usual, she wore nothing beneath it and her firm, round tits lay exposed to Mark's eyes framed by the tattered remnants of her blouse.
"You bastard," Rita screamed, her anger now uncontrollable. "You...." She bounded towards him and tried to reach his face with her fingernails. He caught her wrists in his hands and drew her face close to his own.
"This can be easy or hard," he hissed. "But it's gonna be!"
Rita didn't answer, but made a second attempt to get to his face. Mark overpowered her easily and, forcing her arms behind her, held both her wrists in one hand. With his free hand he calmly undid the rest of his clothing. Shrugging out of his slacks and boots, he kicked them away and turned back to Rita. Her attempts to escape and her disheveled appearance added a spice to what he had in mind and excited Mark tremendously. His large organ preceded the rest of him by eight inches, and when he turned and brought the rigid prick into her field of vision, Rita doubled her attempts. She fought like a woman possessed.
Chuckling, Mark found the clasp to her slacks and undid it. The loose garment dropped to the floor. The sight of her fully naked, her dark muff bulging from her crotch, drove Mark to even greater exertions. Maintaining his grip on her wrists, he bore her down to the floor beneath him.
"You bastard," Rita growled, feeling him open her legs with his own, "I'll...."
Mark laughed. She wasn't going to do anything. Apparently his violence had excited her in spite of herself. The head of his anxious weapon slipped between the open lips of her sex to find her wet, ready for him. Thrusting forward, he buried his pulsing pillar deep within her. Slowly, ignoring her attempts to dislodge him and throw him off, he began to stroke into her reluctant warmth. With each thrust, he felt the tension lessen in her wrists. Picking up the pace, her hips jerked upward spasmodically, involuntarily responding to the sensation of his steaming prick cleaving her.
"Let me go, Mark," she whimpered.
He released her wrists and she slipped her arms out from underneath her and threw them around his neck. As his stroking staff drove into her deeper and faster, she rotated herself beneath him and pushed her hips up toward him. All hostility was forgotten as he reconverted her to his kind of music, directed by his very special baton.
"Keep it there," she breathed. "Right there ... that's it."
Mark awoke the next morning feeling Rita's mouth on his limp phallus. Using her tongue and lips expertly, she had him still stiff in a matter of seconds. Mark watched impassively as his organ, the hairs still matted with Rita's cunt juice, slid into her eager mouth. After he had come, Rita looked up at him. A droplet of his sperm clung tenaciously to one corner of her mouth.
"Mark," she said, moving aside to permit him to get up and begin dressing, "stay here with me."
He looked down at her. She was crouched on the floor naked, eagerly awaiting his answer. For a moment he actually considered the proposition. "Wouldn't work," he declared.
"You could leave Triphammer," Rita suggested.
Mark looked at her again. Rita was beautiful, there was no denying that. "Rita," he said.
"What?"
"Go fuck yourself."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
For the weeks that followed her leaving the group, Rita stayed in New York City with Bob Green. She found that having the man as a business partner considerably lessened his personal attractiveness, but she stayed on with him nonetheless. Not only was his financial backing absolutely necessary during the coming court battle to escape her commitment to Triphammer, but Rita found that without her friends to lean on her will wavered. Green was, in her eyes, an unsatisfactory substitute for Mark, but for the time being, she decided, he would have to do.
As he had promised, Monster went to court and obtained a restraining order which barred her from performing for money under penalty of a contempt of court citation and a stiff fine. Rita had never doubted that Monster would do what he said, but she took the news badly anyway. It was as if she expected him to repent and let her escape from her contract without a fight. It was a foolish notion and one that she was not aware of having, but upon learning that Monster was evidently bent upon making it as difficult as possible for her to leave Triphammer and had already initiated the court actions, she became aware through her tears that that was exactly what she had expected.
Knowing practically nothing about legal matters, Rita found her dependence on Green growing at the same time that her personal interest in him was declining. She would have been happy to think that he was reacting to her in the same way, but she knew that such was not the case. Every time they met, whether it was for business or personal matters, she found his conduct toward her more personal and intimate. It was plainly obvious that he considered her more than a prospective client ("property" was the word he preferred). She did not in any way reciprocate his feelings, but neither did she say anything to drive him away. She knew it was courting trouble to continue to let Green delude himself, but he had become so necessary to her career that Rita couldn't bring herself to mention her change of heart to him. "Maybe later," she kept telling herself.
The first thing Green did to free her from the contract was to challenge the validity both of the contract and of the restraining order. He knew, if Rita didn't, that there was no chance of winning either case, but he hoped that the actions would convince Triphammer that there was no way they could draw her back into the group and that every possible means would be used to break the contract. Basically, it was a gambit to force them to settle with Rita out of court. At the same time, he signed Rita to a contract that bound her to him for the next six years. As he explained it to her, the pact would allow her complete artistic freedom, but would bar her from performing unless it was under his management. Covering himself every way possible, Green didn't date the contract, so that it could not be ruled invalid at some later date. As soon as she broke away from Triphammer fully, he would add a date that would hold up in court, if it ever came to that. Whatever his personal feelings might be, Green was first and always a sharp businessman.
The battle with Triphammer, or what was left of it, dragged on for weeks. At first, Monster, acting as the group's spokesman, refused even to speak with Green's messengers. The action annoyed the head of the Nova empire tremendously, but he wisely realized that he had to keep trying to establish communication between the two camps. Though it irked him to do so, he ignored Monster's rudeness and kept trying to arrange a meeting. At the same time, he intensified his court attack on the validity of the contract.
Finally Monster capitulated and agreed to meet with Green's lawyers. The meeting was arranged for the following Wednesday and everyone, Monster included, arrived on time. The punctuality of the opposition surprised Green somewhat, who had expected the first meeting to be nothing more than a chance for Triphammer to insult him to his face. Not expecting to talk business, he was completely unprepared for what Monster proposed, an unpreparedness that tipped the scales heavily in Triphammer's favor from the very beginning.
"The facts," Monster began, folding his hands on the table before him. "You"-he nodded toward Rita, who sat directly across the table from him-"want out of your contract. There's no way you can possibly do it legally, whatever your lawyers might have told you. You have to deal with us."
"You mean you're ready to sell?" Green asked, taken off guard by Monster's strictly business demeanor.
"We'll sell."
For a moment, a feeling akin to panic swept through Green. He had expected insults and was receiving instead the deal he sought handed to him like a Christmas package. Something was wrong. It wasn't supposed to be that easy. "What's the catch?" he asked.
"She's expensive," Monster replied.
"How expensive?"
"Five hundred thousand."
Green gasped. "But that's more than has ever been paid for a popular musician."
"Only two hundred thousand dollars more," Mark returned, raising his hand to silence Monster, "and we sell more records than that guy."
Green shook his head. "That's more than we'll pay," he muttered. "Rita's an unknown quantity as a single, whatever she may have been to you." His original surprise at their frankness subsiding, Green's business sense quickly reasserted itself, and arguments to drive the price down flowed freely into his brain.
Monster had planned on just that reaction, and he was prepared for it. "Look," he barked, his customary gruffness returning to his voice and the false politeness disappearing, "you're not the only man who's interested. We've already had an offer from a much bigger outfit than Nova. I don't think it will take the too much longer to raise that offer to what we're asking."
"But...."
Monster waved Green down. "We don't particularly care who buys the contract. As a matter-of-fact, I don't like you much and would like to see someone else get it. The price isn't negotiable."
"I don't know," Green said. "I'd have to think."
"Think quick," Monster returned. "This is the last meeting you'll ever have with us."
Green could tell from his voice that Monster meant what he said. If he was to get Rita's contract at all, he'd have to buy it on the spot. Stalling for time, he asked about the terms of payment and was informed that they'd take half within a week and the remainder within the next year. Green winced. They were obviously determined to make it as difficult as possible for him. While the opposition waited in silence, he had a hurried conversation with his lawyers and his accountant.
"You win," he announced finally. "My lawyers will draw up the papers and call you in a couple of days."
"Fine," Monster answered, srniling for the first time since entering the room. "You're getting a real bargain, Bob. Smile."
Monster and the others were chuckling noticeably when they left Green's office. They had taken great care to conceal from Green the one thing that could have hurt them considerably. They had already replaced Rita, and it was now as imperative for them to get rid of her completely as it was for her to get her contract back if she intended to sing again. The half-million-dollar price tag had been a number chosen arbitrarily simply because it was nearly twice as much as the highest amount ever paid for an entertainer's contract. Particularly satisfying was knowing that sooner or later he'd learn that there was never any offer from another company. For all his reputed business acumen, Green had allowed himself to be drawn into their game, and they had euchred him. Monster was so delighted that they had pulled it off that, oblivious of any cops that might be lurking nearby, he walked to their waiting car smoking a joint.
Green was already in bed when Rita emerged from the bathroom. Dropping the towel in which she was wrapped, she glided soundlessly across the carpeted floor and slipped into bed beside him. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Bob," she whispered, noticing the tension in his face, "are you all right?"
He glanced at her briefly and returned his eyes to the ceiling. "Nerves, I guess," he replied. "I'll be all right in a little while." It had been only a few days since his deal with Triphammer was consummated, "and he had yet to find out how thoroughly he'd been taken, but the fact that he'd been unable to win even a single concession from them bothered him. He felt cheated.
Knowing what was bothering him, Rita avoided further conversation. She slid across the sheet until her body brushed lightly against his. Taking his limp tool in her hand, she stroked and caressed it tenderly and succeeded, finally, in getting it to stir. Cupping his sex lightly, she moved her hand slowly up and down the stiffening shaft. Her touch was that of an expert, and as her caresses continued, his warm prick extended itself fully. Rita stripped the covers back from Green's body and looked at him. His eyes still on the ceiling, he was responding nevertheless. Sliding downward on him, she kissed the swollen tip of his pulsing cock and then took it into her mouth and sucked it lovingly, moving her head in a slight rotating motion. Her hand moved freely between the shaft and his balls, touching, caressing, urging him to thrust into her fully.
Green wasn't interested. Feeling her lips claim his upright cock, he relaxed and let her blow him. He didn't feel like exerting himself. Her skilled lips and tongue sent tingles of pleasure from his throbbing tower through his whole body, but through he would have liked it a little faster, he was content to remain passive.
Rita wasn't. Moving smoothly and quickly, she removed her lips from his cock and straddled him, poising his pillar and the drooling lips of her sex. Slowly, her eyes on Green's face, she lowered herself onto the blood-gorged member. Sitting on his pelvis, she could feel the spongy head of his tool pressing impatiently against the entrance, and the feeling convulsed her stomach with little ripples of need. Moving a little more quickly, she raised herself, letting his prick move within her, tickling and tantalizing her oozing cunt walls.
As she began to plunge up and down on him more quickly, until her movements became a wild attempt to feel as much as possible before he came, Green began to respond. He drove his hips upward, meeting her descent and sinking his root into her fiercely. Looking down his chest, he watched as his glistening weapon disappeared into her pubic triangle.
"God," Pdta breathed, barely able to talk, "keep it up. Keep doing it."
Spurred onward, Green took the girl by the waist and twisted, bringing her beneath him. Throwing her legs over his shoulders, he had an unobstructed view of her cunt, and he delighted in the sight of the way it puckered and drooled as he stuffed his fat prick into her. Coming, he let Fata lower her legs, clamping down on his sex and squeezing the last bit of sperm from its relaxing length. Then he rolled off her, spent.
"Bob," Rita said softly a few minutes later, "can we talk for a minute?"
Green rolled onto his side and faced her. "Go ahead," he said.
"Well," she began, looking down and toying idly with his limp sex as she spoke, "now that we've got the contracts and stuff out of the way, I thought that I'd better get back to L.A. and start getting an act together."
Green looked at her as if she were from another planet. "What are you talking about?" he asked rhetorically. "What Los Angeles? You're not going anywhere, you're staying right here."
"Now let's not...."
"That's right," Green snapped, "let's not make nay mistakes about it. You're staying here. We'll put the act together here and you'll live here. Right here. In this apartment."
Rita felt her temper rising. "You don't own me," she snapped. "I'll live where I want and with whom I want." Her eyes burned with indignation as she waited for his rebutal.
He laughed. It was a short, mocking laugh that disturbed her more than his yelling could have. "Guess again," he whispered. "Think about it."
Rita looked puzzled.
Green raised himself up on one elbow and began patiently: "Understand this, I own your contract. You can't perform, record, even take a shit in public unless I handle it. A half million dollars bought that power for me, and I expect a lot more for half a mill than two albums a year. You'll do what I tell you or you won't do anything." He sank back down on his side and stared at her.
"You don't own me," Rita repeated.
In answer, Green took her head in his hands and pushed it down on his body until the tip of his half-erect phallus brushed lightly against her lips. Being held there, Rita considered everything he had said, but was unable to make any sense of it. Finally, resigned, she opened her mouth and took his prick.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It took Green only two weeks to impose his will completely on Rita. She was spirited, and it might have taken him a good deal longer to bring her into line, but in the interim, he discovered how badly he'd been taken by Triphammer and that knowledge made him almost brutal in his treatment of Rita. When he became convinced that she had come around and begun to think of herself as he thought of her-as little more than a piece of property, his manner changed abruptly. He became gender. Most of his old tenderness toward her returned, and he stopped blaming her even slightly for the way Triphammer had used him. He became, in short, the Bob Green of a year earlier, and Rita found much to her own surprise that she began to feel toward him some of the things she used to. After a very bad start, their relationship appeared to be stabilizing.
Working together, they built an act to introduce Rita as a single. Like the girl, Green felt that the strict electric blues sound that Triphammer had specialized in was too narrow a showcase for her vocal talents. The "gutsy" voice that had enabled her to become the top-ranked female singer in the country was only part of her range. Though blues was her forte, Rita was capable as well of doing the softer rhythm and blues numbers and even some ballads. Accordingly, they decided to back her not with a small band, such as Triphammer, but with a full "revue" of the type mainly employed by black soul-type performers.
"Expensive," Rita noted, when Green informed her of his intention to record her backed by a thirty-piece band. The group was to include, in addition to the staples of pop music, guitar and drums, full brass and woodwind sections and a keyboard man.
"Not really," Green explained. "Most of them will just be session men-pick-up musicians we use just for recording. On the road, you'll only have nine men behind you. People don't expect as big a sound in person as on records anyway, so there's no sense in carting a whole orchestra around with you."
His reasoning made sense to her, and they hurriedly set about finding nine men good enough to become permanent members of "The Rita Rayford Show," as the act was to be billed. Appropriately enough, the musicians they finally settled on were all black. After a month of practice, they were ready, and Rita's sound had grown from the hoarse blues of her Triphammer days into an odd combination blues, rhythm and blues, and soul.
"How do they look?" Rita asked as soon as Green got back from the stage, where he had introduced the opening act.
"They could be tough," he said, "or easy. They look like blues freaks, old Triphammer fans, to me. You'll get them, baby, don't worry." He kissed her lightly on the cheek and hurried onto the rear section of the revolving stage to supervise the placement of Rita's band's equipment.
Uncertain, Rita walked around to the edge of the stage just out of sight of the audience, and looked them over herself. They looked tough. Impossible as it might seem, Rita thought she actually recognized some of their faces from the last time she had appeared there as part of Triphammer. Whether she actually did recognize some of them or not seemed academic to her. What did strike her as interesting, however, was the fact that the second group, the function of which was to "warm up" the audience for the main act, was doing anything but that. They were a San Francisco group that had yet to grow out of the psychedelic stage of musical development. Self-consciously freaky-looking and impossibly loud, they played with an intensity designed to drive their listeners out of their minds but succeeded more often in driving them out of their seats and ultimately out of hearing distance. Rita couldn't decide whether the audience's refusal to buy their musical bullshit was a good sign or not.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see the dark, bearded face of Archie, her lead tenor player and the only member of the group with whom she'd become friendly, studying the audience. "Good," he said after a long pause.
"What's good?"
Archie looked down and grinned, his bright teeth flashing in the semi-darkness of the stage wing. "At least they ain't fooled by that garbage," he pronounced.
"Maybe they're just tough," Rita contered. "They look tough to me."
"Quit worrying," he replied. "A tough audience can be won over. Anyone who'd buy that bunch,"-he jerked his thumb at the group on stage-"wouldn't be worth playing for anyway." He spoke the words with the finality of a Times critic and in spite of the fluttering in her stomach Rita felt relaxed.
"Places," someone yelled from backstage. Together, they walked back to where the rest of the band was waiting for them.
The usual procedure at the Nova was for the group to walk out onstage in darkness and bring the lights up on them after the introduction had been made. However, Green felt that since it was Rita's first appearance since leaving Triphammer, her entrance should be more ostentatious. They took their places on the revolving platform backstage as the opening act left stage to a very sparse sprinkling of applause. Waiting, they heard Green's voice from the stage. After a long rap about the concert being Rita's first public appearance without her old band, he introduced her. Still backstage, the band began playing the long opening section of Rita's first number. The light show screen raised and the turntable slowly moved until they were out in front, only a few feet away from the first rows of the audience. Rita started singing.
It wasn't really a bad concert. Rita was incapable of singing badly. But from the very first number it was obvious to everyone present that the fire and excitement generated by Triphammer was absent from The Rita Rayford Show. Her voice was as strong as ever, and the band backing her was better equipped than the smaller group was to showcase her to her best advantage. If anything, they were as musically competent as Triphammer and a strong argument could have been made for their superiority, but they lacked style. Triphammer had been dynamite; the Rita Rayford Show was merely slick.
Rita sensed the trouble from the first song and tried hard to compensate for it, stomping and swaying only inches from the edge of the stage, stretching her voice in an effort to get a little excitement into the audience. But it didn't work. They applauded loudly after every song and sometimes in the middle of one, after she'd hit some incredible note or let a fast run roll from her throat with seeming ease, but they were sedate. When Triphammer played, the audiences stomped, whistled, shouted and danced. Rita was getting only applause.
They finished their set in a little over an hour, played one encore as a matter of course, and left the stage. Rita's face was burning and she didn't want to see anyone. If anything, she wanted to vomit, to get rid of the foul taste that the inadequate concert had left in her mouth. Avoiding contact with Green, she hurried out of the auditorium by a side door, hoping that no one on the street would recognize her, and began to walk blindly. She had no destination in mind, but she knew that she had to get away from the scene of her failure. The mere sight at that moment of Bob or one of the members of her band would have been unbearable. She couldn't stomach the idea of listening to them mouth excuses and condolences. She had blown it and nothing any of them could say would make her feel anything but worse.
She walked for an hour before the sting of the concert had lessened enough to let her realize that she was hungry. She was also cold, the spring air having still some signs of winter in it, and she wished that she'd thought to bring a jacket with her. She walked on until she found a small Italian bar, which she entered.
The place was clean and almost deserted. Sitting down at the bar, she extracted a tight wad of crumpled bills from her pants pocket, smoothed them individually on the bar, counted them and ordered a bottle of wine and a plate of pasta. The bar seemed like a friendly place and the bartender, a short balding man who spoke the deliberate English of one who possesses an incomplete knowledge of the language, saw that she was upset and neither tried to talk to her nor mentioned to her that it was not customary to eat at the bar. After two glasses of the chianti, Rita was genuinely happy that she'd stumbled into the place.
The food was good and she ate it rapidly, slightly surprised that she could eat at all. When she had finished the meal she remained at the bar, chain smoking cigarettes and sipping at the wine. Little by little the bar began to fill. Its patrons seemed mostly to be white collar workers who frequented the place regularly. Rita noted that the bartender knew more than half of them by name and welcomed everyone so enthusiastically that within a half-hour, he had acquired three more first names to remember. A little envious of the simplicity of the bartender's life, she continued to watch him while she worked on the wine.
"Excuse me," the man said, "I know it's an old line, but don't I know you?"
Rita turned and looked at the intruder. He was about forty, dressed in a suit and tie and had streaks of grey on his temples. She was sure it was impossible that they had ever met. "You're right," she answered, turning her eyes back to the bar and noticing with dismay that both the bottle and glass were empty, "it is an old line. Can't you come up with something more original?"
The man was undaunted. "No, really," he replied, sinking onto the adjacent stool, "I know I've seen you somewhere."
Rita looked at him again. It was obvious that he didn't spend his weekends going to rock and roll concerts. Mowing the lawn seemed to be more probably his interest "Not likely," she said.
"I've got it," he cried after a few moments. "I've got it. Rita Rayford You're Rita Rayford!"
Rita motioned to him to be silent and admitted that that was her name.
"I'll be damned," the man said in a softer voice. "Rita Rayford."
Rita let him buy her a drink and listened politely as he poured out all the uninteresting little details of his life to her. She learned that she had been correct, that the man was not a fan. In fact, he had never heard her sing. He had recognized her on the basis of a photograph in a news magazine that some time earlier had done a story on Triphammer. She also learned that the man's name was Hal, that some of his co-workers (he worked in an ad agency) were stoned Rita Rayford fans, that some day the man would undoubtedly get around to attending one of her concerts, and that he was really a frustrated writer posing as a businessman until he finished his novel. Finally, after an hour of trivia, he asked her to go to a hotel with him.
"Just to talk," he added quickly. "It's getting so crowded in here."
Rita studied the man. She was sure that he would prove to be an absolute waste sexually, but she didn't yet feel like returning to Green's apartment and Hal looked as though he was capable of at least giving her a few laughs, even if he wasn't any matinee idol. "Fine," she said finally. "Lead the way."
The hotel Hal took her to was an expensive one near Central Park. Rita waited by the elevator while Hal registered them and then followed him up to the room. Hal, apparently bent upon making a good impression at any cost, immediately phoned room service, ordering a bottle of Scotch and one of bourbon. Watching the precise, self-conscious way he carried himself through all of these proceedings, Rita couldn't help wondering if this was Hal's first "forma!" seduction.
"Excuse me," she murmured. While Hal waited impatiently for the liquor to arrive, Rita slipped into the bathroom and undressed. She remained in the small room until she heard the door open and close again, then she emerged. Stark naked.
Hal, the bottle of bourbon dangling loosely from his fist, looked as if he were going into cardiac arrest. While he watched her, dumbstruck, Rita crossed the floor to the bed and lay down. Arranging her body so that he was looking directly into her crotch, she spread her legs wide and smiled at him.
"Come here, Hal," she growled, trying to sound like every screen siren that his sexual fantasies were built upon. Still smiling, she raised her hips an inch off the mattress and gyrated provocatively.
Coming to his senses Hal put down the liquor and began to strip. She watched with amusement as he tugged frantically at his trousers, succeeding, finally, in shucking them. Naked, he practically ran to the bed, his upright pole bobbing in front of him with each step. Throwing himself upon the waiting girl, he began to jab at her wildly, ramming his prick against the insides of her thighs in one frantic, blind attempt to sink it into her inviting warmth.
"Easy," Rita cooed. 'It's not perishable."
Reaching between them, she took Hal's pulsing cock in hand and guided it to her. Feeling himself between the lips of her wet cunt Hal thrust forward mightily, impaling her on his thrashing root.
"God!" he groaned, feeling her slick pussy slide onto his shaft, enclosing him.
Unmoved by his frantic thrusting, Rita lay back calmly and let him fuck her. Groaning and sweating, Hal pounded into her like it was his first piece of ass. He didn't even notice that she wasn't reciprocating.
Five minutes after he started, he came, spewing his thick jism into Rita's hole without getting so much as a groan from her. Then he fell, sweating, into a heap on top of her. While Hal tried to get his breath back, Rita slid out from beneath him and crossed the room to where he'd set the bottle of bourbon. Sipping at it, she studied Hal's inert form. He was, she decided, the most miserable lay in the world. Taking the bottle with her, she went back to the bed, determined to find out if he was any good at anything.
When Hal rolled onto his back, Rita saw her chance and took it. Before the stunned ad man had a chance to realize fully what was happening, Rita straddled his head and shoved her unfulfilled cunt tightly against his mouth.
"Eat!" she ordered.
At first, he tried to escape, but as she moved her muff more tightly against his mouth he began to get the idea. Rita sucked in her breath sharply as his tongue ran into her. She felt his hands close around the firm balls of her ass and move her slightly. Hal's tongue left her hole and flitted to her clit. The prod-dings of his tongue there sent sharp Shockwaves of lust through her stomach, and she groaned. What Hal lacked in experience, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm. His tongue, tickled, prodded and delved into her drooling pussy until he had her coming continuously, her voice raised in a long sigh of passion.
After eating her, Hal seemed to want to get out of the room. He took a slug of the Scotch, picked up his clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged he was fully dressed. He stared at the floor. At first, Rita thought he was nervous about some wife or girlfriend he'd neglected to mention, but as he steadfastly refused to talk to her or raise his eyes to her face, Rita realized that he was ashamed. The idea annoyed her.
"What's the matter?" she asked, wanting him at least to admit his shame. Hal didn't answer.
"Look," she suggested, sick of his brooding presence, "why don't you just leave."
Without answering, Hal got to his feet and shuffled toward the door, his head still bowed. His simpering obedience seemed to Rita to be the most repulsive display of gutlessness she'd ever seen, and she felt that she had to hurt him.
"You know something, Hal," she said before he made it to the door, "you may not be a great lay, but you're a born cunt lapper."
At that remark, something seemed to snap in Hal. He turned back to Rita and she saw that his eyes were brimming with tears. He was on her before she had a chance to get away, driving his fist into her face again and again and crying.
He was still punching her when Rita lost conscious ness.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Waking in the hospital, Rita's first impulse was to find a mirror, but she could not bring herself to ring for the nurse to bring her one. She wanted to see how bad her face looked, but she was afraid to look. The last memory she had was of Hal's meaty fist slamming into her relentlessly, and if it had done as much damage as she thought, she didn't want to see the result.
With her tongue, she felt around the inside of her mouth and was surprised to find that she still had all her teeth. It didn't seem possible to her, but none of them even seemed chipped. She checked a second time, to make sure, and felt convinced that somehow her teeth had survived. It was then that she realized that she could only see out of one eye. She raised her hand, almost expecting to find a gaping hole where her left eye had been, and discovered that the entire left side of her head, eye and ear included, was encased in a thick gauze bandage. Investigating further, she learned that the bandages covered the dome of her head as well, and ended just above her right eyebrow. Scared, she found the buzzer on her pillow and summoned the nurse.
"Well, we're awake, are we?" the nurse said cheerfully, using that familial plural that seems designed to convince the patient that he is no worse off than the medical staff. She was a buxom woman about forty-five, and finding Rita awake she bustled about the room efficiently, opening drapes and straightening out the bedclothes.
"What's the matter with me?" Rita asked.
"You took quite a beating," the nurse said, "but don't worry, the police have the man."
"I don't give a shit about him," Rita burst out vehemently. "What's wrong with me? What are all these bandages for?" She pointed at her head.
Undismayed by the girl's tone, the nurse looked at her owlishly for a moment before answering. "You may have a concussion," she said flatly. "And you're pretty well bruised up."
"What about my eye?"
"Beautiful shiner," the nurse gurgled, "but that's all. You're very lucky. It could have been worse."
Telling someone who is in a hospital bed with a possible busted skull and other injuries that he is very lucky struck Rita as being perhaps the most asinine remark possible. She had to struggle with herself to keep from screaming something foul at the nurse. "May I have a mirror, please?" she asked after her cool returned.
The look on the nurse's face when she looked up implied that to ask that question you'd have to be stupid. "Sure," she said, "only if you figure on seeing how bad you're hurt, forget it. Everything that isn't under the bandage looks just fine."
"Could I have the mirror anyway?"
"Sure," the nurse answered. "Just hang on until I'm done here." She finished straightening the bedclothes and marched to the door, where she paused. "You sure there's nothing else you want before I go? I hate to waste a trip."
Rita sat up in bed and looked around the room. She was surprised that she felt so good. "Do you have any magazines?" she asked. "Magazines, books, anything?"
"Why don't you have a TV brought up?" the Nightingale suggested. "They know you can afford it and they would have put one up here before, only they weren't sure you wanted one."
"Bring it," Rita ordered.
The nurse left and an hour later two men who wore the green uniform of the hospital housekeeping staff appeared bearing a portable television. They placed it on the platform suspended from the ceiling for that purpose and then left, first giving Rita the remote control device with which she was to control the machine. She neglected the device at first, waiting, instead, for Bob Green to show up. She felt certain that he knew that she was in the hospital and she thought that it would be only a matter of hours before he appeared. Five hours later Green had still not made his entrance, and Rita turned on the television.
The fact was that Bob Green had no intention of coming to the hospital. He had spent the first few hours since learning of Rita's injuries frantically phoning people to keep the item out of the newspapers. He felt, rightly, that after Rita's poor debut as a solo performer, she (i.e. his investment in her) could only be hurt by the publicity that would arise from the incident. It took nearly all the connections that he had, but Green finally succeeded in keeping mention of the beating out of all the dailies except one, and that papers circulation did not generally include readers who could affect Rita's career one way or the other.
After completing his public relations snow job, Green slept for a few hours and then spent a little more of his time merely thinking about Rita. The fact that she had gone out and gotten laid by a man she'd picked up in a bar was bad enough to make Green resolve to punish her. The fact that in the process of doing so she had managed to get herself beaten up, hospitalized and compromised to the point where even he couldn't block out all news coverage of the incident was horrifying. No matter how hard he tried (and he didn't try very hard), Green could never forgive her for that sort of impropriety. He resolved not to visit her in the hospital.
After the first spasm of indignation at being neglected by her own manager had passed, Rita didn't at all mind Green's failure to visit her. She rather enjoyed it, and she found that the longer he stayed away, the more independent and self-sufficient she felt. She played with the remote control television, more interested in the way it worked than the programs that were on the air, until she found an old movie that as a child she had seen in a theatre. Viewing this Hollywood product of her youth, Rita felt strangely sad. She hadn't run from failure and humiliation the same way that she had the night of her beating. By the time the film was over and the credits were rolling slowly across the small screen, Rita had decided to stop running. She would play Green's game as long as it profited her to do so, but she would no longer lass his ass out of fear or ambition. If the beating had taught her anything, it was that she had to be her own woman again, even if it meant wrecking her career.
After the movie, she watched the evening news. In his voice that always seemed on the brink of breaking into open laughter, David Brinkley informed her that during the past week less than a hundred and fifty Americans had met their deaths in Vietnam. It was small consolation to know that over twice as many ARVN regulars had died and that over a thousand of the anonymous enemy had been exterminated. In disgust, she switched the channel and watched Walter Cronkite's Man on the Road interview a man who had abandoned a promising career as an academic sculptor to carve some mountain into the shape of an Indian on horseback. However foolish she considered the venture to be, Rita decided that she'd rather battle a mountain than Vietnamese. When the report had had time to sink in, she even found herself admiring the man a little. At least he knew what he wanted to do-and he was doing it.
She thought she was asleep, either dreaming or hallucinating, when Monster's face replaced Walter Cronkite's on the tube. She shook her head in an attempt to clear her brain but the face remained. Then the big man opened his mouth to sing and with the first syllable she knew that it was not an illusion. It was Monster, and he was singing on the television. Turning the sound up as far as she could, Rita leaned back into her pillows and listened. The song was "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean"-a number she used to do with Monster. She opened her eyes and watched as the camera slowly panned back from Monster's hairy face to include the rest of Triphammer in its scope.
"Two white horses following, Waiting on my burying ground...." Hearing a feminine voice join Monster on the chorus, Rita almost expected to find herself in the picture. Maybe, she thought, it's an old film. Maybe it's the old Triphammer. The fact that the voice was not hers didn't occur to her until she saw the group's newest member. Standing a little behind Monster, next to Mark, was Trixie, formerly of Daisy Chain. Being as busy as she had been assembling and rehearsing her new group, Rita had had no time to read the trade papers and keep abreast of new developments in the field. If she had, she would have known that Daisy Chain had dissolved immediately after the tour they did with Triphammer. Out of work for only a month, Trixie had been picked up to replace Rita as soon as it was clear that the latter wasn't returning to Triphammer. It was obvious, even to one as personally involved as Rita, that the girl didn't have the vocal range necessary to keep up with the Monster's soaring guitar work, but the others had compensated for that fact by centering the act less on one person. In addition to Monster, who had always done some vocal work, Mark and Peter sang as well. Even Sam did one song-a parody of soul music that included the bassist's prancing, exaggerated version of a dance called the Popcorn. It was obvious that they hadn't been hurt that much by Rita's departure, and she couldn't help being just a little hurt.
Closing her eyes, she shut out Triphammer's visual show and just listened to the music. She didn't need the stage presence, anyway. She knew it; she knew it form the inside. Mark's voice came over the air and she was gone.
They were back at Big Sur, back on the cliffs that had been their home. Monster and the others were there, too, but mostly it was just her and Mark. Mostly Mark. Leaving the others in the house, they went out back and climbed carefully down the cliffs to the small ledge from which it seemed possible to see almost all the Pacific Ocean. The view was so vast, so overwhelming, that it was impossible to believe that what they saw was only a minute part of the whole.
They would undress one another, touching each other tenderly as the clothes fell away and were tossed to one corner of the ledge. Lying down, she would cradle Mark's head between her breasts, rubbing his hair while he kissed and nibbled at her taut nipples. The strength of the ocean beneath her and her lover's strength above and around her, she would feel complete.
Moving his hands carefully, anxious not to hurt or rush her, Mark would slowly open her cleft and massage her clit. Each touch of his fingers would bring a fresh flood of juices from her yearning cavity. Her hands would find his large cock and stroke it lovingly. She would rub the head of his heavy weapon on her stomach, her breasts, her face, her slit.
"Mark," she would whisper, not wanting to rush him but yet needing so much to feel him within her. She wouldn't have to say more than his name. He would understand and slip between her welcoming thighs, his huge organ touching lightly the opening of her pit. Wet with the juices of her desire, she would raise her ass from the rock. "Now," she would say.
First she would feel the delicious teasing of his sex opening her slick cuntiips, but going no further. Slipping the throbbing knob of his stave into her, Mark would move it slowly back and forth. Rita would moan and move her hips higher to meet his conquering thrust, and she would feel the ripples of pleasure his presence set off within her as his hot meat slowly slid into her, moving her from the ledge to the clouds, changing her from a personality to a sweating, shivering lump of happy flesh.
"Again," she would say, and they would fuck again, over and over until it was impossible to go on. Then she would claim his tired prick with her mouth and suck it while they watched the sun quench itself in the Pacific. She would....
"You know I'm yours and I'm hers. Won't somebody, somebody please tell me what to do...." Monster's snarling guitar snapped her back into consciousness, and she opened her eyes to see him hulking over his instrument, cradling it, coaxing it, appearing, at times, even to be making love to it. His face contorted into a strange mask of bliss and pain, he moved around the stage like a caged animal looking for way out while Trixie's voice sailed loud and clear over his howling guitar. Seeing Trixie in her place on stage, looking back and smiling between lines at Mark, Rita was seized with the momentary desire to throw the remote control device through the screen. Had she thought it would stop Triphammer permanently, she would have done so. It just wasn't fair!
The nurse entered to find her with her hand raised in the air, hung between throwing the device at the television and merely turning the set off. Rita's agitation was so great that even the nurse, mother hen that she was, didn't attempt to interfere. A single look let her know that such a move would be unwise.
A few moments later an intern armed with a syringe full of barbituate arrived and Rita went to sleep without ever seeing the end of the program.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Complicated by the burst of violence brought on by seeing Triphammer on television, Rita's stay in the hospital was nevertheless a short one. The X-rays showed no sign of a concussion or skull francture, and after keeping her under observation for a few days to make sure that her fits, as the incident with the television was thereafter referred to, were not related to the beating, the doctors decided that she was ready to leave the hospital.
Looking at herself after the removal of the bandages, Rita was shocked at how ugly she was. She had been used to seeing only that part of her face which had been left unbandaged, and as the nurse had told her, there had been no damage done to that side. Though she knew that the same would not be true of the bandaged side, she was still shocked to see just how badly she had been pounded. The days in the hospital had given her bruises just enough time to turn from black and blue to a motley combination of dark blue and brown. Rita thought that she looked as though she'd been run over by a tank.
Though he had remained steadfast in his resolve not to visit her in the hospital, Green was waiting for her when she presented her discharge papers at the front desk. Perhaps it was because he didn't apologize or offer any excuses for his absence, perhaps because she was happy to know that at least one person was waiting for her, but Rita was actually glad to see her temperamental manager. Before presenting her papers to the severe-looking matron at the desk, she rushed to Green's side and kissed him lightly.
"They fix you up all right?" he asked, eyeing her critically.
Rita nodded.
"You look like hell." Taking her chin in his hand, he turned her head to get a good look at her injuries. He whistled softly under his breath. "You sure you're all right?" he asked again.
I'm fine. Come on, let's get out of here." Tossing her papers onto the desk, Rita turned and exited before the woman on duty had a chance to read further than her name. After nearly a week in the hospital, Rita figured she had better things to do than wait for an old woman to rubber-stamp a pile of forms.
'You didn't do so well the other night, you know," Green said once they were seated in the car.
"I was off," Rita replied.
Green shook his head. "It was more than that," he answered. "You just weren't ready. It's as much my fault as yours. Anyway, I cancelled the rest of the tour."
"All of it?" Rita wailed. "But I'll be ready to work in a week or so-as soon as my face looks better."
'You make your living with your pipes," Green snapped, "not your throat. We've got to get some sort of life into that band of yours or the face of a china doll won't be any help to you."
Rita could see that there was no sense trying to argue with him. "Well?" she asked.
"Practice. There's a festival in Texas in two months. If you want it, you can take that, but nothing before then."
"Take it," Rita ordered. She was determined to make up for the first concert, no matter what it took.
In the weeks that followed, Rita saw practically nothing of Green. Busy with the band, she spent as many as ten hours a day rehearsing in the basement studio of Nova Enterprises. For his part, Green was kept constantly busy managing his other properties, and though they continued to live in the same apartment, they rarely saw more of each other than a blanketed lump at the other side of the bed.
After a couple of weeks, it became clear to Rita that it was impossible trying to work with the band as it presently stood. She hesitated, knowing that Green considered her back-up musicians to be the best available, but eventually her feverish desire to made the act into something to be proud of forced her to go to Green and suggest changing some of the band's personnel. To her surprise, Green hadn't the slightest objection. Even more surprising, he asked her to handle the auditions herself, claiming that for him to do it would be impossible due to business commitments. Rita bought his story, but the real reason for his action was that Green had come to realize that Rita was better equipped to tell what she wanted than he was. She would remain his personal property, he had no intention of changing that arrangement in the slightest, but musically she could do whatever she pleased.
He had decided that no matter how strong the desire grew to force her to do something his way, he would resist it.
Finding herself with a virtually free hand for the first time in her career, Rita lost no time in making use of it. She assumed that Green wanted her to do everything herself, and so without consulting him further, she went about changing the basic structure of the group. She fired all but two of the band members, keeping only Archie and her drummer, and then started auditions. Two weeks later, she had not only a new band, but also a completely new kind of band-one where the total number of musicians was pared from nine to six.
Composed of three black and three white members, the new band was an attempt to return to the hard-edged Triphammer sound while maintaining enough brass to fill in the gaps and lend weight to some of the heavier arrangements. Deciding that at least part of her debut failure had been because her fans weren't interested in soul music or rhythm and blues no matter how well she did it, she discarded most of those numbers and centered her act around a number of Chicago-type blues tunes. The Beatles' advice to "get back" seemed to her the best advice available at the moment, so she got back and hoped that the musicians could do their part quickly enough to permit her to appear at the festival, which was now less than a month away.
"All right," Rita barked, "maybe we're pushing it too hard." The musician looked at her with expressions ranging from sympathy to disgust. They had been in the studio for over six hours that day and had so far failed to please her even once. In her frantic drive to make good at the festival, she was driving them to work at the same fierce rate that she set for herself. Most of them understood her obsession and didn't complain, but there were a couple of grumblers who felt that she was taking out her personal frustrations on them. "Knock it off for half an hour," Rita ordered. "We'll try it again then."
While the band laid down its instruments, and shuffled out of the room, Rita went to a small adjoining office and closed the door behind her. There she flicked on the small tape deck they used to record their practice sessions and listed critically, smoking a cigarette. There was something wrong, she knew, but she couldn't tell exactly what it was. Behind her, the door creaked open.
"No soul," Archie's voice told her. She turned and smiled at the tall spade.
"What?"
"The band," Archie explained, "they're playing mechanically. No soul."
Rita reversed the tape and listened to the song again. Archie was right. That was the trouble. For all its proficiency, her band had nothing, or no one, to equal the soaring, sometimes careless, guitar runs that made Triphammer so much fun to listen to. She looked at Archie. The question was an obvious one.
Archie took a few steps forward and sat down on the deck beside her. "Don't be so tight with the band," he said. "Let them improvise a little. You'll be surprised what it will do."
"We'll try it," she said, looking at the way his pants, stretched tightly across his groin, outlined his impressive cock clearly. Without speaking, she reached over and impulsively squeezed the bulge. Even soft, his tremendous staff was bigger than anything she'd ever seen.
Coming as it did, without warning, her action surprised Archie at the same time that it sent a thrill of pleasure up from his crotch. "Don't play with fire," he sighed, feeling her touch bring life to his dormant prick instantly.
Rita laughed huskily. For the last few days, Green had been neglecting her, and her land of woman could not go very long without feeling a man hot within her. Feeling Archie's massive pole stiffen under her hand and press itself powerfully against the restraining tautness of his slacks, she was swept by a wave of need that she had not experienced since returning home from the hospital. She looked again at Archie's bulging crotch. There it was, ready for her. All she had to do was....
'I don't mind getting burned," she smiled. "Bum me." As she spoke her hand found the fly of his pants and she tugged at it, anxious to see the man's meat exposed.
Her ineffectual tugs at his zipper had no effect beyond making the big musician hornier than he already was. Brushing her hand away from his crotch impatiently, Archie stood and deftly skinned off his shirt and pants. When he turned back to her, Rita thought she'd faint. Rooted in a thin patch of dark hair, his huge member curved upward towards her with a length she'd never imagined possible. Blue-black and as hard as steel, Archie's pulsing sex pointed at her with unflagging rigidity. It didn't seem possible. Rita felt her cunt start to drool just from the sight of his magnificent cock.
"Give it to me," she begged hoarsely and Archie stepped forward, allowing her to hold the steaming root in her hands. She felt her courage fleeing her as she realized how huge he really was. Even when she used both hands, at least two inches extended beyond her grasp. Quivering with anticipation, she stroked Archie's root tenderly as he opened the belt of her slacks and eased them down over her hips. His touch was firm and cool and when his hand found and opened the burning walls of her cleft, Fata realized that she had to have him inside her. She had to have him right away!
Easing herself back onto the desk, she lay back, half on and half off its flat surface. "Please," she moaned, opening her thighs to receive him, "now." Archie glided forward and poised his black snake at the burning sex. Bracing her with his hands on her waist, he watched as his prick slowly forced its way into Rita's hungry box. Feeling his thickness stretch her cunt walls taut as it drove into her, Rita was sure that he would cleave her in half, but she was far beyond caring. Her hips jerked upward in an involuntary response to his presence, clamping down on the standing Negro's warm pillar, squeezing it, tantalizing it. Feeling her urging him onward, Archie slowly picked up the pace until his gargantuan manhood was slashing into the tossing girl's happy body. Standing, as he was, between her outstretched and welcoming thighs, Archie was able to pierce her fully, and with each thrust the swollen, spongy head pounded like a battering ram at the door to her womb.
"That's it," she whispered, feeling the first tremors of orgasm shake her delicate frame. "That's...."
Her whisper turned to a wail of ecstasy as Archie's hot, throbbing length zinged into her fully and exploded, spraying her cervix with his burning semen. She couldn't hold it all and Archie watched some of the come ooze out of her and mingle with her pubic hair and his. His whole body tingled with the warmth of fulfillment. As much as he hated to admit it of a white chick, Rita was a dynamite fuck.
During the rest of the practice sessions that preceeded their opening in Texas Rita was noticeably more relaxed. Everyone noticed it, but only Rita and Archie knew the reason why.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Austin was hot, as it always is early in the summer. The plane that carried them there landed after being forced to fly a holding pattern for over an hour. Rita didn't know the reason for the delay, but she guessed that some of the groups were flying to the festival by private plane, enabling them to make a fast getaway after the show, and that because of the increased numbers of arriving aircraft there was some sort of foul-up on the field below. Rita didn't really care. She wasn't scheduled to perform until the middle of the next afternoon, the airplane was air-conditioned, and Austin, crowded by hordes of rock fans of every conceivable type, was undoubtedly unbearable.
Although Green had decided to travel to Texas with her and was on the plane along with the members of the band, their equipment handlers, and assorted hangers-on, Rita didn't sit with him. For the last two weeks before the festival, he had reverted to his formerly nasty self and hadn't missed a single opportunity to insult, criticize, or ridicule her. She had no way of knowing it, but his behavior was prompted by his knowledge of her affair with Archie. He and Rita had little use for each other sexually after the incident with Hal, but Green still viewed her preference for the tall spade as a personal insult. The old desire to punish her was returning. His motives remained unknown to her, but his behavior alone was enough to make her avoid him whenever possible.
After the plane landed and they disembarked, Green informed them that he was going to the festival site to check on the sound system. Rita's complete lack of concern with his comings and goings angered him further, and he resolved to make her pay. Shooting a final dark look at Archie, he left
"She's going to be there, you know," Trixie murmured.
Peter moved his hand lightly across her creamy breast, tracing an imaginary line from one taut nipple through the depression between her tits and up the slope to the other nipple. Hanging half-way out of the window, the hotel air-conditioner whirred busily, sending a soft stream, of cool air over their naked forms. "So what?" he answered, his voice the pinnacle of lack of concern.
Trixie sighed and moved her hand along his side until it rested on one side of his rump. "I don't know. I just thought that you know, that her being here at the same time might cause some kind of scene."
"Scene?"
Tension."
Peter moved his hand from her breasts to the fuzzy mound of her cunt. Trixie slid her legs apart and he slipped his hand between them. "I doubt it," he said. "It doesn't bother me anyway. I can't speak for the others." His finger spread the halves of her mound and slipped into her cleft. Moaning, Trixie raised her hips a little, pushing her dampening cunt against his hand. Stroking her clitoris, Peter was struck as how quickly her juices flowed. His penis stiffened in anticipation, butting against her flank.
Trixie felt its insistent presence and grasped it lightly. She held his prick as if it were a little bird that too much pressure might hurt. Still cupping his sex very lightly, she began to jerk him off. Groaning, Peter raised himself and Trixie slipped beneath him. As his rigid engine slid into her slippery warmth, Trixie pressed her mouth to his ear and whispered: "Let's make it last. We've got a lot of time."
Agreeing, Peter began to move slowly within her.
Arriving in the performer's area the next day, Rita recognized one of the backstage figures immediately. Leaning against the base of one of the sound towers, larger than ever and more casual than ever, was Monster. For a second, Rita had to resist the impulse to run. Green, knowing that whatever she said to the contrary Triphammer was still in her blood, had carefully deleted their name from the list of other acts to play the festival. Anxious to punish her for her affair with the saxophonist, he had decided that the best way was to let her punish herself. The thought was that finding Triphammer present, Rita would get nervous and turn in a poor performance. He hadn't counted on the changes Rita had gone through since getting involved with her new group. She was a stronger woman than he gave her credit for.
After the initial shock at seeing Monster there, Rita calmed and realized that it was only logical for him to be present Triphammer was, after all, one of the hottest groups in the country, and the Texas festival was the first major one of the festival season. She decided that she was foolish to think that they wouldn't be there. Ignoring the hulking figure, she walked quickly by the sound tower to the spot where her equipment handlers were unpacking and assembling her band's paraphernalia.
"Rita!" the voice called. She turned and saw Monster lumbering over to where she stood. Though there were many security police in the area, a thick joint smoldered in his paw and his face was a mask of stoned bliss. "Hello," he said simply, coming to an uncertain halt in front of her and offering her the joint "Heard you were gonna be here."
Rita eyed the joint and Monster suspiciously.
"Take it" he urged her. "It's good shit"
Smiling at his simple passivity, she took the joint toked it and passed it back to him. "Are you playing today?" she asked after exhaling. .
"Tonight" Monster answered. "But I heard you were going on earlier, so I came over to wish you luck."
"Really? I didn't expect it."
Monster looked hurt. "More nastiness?" he asked. "Is that really what you expected from us?" He looked as if the mere suggestion was distasteful. "What did it ever get us?"
Rita shrugged and toked at the joint
"Really," Monster insisted. "We've both got what we want now, don't we?"
Rita looked doubtful. "I guess so," she conceded finally. "Are you going to stay and watch?"
"Did you ever doubt it?" Grinning broadly, he dug two fresh joints out of his pocket and handed them to her. "Nerve medicine," he explained. Patting her lightly on the cheek, he turned and wandered off, his retreating figure looking to Rita like a fat, stoned Charlie Chaplin of the Sixties. His simple kindness made her want to cry.
If Green had covered himself more adequately, he might have succeeded in wrecking Rita's performance, but expecting Triphammer's presence to do his work for him was a mistake. If anything, knowing that Monster was watching made the girl more determined than ever to succeed. She smoked both of Monster's gift joints and by the time she went on stage nothing could have frightened her.
The bad year leading up to the festival was forgotten completely, and it was the Rita of old who clutched the mike fiercely and howled out the opening of "Born Under a Bad Sign." The crowd picked up on her immediately, and from the first song she was soaring. Behind her, the band got involved too, spinning off long, reefing improvisations that had never occurred to them until the moment they played them and yet seemed to fit perfectly. Stepping aside, she surrendered the stage to the band for the second number, a jazz instrumental that gave all of them a chance to show off a little. It was only a gesture, but the crowd seemed to view it as proof of Rita's ego-loss and when she reclaimed the mike, twisting the last few bars of the instrumental into the opening section of "Grasshopper", a large section of the audience was on its feet applauding both her departure and her return.
Monster watched the show from the small section directly in front of the stage. Near the end of her set, he climbed up on the apron of the stage and handed her a bottle of bourbon.
"Beautiful!" he yelled when she reached down to take the gift from rum, After she did three encores, Rita left the stage. Monster hurried back to the performer's area to catch her before she left.
On stage, Triphammer never changed. The songs were changed from time to time, and the personnel had changed once, but neither factor altered the one immutable fact of the performing lives. They were exciting. In many people's mind, they were the most exciting group in the business. Their appearance that night was no exception. The crowd had come there to hear their kind of music and couldn't get enough of Triphammer.
Monster howled, laughed and spun off guitar riffs that stunned the audience. Trixie sang. Peter sang. Mark talked. Sam did his impression of a faggot soul singer, mincing around the stage lamely and lisping instructions to the audience to "Get it on, for heaven's sake!" It was, in short, a night of Triphammer doing their thing, which, though it had changed slightly over the time they'd been together, never ceased to entertain. It was Triphammer.
When Rita walked on stage and joined them all hell broke loose. The band looked at her dumbly, not knowing what to make of her presence. Monster beamed! "Surprise!" he roared at the others. He had invited her to join them on stage after her performance that afternoon, and, with his Santa Claus love for surprises, had neglected to mention the fact to anyone. Trixie stepped aside and Rita strode boldly up to the microphone and wrenched it from the stand. Aiming his guitar at the audience as if it were a weapon, Monster burned through a line that stung their ears in its intensity. Hunched over the mike, her right heel clattering rapidly on the stage floor, Rita screamed an inarticulate reply and they were off.
The audience had loved her that afternoon, but seeing her reunited, however temporarily, with the hand that had spawned her drove them wild. The entire audience, a field crowded with thousands of humans, rose en masse. Clapping and cheering, they refused to let her go off. Fata looked around to the men in the band for permission to do a second number. All of them were smiling.
For a while it was like the old days, before a combination of evils split Rita from the group. Looking to her left, watching smiling heads rolling crazily from side to side, she almost felt that none of it had ever happened. But beyond Monster, standing at the edge of the stage clutching a piece of paper that looked remarkably like her contract, she could see Bob Green. His mere presence seemed to beckon to her, to remind her that everything had happened and that there was no going back. Ignoring him, Rita turned and faced the audience. For a while, as long as she stayed on that stage, she knew she could go back.
