WHEN PAUL RAYMOND STUMBLED ON TO THE NARCOTICS smuggling ring that revolved around the most beautiful young chess master in the world, he was astounded especially after she sent hired thugs to fuck his wife in an effort to find out if she knew anything about their operation. But, moving with the skill of a trained chess expert, he made move after move that brought him closer and closer to the checkmate he wished most.
For Paul Raymond was an avid chess fan, not yet ranked as expert but entered in a Swiss-type tournament in Chicago, and when he faced young Mona Semmring, her body was too much temptation for him. Even though he had his own Michele back at the apartment, a chic young wife who was everything he could ask for in bed, he found it impossible to resist the nineteen-year-old's wiles in luring him into her bed. Beginning with a mutual masturbation bout on an airliner carrying them to Chicago from San Francisco, they wasted little time in trying each other on for size.
But at the back of Paul's mind there was something nagging ... something he couldn't put his finger on but which seemed significant. Peculiarities of Mona's speech, other facts gleaned from casual inquiry and ending finally when he accidentally dropped one of Mona's chess pieces during a tournament and found it hollow and containing heroin, led him to the inexorable conclusion that he had, in fact, stumbled upon a narcotics ring of no mean proportions.
To put an end to their operations, he broke one thug's wrist with a hammer before throwing another over a balcony railing forty-eight floors above the sidewalk, then raped Mona to repay her for the rape of his wife before turning the now-pleading girl over to the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. Greed drove the brilliant girl who headed the ring to exploit the misery and degradation of the thousands of customers who poured their money into her coffers, and she paid heavily for it. It is a tragedy, and a sad commentary on the society of today, that Mona Semmring, wealthy, lovely and adored, would feel compelled to turn to crime. She needed nothing in the way of the world's goods, and she had a brilliant intellect that had made her, at nineteen, a respected chess master. She hated her father, as we learn from statements she makes at several points in the story, but that is insufficient motivation for the extremes of her acts. She was an amoral as an alley-cat, willing to do anything for her own pleasure, and caring nothing at all about anything else.
As a chess player she was an expert.
As a human being, a failure.
-Richard A. Tatum, Los Angeles, California August, 1968
CHAPTER ONE
PAUL RAYMOND STOOD AT THE BAY WINDOW OF THE office on the tenth floor of the Pure Oil Building, nostalgically enjoying the view of the gaunt, bleached Wrigley Building and the ice-covered Chicago River. Looking to the left, he could observe the State Street bridge and, on the other side, the two huge circular monuments to Chicago's building prowess known as the Marina Towers. He reflected that he was a very lucky man, with an absorbing, well-paying job in one of the city's best advertising agencies and an apartment on the 48th floor of the West Tower. All he had to do to get to work was to cross the bridge and take two elevators in the process.
There wasn't anywhere he'd rather live than Chicago, and there wasn't a better place for creature comforts than the site of his own apartment. From it, he could watch the bridges going up and hear the bells ring their warning as freighters bearing newspaper pulp or coal or lumber made their stately way up that sluggish, murky-colored watery inlet which cut like a jagged sword into the very heart of downtown Chicago. And what a view he had of the sunrise and sunset, or of raging thunderstorms, or the thick fall of the first real winter snow. From his apartment, it seemed that he could reach out and touch those tradition-rich buildings like the London Guarantee or this one in which he worked, or a world-famous restaurant like Fritzel's. And yet in the Marina Towers, enclosed snuggly and warmly, he had his own luxurious little world. He could be convivial with neighbors or live unto himself, just as he chose. There wasn't the noisiness of the small town, and yet one of Chicago's greatest charms was that he could talk to a stranger next door and become fast friends in an hour. On neither Atlantic nor Pacific Coast had he found such a genuine gregariousness mingled with just the right dash of savoir-faire and independence. That was just another reason why Chicago was Paul Raymond's town.
Of course, the bridges wouldn't be going up much this time of year not in early February with the ice so thick that you could risk a bet on walking across it. Ten days from now, he'd be forty years old, but he didn't feel that age at all. And he didn't really look it, except for a faint touch of gray to his stubbornly and naturally curly brown hair, pleasantly rounded features, mild blue eyes and firm, incisive mouth. Just an inch under six feet tall, he was sturdily built, but the advancing years hadn't quite managed to give him the tell-tale paunch and stooped shoulders of the perennial office worker.
The clock on the top of the Wrigley Building said three minutes after five. There was a leaden-gray sky out there, and Paul could see lights in the offices standing out like blazing jewels against the dreary backdrop of the outdoors. It had looked very much like this when he had been in Paris for the first time, a little over thirteen years ago.
Paul Raymond had been born in Chicago, taken a journalism degree at Northwestern, and started as a catalog copywriter at Montgomery Ward. His father had been a wealthy linen importer with an elegant salon on Michigan Avenue and others in New York, Paris, London and Los Angeles. In fact, Paul Raymond had been sent to Los Angeles for his junior and high school education because his father had just opened his latest branch in that city of conglomeration and contradiction. The idea had been for him to master languages like French and Italian, so that one day he would be ready to take over his father's business. Only, Paul's uncle on his mother's side had done that when his father had suffered what had proved to be a fatal stroke, his mother having no power of attorney and he still being a minor. So he'd come back to his own home town, a penniless adolescent, because his father had been, for all his business acumen, a gentle idealist who put all his money back into the business and who didn't believe in insurance. There'd been at most a few thousand dollars as his inheritance which had put him through college.
But he'd kept up his study of French until he was as fluent as a native Parisian. From Ward's he'd gone on to a job in a small advertising agency, and one evening at the agency's cocktail party, had met a taciturn, gray-haired executive who was said to have some important government job though it was never actually specified what kind it was who drew him out about his political views and his knowledge of French. The next thing he knew, he'd gotten a phone call to go out to a lumber warehouse on the West Side one evening. There he'd met the gray-haired man of the cocktail party, who'd turned out to be a key recruiter for the OSS. The upshot of that meeting had sent Pal Raymond over to Paris to work with a mercurial, vivacious young inspector of the Surete by the name of Jules Grandin in helping round Up a clever gang of counterfeiters.
He'd come back with a citation from a grateful French government, and an introduction from the man who'd been responsible for his assignment to the advertising firm of Beasley and Kershaw. It was a much better agency than the one he'd been working for, and his progress had been steady Now the firm's name was Beasley, Kershaw & Raymond, and he was the man in charge of new business at a salary which, with bonuses and other fringe benefits, raked in about forty-thousand dollars a year.
For that matter, the weather in Paris had been almost exactly the same two years ago, when Grandin, by then head of the Surete, had summoned him to help track down the terrorist leader of the Algerian National Liberation Front. There had been a plot to assassinate several high-ranking government officials, and he had helped Grandin put an end to the murderous career of Mohammed Galuffa. He had also had a brief romance with Galuffa's maddeningly exciting red-haired mistress Monique, who had danced almost naked in a cafe owned by the terrorist leader, while upstairs Galuffa and his henchmen plotted the downfall of De Gaulle's France.
He sighed wistfully as he finished his cigarette and turned away from the window. It was time to go home, but somehow the evening would be lacking without some unusual bit of diversion. Today was an anniversary of a sort, and anniversaries were something special. If he were back in Paris now, he could wander along the narrow Rue de Mercier in the heart Montmartre and be accosted by half a dozen lovely poules, who could create the illusion of love for a few hundred francs.
As he drew on his topcoat, he took a last look at his desk. The ad proofs for clients, the memos on new business and copies of presentations for that business, research data from the media department everything had been attended to today, thanks to the efficiency of his plump, good-natured, brown-haired secretary Lucille Furnol, who was married to the agency's very capable marketing director. He could very easily take some time off and combine a much-needed vacation with a national open chess championship, the first to be staged in Chicago in over thirty years. Chess had been his keenest hobby since high school, and at last he'd have a chance to see how he could fare over the board with recognized masters of the royal game.
As he went out of the lobby through the swinging door onto Wacker Drive, the cold fingers of the bleak February evening clawed at his cheeks and hair. He had never worn a hat, and in the Windy City, it was really a waste of time. He'd seen too many people scrambling down Michigan Avenue in frantic search for a hat that had been carried off by a sudden gust. Besides,-wearing a hat was just another mark of conformity, and life sometimes was dull enough without that. Yes, it would be nice to have a little distraction this evening.
He walked slowly towards State Street, intending to cross over to the bridge and thence to the Marina Towers. As he waited for the light to change, a woman came out of the phone booth on the corner of the parking lot and approached him. She stood beside him and gave him a look of frank appraisal. Paul Raymond returned her look as frankly. He saw that she was svelte, five feet six inches in height, with honey-gold hair cut like a helmet all around a sensitive, oval face. A piquant blue felt pillbox hat added a jaunty air. She wore a fashionably fitting lynx fur coat, which dissembled her figure, but in a covert glance he observed, that she had superbly sinuous, high-set calves sheathed in off-black nylons. Also, her ankles were aristocratically enisled, and her dainty feet were shod in trim black leather pumps with narrow spike heels. Her lips were full and sensuous, her nose daintily aquiline with widely flaring, thin wings. But it was her eyes, gray-green, large and widely spaced, that stirred his interest the most. They were knowing eyes, containing a world of mockery commingled with tenderness and sensuality. They were the eyes of a woman who could be all things to all men, or nothing to any man. They were the eyes of a poule.
"Je t'emmene?" she murmured, in a faintly husky voice.
Paul Raymond's eyes widened with surprise. What this delectable blonde had just said to him was the classic question of the French streetwalker: "Want to come with me?" Only a poule, a troittoir, a professional who played for pay, would so introduce herself to a strange man. But to hear such a question in flawless Parisian accent here in the heart of the Loop was, to say the least, startling.
The light had already changed, but Paul Raymond wasn't in any hurry. He gave the blonde a harder, longer look this time, and then he said, "How much?"
"Three hundred francs, m'sieu that is about sixty dollars in your money, I believe." The full, sensuous red lips curved in the faintest kind of smile. The gray-green eyes were wary but questioning.
"For a polue, that's rather dear. But then perhaps we can talk about it."
"As you like, m'sieu. To your place or mine?"
"To mine. It's in one of those towers over the river," he gestured with a nod.
"How very convenient! By all means, let us go there. But I would say to m' sieu that I have a few specialties which are well worth the price I ask."
"I see." The light had changed to green again, and he gallantly took her elbow. "Let's make this light, then. In that case, perhaps you may be worth the three hundred after all. Being an advertising man, I'm a great believer in proof by performance. It's a maxim that extends to your field of endeavor too, I believe. And on a dismal evening like this, it might be very amusing to find out just what your specialties are."
CHAPTER TWO
THERE WERE CHICAGOANS WHO HATED WINTER AND fervently wished themselves in Rio or Honolulu or Acapulco between November and March. Paul Raymond, however, was definitely not a member of that segment of the city's population. Even though the sky was gloomily overcast and the wind nippy and raw, the weather gave him a hearty appetite. More than that, he was quite content with living in a town where the wind would loft the skirt of a pretty girl so that a man could stare all he liked without being considered abnormal. His unexpected and charming companion, however, had to struggle against the wind as they crossed the State Street bridge, a slim gloved hand clapped to her coquettish pillbox to keep it from blowing over the rail onto the solid sheets of ice below. She had pale, milky skin, he could see but right now the wind was adding roses to her lilies. She caught his glance as he looked solicitously towards her, rolled her gray-green eyes heavenward, and leaned forward a little into the wind as she walked on. She had a lithe, quick stride, and he could see the rippling muscles of her elegantly high-set calves, quivering and flexing under the gauzy nylon. It was going to be a decidedly interesting evening.
They managed the gantlet of the elements at last and reached the lobby of the West Tower. He opened the door for her, not only because it was the courteous thing to do, but also because he wanted another look at her legs. The fur coat had kept her skirt from furling up as high as he would have liked to have seen it go, but even on such short acquaintance, he was sure he could do a great deal worse. As he unlocked the grilled door to the bank of elevators (a safeguard planned by the Marina builders so that only legitimate tenants could have access to the apartments), he turned to her. "My name's Paul," he told her. "I don't think I caught yours, though."
"It's Michele."
"Very French and very becoming."
"Merci, m'sieu." She gave him a roguish, little nod.
"De rien .Oh, by the way, I usually eat dinner this time of evening. Does the er fee I'm to pay for your professional services allow time out for dinner?"
"Well, as it happens, you're my first booking this evening. Of course, if it doesn't take too long, I suppose its all right. But a girl has to think of herself and earn a living, you know."
Paul Raymond pressed the elevator button for the 48th Floor. As the door silently closed, he nodded understandingly. "Well, you'd have to eat sometime tonight, anyway. I've got a couple of steaks in the refrigerator, I can whip up a pretty good tossed salad, and there's a bottle of excellent Pouilly-Fuisse."
"I'll admit it sounds tempting, M'sieu Paul." She crinkled her dainty nose at him. "But doesn't one usually have a vin rouge with meat?"
"One does, but I don't. I drink a white Burgundy with just about every type of entree. Its smoother, and it has less of an after-taste the next morning than red wine does. Nothing scientific about it, you understand, just my own particular penchant."
"I see." Her gray-green eyes considered him intently. "You have other penchants where Vamour is concerned, perhaps?"
"Perhaps. They may even coincide with these specialties you mentioned."
"That is quite possible. I don't think you will have reason to complain of me, M'sieu Paul. I give my very best attention to every client. Yes, your menu sounds most appealing, but you haven't mentioned dessert."
The elevator door slid back. With a whimsical smile, Paul Raymond took her arm and escorted her towards the door of his apartment. "You, Mademoiselle Michele, will be the dessert."
"Mon Dieu! Do you really mean that you are going to eat me?"
He unlocked the door to the apartment, drew it back and waited for her to cross the threshold, then closed it behind her. "Let me take your coat and hat," he volunteered. "That would be to suggest that I am the wolf and you are Little Red Riding Hood of the LaFontaine fable."
His beautiful blonde companion walked slowly to the center of the huge combination living room-dining room, which was laid out in a kind of semi-circle to follow the conformations of the building itself. There were windows everywhere, looking out over the breathtaking panorama of Chicago's Loop. One could see the red and green neon signs blending with the pale, golden dots of lights in the windows of the office buildings and hotels on the other side of the bridge. She walked over to the long, thickly upholstered couch and with a feline movement of her beautifully trim, long legs, seated herself and leaned back, stretching both arms along the top of the back of the couch. She wore an aquamarine cotton dress, simple yet elegant. The sleeves were puffed and long to her slender wrists. The bodice was tucked, and in her pose, it clung alluringly against the bold jut of her pear-shaped breasts, narrowly spaced and breath-takingly uptilting at the peaks. The A-line of her skirt delineated the long, splendidly supple yet not too slender thighs, flaring into sleek yet not too lean hips and set off by a marvelously supple waist.
She looked up at him as he stood lighting a cigarette. "Perhaps," she answered with a lazy little chuckle implicit in her voice, "and yet I have heard of men who like to eat girls ... one way or another."
"Doubtless anything is possible," he solemnly agreed. "But I couldn't do that on an empty stomach. Would you like a cigarette?"
"Yes, please, and a drink, too, if you have one."
"Certainly. What would you like to drink?"
"I think a little vermouth, please. Very dry, if you have it."
"I think my wine cellar can boast such a vintage." He proffered a silver cigarette case with his own initials set in amethysts, his birtlistone. He watched her as she selected one, admiring the delicately buffed nails, the slim beautifully chiseled fingers, the soft palm. Then he tendered her his own lighted cigarette, pressing the glowing tip to the end of hers as she leaned forward, her breasts straining against the thin stuff of her dress.
"This is really a marvelous apartment, M'sieu Paul. Are you married, by the way?"
"Now why did you have to ask a question like hat?" he frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yes, as it happens, I am. But she's away for the time being."
"Is she very beautiful?"
"Passably so." He shrugged and then turned towards the kitchen. "I'll bring your vermouth. How would you like your steak?"
"Medium-rare, s'il vous plait."
"What a coincidence. That's the way my wife--likes it, too."
A few minutes later, Paul Raymond returned with a wine glass filled with about an inch of Martini and Rossi vermouth, which he handed to the enigmatic blonde beauty, and a glass of La Ina sherry for himself. Lifting his glass, he toasted her, "To absent wives and new fuck-partners."
The svelte blonde deliberately crossed her legs so that her skirt hiked up several inches above a suavely dimpled knee, and the corners of her mouth twitched in a fleeting, mocking little smile as she joined him in the toast. "The steaks are on the fire and it won't be long. Till they're ready, can we make some pertinent conversation?"
"I daresay," she parried. "You are going to ask me how a nice girl like me got into this business."
"If I pulled a cliche like that, I can assure you, I might just as well resign my advertising job. You wrong me greatly, Michele. No, as a matter-of-fact, I was going to ask how long you've been in this country. Your Parisian accent is really quite authentic."
"Mais oui. It should be. I was born there. But you know very well that since Madame Richard and General de Gaulle decided that poules must go, there is very little chance to turn an honest trick for a few francs there anymore. So," she shrugged beautifully expressive shoulders, "I thought a rich, industrial city like Chicago ought to be just the place for my special talents."
Paul Raymond finished his sherry and set the glass down on the coffee table. "Well," he said whimsically, "I'm longing to find out what those are, of course. But I'm just going to have to wait until I've had my steak."
"You're really a very good cook, M'sieu Paul. Are you ready for dessert now?" The svelte honey-haired blonde left the table and walked back into the main part of the living room. She stood at one of the windows looking out, while Paul Raymond detailed the provocative curves of her hips and thighs with narrowed eyes.
"Just about. I see you like the view."
"Oh, yes," she turned to face him, "very much indeed. I should almost envy you living here all the time. But for two people, really, it's comparatively small. Why do you have that Shoji screen off to one side there?"
"Well, as you already pointed out, the place doesn't have a separate study or den, so I sectioned it off to give me a little privacy when I have to bring work home from the office. There's a typewriter stand and a hi-fi set there. I've got a control with stereo earphones hooked up so, in case I want to work late and not disturb my wife in the bedroom, I can switch off the speakers and hear an orchestra playing full blast right in my ears."
"You're either very considerate of your wife or else you've been married so long she doesn't attract you any more."
"That's an unkind thing to say, since you don't know either one of us."
"Well, what I was getting at was that I'm ready to know you now. Would you like to do it on the couch?"
"Not really. It's not wide enough and when I'm in the mood to baiser a girl, I'd much rather do it in a double bed where we can roll over and over and not cramp our style."
"Tiens! I see you speak French very well yourself. Of course you know the real meaning of the word baiser."
Her smile broadened as she slowly walked toward him.
"Why, yes. It's what you call a double entendre. It can mean to kiss and it can also mean to fuck."
She stood very close to him now and she put her slim fingers up to touch his cheeks with an evanescent contact that made him shiver with growing anticipation. Her gray-green eyes were slitted like a cat's as she murmured, "So, just now, when you mentioned that you were in the mood to do that, which of the two meanings did you have in mind for right now, to kiss or to fuck?"
"Maybe both."
"Hmm. You know, of course, that a poule doesn't kiss her client. Of course, you're rather good-looking, and you've given me a most delicious dinner. I might make an exception in your case. But of course you understand there would be an extra charge."
"Bien entendu. And now that's settled, shall we adjourn to the bedroom? I can hardly wait to find out what those specialties of yours are, you know. I might ask you in turn whether they have to do with the one meaning of that word or with the other one the vulgar one."
"I think I like you very much, M'sieu Paul. Maybe you've brought me good luck. I told you, you are my first client this evening. I am going to give you something very special. I'll give you just one little hint: it involves the tongue and the toes. Come along and undress me, that's a darling."
"You know, Michele, those are the nicest words you've used all evening. And I'm just the man for that job."
The bedroom of Paul Raymond's apartment looked larger than it really was, because of the extra-large, low, double bed which dominated the room and was near the windows. It was possible for someone with high-powered binoculars to peek in from one of the skyscrapers across the river, to be sure but just as a precaution the Venetian blinds were almost always kept drawn. Against the wall to the right of the door, there was a dressing table with a framed oval mirror and a heavily upholstered straight-backed chair. There was a little night table near the bed, with a lamp, a humidor for cigarettes, and an ashtray. There was also a deep, leather-padded loveseat. The carpeting was Nile green, and so luxuriously thick that it eliminated the sound of footsteps.
The svelte blonde walked towards the mirror and, appraising herself in it, smoothed her dress over her hips, then turned to one side and looked over her shoulder as if critically inspecting herself. Paul Raymond came up behind her and put his hands around her to cup the thrusting pears of her magnificent titties. He felt for her nipples with the pads of his thumbs, and the blonde closed her eyes and uttered a charming little sigh. "But that's very nice. That's a very good beginning."
"Is it the kind most of your clients try with you?"
"You mustn't ask questions like that. It makes the whole affair too commercial, you know. Shouldn't we try to preserve a little illusion? Think of how romantic this is. Your wife's away, you are alone and terribly lonely. Then a strange young woman comes up to you on the street out of a clear sky and all of a sudden the night is yours."
"I'll admit that's a much more poetic concept. And do you think you could put out of your mind the matter of the 300 francs so that we could perpetuate the illusion?" His hands slipped down to her belly, stroking and palpating it through her snugly-fitting dress. He could feel the narrow cling of a garter-belt.
"Now you are going to spoil everything, Cheri. I'm dreadfully afraid I can't forget. Thanks, but we just won't talk about them now. Agreed? Be a good boy and take off my clothes. Let me show you why, when I get through with you, you won't even regret paying so much."
CHAPTER THREE
MICHELE HAD INSISTED THAT HE UNDRESS FIRST and, after he'd stripped naked, she'd approached, face impassive, saying, "Naturally, since you're new to me, I have to inspect you. That's an essential precaution in my business, mon vieux."
"I understand. But I can assure you in advance you're reasonably safe. The only woman I've been to bed with lately has been my wife."
"That may be true, M'sieu Paul, but you can understand my position. She may have fucked someone ... less healthy. Let's have a look at you." Her slim hand cupped his testicles and lifted them gently, then took hold of his penis. Deftly, with thumb and forefinger, she pinched the meatus, then pressed back the tip to gape the puckering lips. "Hmm. Yes, I think I can give you a clean bill of health. Now, Ma'amour, if you'll just relax on the bed and wait for me, I shan't be long."
"Do you see the state you've put me into?" he complained, glancing down at his fullyerect prick. "That's hardly fair. Besides, aren't you going to undress and let me see what I'm buying for those three hundred francs?"
She gave his stiff organ a playful fillip with right thumb and forefinger, flicking the meatus. "You're being a bad boy now, talking about such sordid things as money. I'm going to take a shower, that's all. I want to be sweet and clean for you."
"That's all very well, but I was ready for you just now, and here you've gone and spoiled it. And that little flick of yours just about took all the starch out of me. Just look at what you've gone and done. That's a fine way to treat a new client, I must say."
She gave him a whimsical smile. "I can guarantee that by the time I come back, it'll be as good as new. If it isn't, I'll resurrect it, you'll see. But, to soothe your injured feelings, suppose I kiss it, and make it well." She went down on her knees with a deliciously feline movement, cupped his organ in the palm of one soft hand, and bowed her head to it. Her red lips pressed a beatific kiss on the tingling meatus. "There. Will you accept my apology?"
Paul Raymond gave her a rueful sigh. "Well, I guess I'll have to, though what you've just done leads me to want a longer apology."
She rose with the same graceful suppleness, teasingly pursed her lips and gave him a wicked little glance, her delicate eyelids half closing. "After I've showered, I promise to apologize properly. Now you be a very good boy and go lie down and smoke a cigarette and think about it."
He chuckled, nodded, and walked over to the low double bed, drew the covers and stretched out on his back, pillowing his head in his arms. He didn't want a cigarette. There was a pleasant aching in his groin, and where she had filliped him, then kissed him, an exquisite throbbing. Gradually his prick was resuming its previous turgidity and vigor. She was going to pay for that little prank; he felt in superlative form tonight.
He heard the splash of the shower and smiled conjecturing what she would be like when she was naked. She was just the right height to cuddle with, sleek and long legged, yet she didn't seem to be meager anywhere. And that sensitive oval face, with her slanting cheekbones, those roguish and captivating eyes, that ardent mouth, all bespoke a temperament ideal for bed.
"There now, I'm all nice and ready. like me?"
She stood in the doorway, wearing only her high-heeled pumps, the gauzy off-black nylons, and a very narrow, snugly fitting black nylon-elastic garter belt whose tabs were tautly firm against her upper thighs as they affixed to the tops of those diaphanous stockings. Hands on hips, a cool little smile on her red lips, she awaited his appraisal.
Her titties were high-set, exuberant pears, widely spaced, with narrow dark oval aureoles in every rhythmic breath. Her belly was smooth and subtly curved, marked by a shallow, wide niche. At the apex of her long, beautifully sculptured thighs, thick, dark blonde ringlets formed a protective fleece over her grotto of Venus. Her pale, milky skin was satiny and the off-black hose intensified its sensual pallor.
"Nice. Very nice indeed."
"Thank you, M'sieu Paul." She moved slowly towards the bed, hands on those provocatively undulating hips, eyebrows arching. "Tiens, you see? Didn't I tell you that I hadn't really endangered your manhood, after all?"
"Yes, but I'd prefer a lengthier diagnosis, and a much more extensive apology. Oh, by the way, shouldn't I take some precaution?"
"M'sieu Paul, I'll have you know I went to the doctor only this morning, and I've already told you, you're my first client this evening. Oh yes, I see what you're getting at. Of course not. It would lessen the pleasure for you. Apparently you aren't too familiar with poules."
"Well, actually, I haven't been with one for over a dozen years. However, I'd like to get very familiar with this one."
"Now that's a very pretty speech, and I'm beginning to like you all over again. No, stay as you are, mon vieux. Unless you're the sort of man who's either a jackrabbit or a bull." She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand to caress his inner thigh.
"I'm rather more the sly fox type than either of those two you mentioned. Mmmmm, you smell very nice, Michele."
"I took the liberty of using a bit of your wife's Houbigant Chantilly. I hope she won't mind." Her hand descended to his knee, then evanescently glided towards his stiffened weapon. The tips of her fingers brushed his balls, then his prick, then pressed quickly against the wide circumcisional groove which separated the large plum-shaped meatus from the thick, dark-veined shaft.
"I shan't tell her. And I don't think you used too much for her to notice the next time she looks into the box."
She leaned towards him, her beautifully high-set titties jiggling and swaying. "Just a little between these nichons of mine, ma'amour. And in my armpits, over my bottom, and just a pat of the stuff between my legs, so it'll be specially sweet for you."
"Should I take your word for that?"
"Not yet. You just lie still there and let me prepare you. I know my business, M'sieu Paul, just as well as you know yours."
"We'll see. If that's true, and since you're new to this town, I've a few discriminating friends bachelors, as it happens who'd like to know about your services."
"I'd appreciate a recommendation. That's the only kind of advertising a poule really wants, you know." She bent her head again, and this time her nimble pink tongue grazed his knee, then lingeringly rose along his sinewy thigh. Paul Raymond shuddered, closing his eyes, reveling in the scent of her naked flesh, the fragrant dusting powder, and the inimitable, spicy perfume which she had worn and which had wafted to him as they had entered the apartment. "Do you like that?" she said huskily, looking up at him over the hot, hard meat of his prick.
"It's only an hors d'oeuvre. I'm anxious for the dessert."
"You mustn't be too greedy too fast. That spoils everything. Now, if you'd picked me up, say, a few hours from now, after I'd had a few clients, I'd be a little jaded and eager to finish the affair. But now you're getting me at my freshest and my best. I hope you'll take time to appreciate what a difference that can make."
Now, taking hold of his calf, she let her tongue roam it, all the way down to his ankle, and then delicately prodded the tip between his toes. Finally, she took his little toe in her mouth and sucked it, just lightly pressing her fine white teeth against the nail. A shivering tremor rippled his naked body, and Paul Raymond drew in a long breath.
"You're so far away I can't reach out and squeeze those lovely titties of yours, Michele."
"You shall have your fill of them before we're finished, I promise faithfully. Just let me work, ma'amour."
"Go right ahead. But I'll say this, I didn't count on passing a test for self-control when I decided to while away the evening with you. Seems to me you're having all the fun and I all the suspense and tension."
"That's just to even the equation up between a poule and her client, mon vieux. With most of mine, you know, I have to be the passive, submissive type. But I had you down as a rather more imaginative man who doesn't mind giving a girl a chance to be creative. There's so much more to fucking than just putting a prick into the slit between a girl's legs. I'm sure you know that."
"I think I do. Though if you keep tantalizing me all night, I may not get the chance to do even that."
"Silly!" she teased with a mocking glance from those evocative gray-green eyes. "Now draw your right knee up against your chest, so I can get at the other leg that's a good boy. You're quite well preserved for your age, I'll give you that. Hardly a tummy, good solid muscles, and of course you haven't any reason to think yourself impotent."
"I should hope not!"
Michele had wriggled a little farther up on the bed, and now, leaning towards him, turned onto her left side, was stroking his left leg with her slim fingers and fleeting her dainty tongue over his anklebone and then the calf on to the knee. She repeated the ritual with his toes, then gently made him draw that knee up against his chest too, so that his organ jutted out, savagely rampant and throbbing from this inventive Tantalus.
Then, sinuously rolling onto her back with her head towards the end of the bed, she extended one long lovely leg, bending it, turning it, drawing it back towards her bosom, to display the exquisitely gaping pink crevice of her cunt nestling beneath the dark gold love-fronds. Then, quickly unfastening the garter belt supporter, she drew off her pump and let it drop to the floor, pulled off the diaphanous stocking and dropped that too. Then, cupping her pear-firm titties in both hands and offering them out to his enraptured gaze, she extended her bare foot towards his quivering bludgeon, and with the pad of her big toe began to frig him with the most delicate and lingering of touches. The friction of her toe against the tautly drawn meatus made him groan and set his teeth; Michele arched up her loins, spreading her left leg farther away to gape her cunny still more, while she resumed her imaginative frigging. Wriggling her toe, she rasped the soft pad over the broad groove, thence along the shaft, round and round; then she engaged his scrotum in a prolonged and grazing caress, and finally, holding her breath and with the utmost care, she brushed his dangling, passion-swollen testicles.
Beads of perspiration gleamed on Paul Raymond's forehead, and his chest was heaving by the time Michele terminated heringenious prelude. Sinuously, then, she got to her knees, crawling to him, and, palming his upraised knees with both hands, she bowed her head between his widely straddled legs to take into her soft red mouth just the tip of his angrily inflamed cock. Lightly, she vented rapid little gusts of breath, but without closing her lips, and he groaned aloud, "If you keep that up much longer, I won't be responsible for the consequences, you know. And by the by, I didn't quite like that left-handed remark about my age. I'm not even forty yet."
"I'd have said you were. But it's nothing to be ashamed of. What I meant was, you're not a boy or one of those impulsive types in their twenties who think they have to cram their prick into a girl as hard and as fast as they can. You're really doing very well. If you'd like to do it in my mouth, I've no objections just thought I'd mention it. Some ponies don't go for that, you see."
"I might just take you up on that. My experience is that the first time, a man has to get rid of his excess energy, but after that, without all that tension to hamper him, he has a lot of staying power the second time around."
"Yes, in the main, I agree with that theory, and if you like, I'll go along and let you prove it. Now no more talking, ma'amour. Just concentrate on how nice I'm going to make it for you, hm?"
Once again she bent her lovely, honey-haired head till the sides of the helmet coiffure swung free to frame her piquant, sensual face, and then her lips engaged the tip of his cock. This time, they closed very lightly on the angrily throbbing meatus, while she glided the tips of her long slim fingers over the upturned, taut, quivering cheeks of his behind, perorating about the sensitive perineum and just grazing the contracting anus. Paul Raymond's face contorted with the supreme effort of holding back the frenzied urge to explode, but it was sweet torment to force himself to withstand these erotic blandishments.
Yet the visual gratifications of this tableau were, he being as much whetted by the logistics of lust as by its physical manifestations, titillatingly rewarding: to watch her crouch on her knees, her beautifully hollowed pale-milky-satin back quivering, to catch the distant glimpse of her lithe haunches, to see the honey-gold helmet of her lustrous hair fall away on either side of her raptly intense face, made him feel like a pasha enthroned upon a perfumed ottoman with a Circassian houri attentive to his every whim, idolatrously worshipping his flesh which was her life and every portent of her existence, knowing that at a sign he could command her to the most exotic and libidinous indulgence of his passions. There was also, he discovered, a keen arousal of his senses in the somewhat cramped posture she had made him take; the tautening of his calf and thigh muscles seemed a distraction that militated against the urge to find appeasing climax within the suctioning petals of her warm red lips, thereby augmenting both shivering physical overtones and its anticipated ending.
Now, releasing the throbbing head of his organ, Michele began to tickle his balls with the velvety-soft pads of her fingertips, while, tilting her head to one side, she emerged her tongue and furled it delicately over the urethral crevice. Paul Raymond shuddered at this perniciously devastating stimulus; every fibre of his body shrieked aloud for release as the rasping, soft, humid membrane frictioned over the super-sensitized tip of his sexual weapon.
Pausing and altering her assault on his erotic senses, the honey-haired houri now put her fingertips to his testicles and gently lifted them, as if balancing and weighing; at the same time, her tongue swept out to glide from the circumcisional groove down along the rigid, bulging-veined shaft to the scrotum, which she besieged with a series of deft, rapid little prodding. He felt tears of thwarted passion scald his glazing eyes; he could see the lips of his urethra puckering and clenching with a violently convulsive reaction, indisputable testimony to the inexorably annihilatingingenuity of her carnal wooing.
Now she straightened on her knees, her gray-green eyes searching his flushed, taut face to determine the extent of her emprise of him. He drew in great sobbing breaths, steeling himself against her next inventive assault. With a coy smile, the honey-haired harbinger of fleshly joys cupped her swelling, hard-nippled titties in both slim hands, and, bending again to him, clenched the throbbing meatus of his prong between their velvety, milky inner curves. Her hands began to manipulate those preening love globes, making him feel the tantalizing squeezing pressure of her naked flesh against his agonized manhood. He dug his fingernails into his kneecaps, hoping that the goading pain would counteract against her seductive wiles.
All his life, his being, seemed now to be concentrated within the focal point of his stiff, dark-veined cock. He closed his eyes, for the visual Tantalus of her crouching naked beauty was in itself a torment more refined than any the Inquisition had conceived. And at this precise moment, Michele chose to relinquish the clutch of her titties against his aching ramrod and, dipping her head, plucked at the tip of his cock with the outer prisms of her soft, moist, red lips.
It was devastating, intolerable. He could bear it no longer. With a raucous cry, Paul Raymond plunged his tensing fingers into her honey-gold hair and forcibly lifted her exquisite, provocative face. "Now," he tersely gasped.
She flung herself over him, then, as his legs shot out to lock over her thighs and pinion her. His hands seized her titties to mold and knead them. Michele, her left arm slipping under his lifting shoulders, slid her slim right hand between their bodies and, grasping the tip of his savagely aching cock between thumb and forefinger, guided it towards her dark-gold-fleeced cuntal inlet. He felt the soft, already moist petals of her cunt move asunder to grant him access, and then she sank down on him, engulfing his weapon to the very hilt as their mouths fused and her tongue slithered craftily between his lips.
Sinuous as an eel, she bestrode him; now it was she who called the tune as, rising and sinking down upon him, her moist, hot sheath clutched his rigid spear unto itself, absorbing, engulfing, encompassing and housing him in the most exquisitely torturing of embraces. He could feel the spasms of her vagina or so it seemed inflicting those subtle "kisses" intimately proffered by a woman who is both passionate and competent in her erotic technique. He felt their hairs grind together in a cohesive friction, and his tongue rapiered into her nectared mouth, furling against hers, in another kind of fornicatory competition in which both sought to best the other.
Now his hands slid down her slim, hollowed back to the estuaries of her hips, and clutched the succulent hemispheres of her milky bottom; she sighed raptly, her right hand slipping under his bottom and her forefinger's dainty tip prodding against his shuddering anus. She let him revel in the tactuality of her gluteal muscles as she arched and sank, arched and sank, her buttocks yawning, then clenching, rippling tremors surging all along those voluptuous contours and down her febrilely quivering, supple thighs.
The Russian composer Scriabin had once dreamed of creating a symphony that would be performed in a theater with kaleidoscopic lights and variscented perfumes accompanying the music and being altered entirely by the tonalities which the orchestra produced. In this bedroom high above Chicago's Loop, Paul Raymond was experiencing an almost uncanny realization of that mystic concept. In his ears, there sounded the chromatic harmonies of his lovely, passionate partner's throaty gasps and fluted sighs matched to his hoarse, wordless groans keyed like a bass trumpet; in his nostrils, the scent of Michele's silky hair brushing his face and the spiciness of her own unknown perfume blending with the piquant sweetness of the dusting powder and the redolent, cantharidic smell of her lovesweat and the effluvium from her armpits. And blurring his widened eyes with a gamut of hues from dizzying black to blazing neon-red through which the honey-gold of her hair and the milky skin of her face and the dark-lustered gray-green of her narrowed eyes flashed through, came the clash of phantasmagoric colors evoked by the ecstatic chaos in his brain as she wrought her special carnal magic upon his beleaguered body.
The coda and crescendo neared and shattered the cosmos of the room with a multitude of sounds and colors and scents and tactualities as, sinking down a final time upon him with a clash of her sleek naked belly to his, Michele quaked and twisted in the throes of orgasm which synchronized with his explosive, complete, consummate release. The room swirled and eddied about him as he lay appeased and purged and depleted.
After an eternity, he felt her disengage herself and, with a heart-stopping fluidity and grace of movement, slip down from the bed to stand towering over him, hands on hips, eyes still narrowed but now luminous, no longer dark-stormy, rather lazily mocking and questioning all at once.
"I'm willing to retract the not very flattering remark about being well preserved for your age, M'sieu Paul. You're really quite capable, even youthful."
"Thanks. Just don't ask me to repeat the performance right away, however. If you did, I'm afraid I'd really show my age."
"Still and all, at the fee I charge, and particularly since you're a new client, you've an encore coming. Though, mind you, not quite so time consuming nor spectacular as what just happened."
"Hmm. Would it be possible to engage your services for all night?"
"Well, yes, that could be arranged. I don't have any really firm appointments. Till I'm better known in Chicago, my livelihood depends on what you might call cold canvassing. Don't misunderstand me. I've usually enough intuition and experience to lead me to approach someone who's going to appreciate what he's getting. Take you, for instance. I consider I've actually had a little bonus out of this, you see."
"In what way? I haven't paid you the three hundred francs yet, you know."
"That's true, you haven't. But you'll notice that I came and just as excitedly as you did, just now. That doesn't happen to a poule very often."
"No, I suppose it doesn't. It would be rather wearing on the nervous system if it did with every customer, I imagine."
"Mais ca va sans dire," she laughed softly. "Still and all, when I'm with someone I take a imagine to, someone who isn't too impetuous or selfish, I don't at all mind having a perfectly honest burst of fireworks that's what we poules call coming."
"Quite picturesque and apt. I saw stars myself when it happened."
"Do you want to use the bathroom first, or shall I?"
"Ladies always first. I'll just lie here and try to recapture the memories."
"Thank you. You're very nice. I'll only be a minute. Oh I'll bring you a hot towel. Since you look so peaceful and contented, I wouldn't want you to disturb yourself. I've a way of tidying up which at the same time arranges for the encore, if you know what I mean."
"Fine. I'll just smoke a cigarette. Take all the time you like."
She was at the threshold of the door, walking slowly and gracefully, her buttocks undulating with that seductive twist which, when it is natural and not affected, incites the most puritanical male to lustful fantasies. She turned back, letting him see the breathtaking vision of one proud uptilting tittie, the lithe suppleness and curve of the utterly feminine haunch, and the shadow of the dark golden down that fleeced her mount. "I do hate to inject a sordid note in the midst of this very pleasant meeting of ours," she said in a gaily casual tone, "but if you're really serious about wanting me to spend the night, we will have to come to an agreement over my little present. You understand, I'm sure."
"Perfectly. And I never haggle, I assure you, when the merchandise involved is of prime quality. As it certainly is so far."
She gave him a teasing little smile, wrinkling her dainty nose at him. "You're very, very nice. I knew I was right to make you notice me back there at the car lot. I've an instinct about such things as a rule."
"Now it's my turn to thank you, and I think we can rule out any further need for that apology you promised me. Instincts are a great thing. I sometimes think the world would be better off if we all followed ours. It certainly couldn't be any worse."
"Speaking professionally, I agree with you, M'sieu Paul. But I make it a cardinal rule not to talk politics or religion or ethnics, or anything controversial when I'm working. It only leads to misunderstandings and bad feelings all around. And nobody really wants to know what a youle thinks about civil rights or nuclear warfare. Even if she had the brainiest views, I'm sure no customer would ever be converted to her way of thinking. But when it comes to bed and what goes on in bed, that's quite a different matter. There I'm in my element, and I'll defend my pet theories about fucking and other delightful little games with everything I've got in me. There I go talking you to death, though. Now you be a good boy and just lie nice and quiet till I get back."
Five minutes later, Michele returned carrying a dampened towel in each slim hand. "Here I am again, mon vieux," she greeted him. "My, you look comfy. Maybe you'd like a drink after I finish this little cleanup job?"
"Maybe. But I'm anxious to see what you have in mind. And before you start, shouldn't we have that little talk about arrangements?"
"Oh, dear," she frowned adorably and pursed her lips, glancing at each towel in turn, "yes, you're right. I ought to have done that first before I brought the towels. But if you're not going to haggle, it'll only take a second and then we can go right on as if nothing had happened. Would you be willing to spend a thousand francs all told?"
"That's two hundred dollars American money, isn't it? Yes, I think so."
"Wonderful! Now that's all settled and you see how little time it wasted? I'm really very glad you said yes, you know. This way, we don't have to hurry or think about the nasty old clock and you can pretend I'm your mistress and entirely at your disposal, and we're all alone to ourselves. That's very nice. Now put out your cigarette, that's a lamb, and put your head on your arms again and spread your legs very wide."
"No sooner said than done."
Deftly, Michele draped one of the wet towels over the head of the bed, then clambered towards him on her knees, moving between his straddled thighs. Holding the second towel in both hands and doubling it, she very delicately gathered up his dwindled, stickied cock and began to squeeze it with rapid but gentle little pressures.
"Ahh that's cold," he gasped, setting his teeth.
"It's meant to be, ma'amour. Don't tense your muscles, just keep relaxing very good. There. And now the other one. Draw back your knees against your chest, the way you did that other time when I asked you. Lovely, just the way I want you. There we are-" Procuring the other towel now, she wadded it in both hands and brushed his cock from tip to balls and back again.
"Ahh and that one's hot!"
"No worse than the kind of bath you'd take on a night like this, though. Now don't be a big baby, you've done so splendidly up to now. Ah, that's better ... doesn't it feel nice now that your tender skin's used to it? And like this and this, too?" As she spoke, she doubled the towel in her hands, picking up and covering his cock, then letting it spring out, only to catch it and squeeze it again. Gradually, Paul Raymond saw his organ turgifying, till it was half erect.
"Say, that's more effective than I'd thought."
"It's one of my own little ideas, you see. First the cold, then the hot. It would never do to reverse the order, of course. Not only are you nicely clean and fresh for a repeat performance, but you're already beginning to think about wanting to fuck me again, which of course is the idea to start with."
"Veryingenious, Michele. You could give our Chicago sisters of joy lessons that would triple their income."
"From what I've read in your American papers, I'm afraid the syndicate would take most of those extra profits, and I'm against that principle, being a loner in the business. Now let me do something else you'll like." She flung the towel to the floor and, leaning towards him as she knelt, extended left thumb and forefinger. Taking the tip of his cock between them, she began to draw on it, as one pulls at a cow's udder for milk, but with exquisite gentleness. Then she grasped him at the very root, and drew her two fingers slowly up to the tip of his cock, letting go with a kind of whisk of her wrist which made his organ bob and jerk in the air. In a moment or two, Paul Raymond's sexual weapon was completely rein-vigorated.
"The operation's a complete success."
"Yes, speaking professionally again, I'll have to concur in your diagnosis, M'sieu Paul. Now it's your turn, and from now on, you call the turn. An all-night customer always does. It's only the first time with a new client that I rather prefer to do things my way, so as to show off my special talents right off and let the gentleman know he's in capable hands."
"But isn't it dangerous sometimes to give a customer carte blanche? Suppose he happens to have penchants that aren't all sweetness and light?"
"There again," she murmured, continuing to rub his stiffened cock between her two soft fingers, "I have to rely a good deal on instinct and intuition. Now, with you, for instance, I don't think you're the perverse kind who'd want to tie me up and beat me. Though, of course, I won't say no to a voluptuous little spanking. Sometimes that's very stimulating even for the girl, and I know of several cases where the man who's done his best to prove his powers and wants to go a last time resorts to that to get his cock up. Of course, you might be something of a fetishist I noticed the way you were looking at my legs back on the bridge and admiring my sheer stockings. But that's quite normal, really."
"What about going in the long way round Robin Hood's barn?"
She giggled at this, and tickled his balls, then straightened up on her knees and stroked her surging titties as she roguishly cocked her head to eye him. "I don't do that too often. Matter of fact, it only happened to me once since I started in the business, and then I was more or less forced to do it. But if you'll take it easy and bear with me, I'll do my best to accommodate you if you're so inclined."
"Not really. I was just curious, that's all."
"Well, we'll see later, then, hm? But for right now, before you lose that wonderful hard on, you tell me how you'd like to fuck me?"
"On all fours, I think. Yes, that way I'll be able to pretend I'm going to do the other way, and it'll be exciting for me."
"Perfect. There, I'll just get in position. Is this right for you?"
She had turned her back to him, then got on all fours, slowly bowing her head to the rumpled sheets till her torso was almost flat against the bed and her magnificent milky bottom cheeks up-reared and deliciously distended, owing to the straddle of her knees. The soft pink lips of her pussy peeped out, framed by the dark golden ringlets of her pubis, and above, recessed in that ambery, shadowy furrow which cleaved her now provocatively undulating bottom cheeks, appeared the crinkly rosebud of her anus.
He took his place behind her, reaching to cup her dangling, firm, pear-shaped titties with reveling fingers, luxuriating in the feel of her flesh, the frictioning of her enticing and tautened bottom against his belly. Arching himself, Paul Raymond foraged forward till the tip of his cock engaged between the moist soft lips of Michele's gaping pussy.
"Ohh, that's nice that way, yes, I can see why you prefer this way, M'sieu Paul," she murmured. "There's something Oriental to it, isn't there? I mean, it's as if you were the master and I the slave, surrendered up to all your whims."
"Exactly. Besides, this way, I can feel the little nipping and kisses your tight cunt is going to give my cock." He drew out, and playfully prodded the secretive little rosette of her ass-hole, at which Michele squirmed and, glancing back, murmured, "Do tell me if you're going to do it to me that way after all, so I can get ready. And if you do, a bit of saliva on your cock and over my little slit there would help a good deal, you'll find."
"I think for this time, I'll be satisfied with your sweet tight cunt, Michele, provided you wriggle that lovely backside about. There." He inserted himself again, and this time, with a violent shove of his loins, imbedded himself to the hilt inside her. A stifled gasp of pleasure broke from the blonde's quivering lips; she contracted her buttocks, then relaxed them, synchronizing her gyrations with his ins and outs. He could feel the moist cling of her cuntfiesh against his driving weapon. His thumbs rubbed her nipples till they were flinty-hard peaks of erogenous attunement. Slowly and methodically, he fucked the genuflecting, crouching naked beauty, glorying in the enclaspment of her narrow hot sheath as it absorbed his weapon, fitting it to her innermost matrix. She spread her thighs as far as she could, and began to shove back her bottom to meet his rhythmic stroking.
There wasn't the thunder and lightning and shattering earthquake this time. But Paul Raymond had no cause for complaint over the encore. Michele abetted him with her wriggling hips and energetic thighs, and each time he sank himself to the hilt, he could feel the pulsations of her very womb. This second time, too, the tension in his balls and scrotum took much longer to build up, empowering him to a long, rhapsodic probing of her responsive, warm sheath. Finally, it was Michele herself who, with fluted little cries and eagerly supplicating exhortations, urged him to bring her to the zenith of fulfillment, and as, quickening his digs, he felt her body churn and jerk as the orgasm seized her, his own ecstatic release was achieved and joyously welcomed by his highly cooperative and lovely partner.
"Oh, my," Michele murmured when they had regained their composure and he sat on the edge of the bed, lighting cigarettes for both of them, "I can see you're really going to turn out to be a very special client, M'sieu Paul. That's twice in a row you've made me come. I'm going to have to beg off for a few minutes, and I think you should too. I'd love to take a shower if I may?"
"That's a great idea. Why don't I take one with you?" He reached for her with his left arm, but Michele, with a soft giggle, squirmed away and stood up. "Absolutely not, you naughty darling. You mustn't try to rush nature now, you know. We've got all night ahead of us. I'll go make myself sweet and fresh for you again, and then you'll have your shower, and maybe we'll have that drink, and then we'll see. It's always nicer not to try to program everything and to be flexible."
"I would much rather be stiff again than flexible, if you'll pardon the pun."
"I think I can arrange that in due time. See you in a few minutes, darling."
She walked to the door of the bedroom, turned to blow him a kiss and disappeared.
Paul Raymond sighed, shook his head, took a last puff at his cigarette, then crushed it out in the little ashtray on the night table. Then he opened the little drawer, and took out his wallet, as well as a little tissue-wrapped package, laid them both on the table and closed the drawer.
Ten minutes later, Michele appeared again, and this time she was Lillith-naked. "I thought you'd like me au naturelle this time, mow vieux," she said lightly as she advanced to the bed. "I tried very hard not to leave a mess for you. I like showers so much, sometimes I get careless and let the water splash out on the floor."
"That's thoughtful of you. My wife's the same way, come to think of it. Oh, before I leave, why don't I just take care of your little present right now and then we can forget all about the sordid mercenary details. A thousand francs you said, wasn't that right?"
"Mmmmm hmm."
He took his wallet, opened it and drew out three one-hundred-dollar bills. "There you are. The extra's a bonus, and you've already earned it. Oh, and I just happened to have this little knickknack left over. I don't know if it'll suit your personality."
"What a charming thought! How very generous of you, M'sieu Paul!" She put the bills on the table, then hastily unwrapped the little box. "Ohh! It's it's so lovely!" It was a jewel case, and as she opened it, a bracelet of turquoise set into silver links gleamed in its black velvet setting.
"You'll keep it then, as a memento?"
"Oh, yes. How could you know that turquoise is my birtlistone?"
"Well, I think you know the answer, Michele."
She put the bracelet on her left wrist, then hugged him. "Yes, you darling! It's the very nicest anniversary present I've had from you. Just think, twelve long happy years."
"Careful, darling, now you're making me feel my age again." His hands cupped her titties and he brushed her cheek with his lips.
"It's a wonderful anniversary, ma'amour. Was I convincing as a poule?"
"Almost frighteningly so. If you should decide to leave me, I've the feeling you'd earn a lot more than I do in my advertising job."
"I'm not going to leave you, unless you ever take up with Monique again, the way you did in Paris last year when you were working on that Algerian terrorist case. You know, I really shouldn't ever forgive you. If you hadn't taken her to bed yes, I know you did it to find out about that dreadful Arab whose mistress she was and who was planning all those assassinations I wouldn't have been raped, yes, and buggered too, I'll have you know, by the bullies he sent to our apartment to pay me back for your fooling around with his girl friend."
"I know," he said ruefully. "Gulaffa thought I was just a playboy trying to make time with his sweetheart. But if he'd suspected I was working with the Surete, he'd have done more than have his bullies take you to bed, ma mie. I'd have given anything in the world to have spared you that, you know that."
"Yes. Just the same," she snuggled closer to him as they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, her thigh pressing intimately against his, "I wish you'd have been the one to take that last virginity of mine, mon vieux."
"So do I, and don't remind me. But as to Monique, how was I to guess that my good friend Georges Pretre would come here to Chicago and open up that swanky new nightclub The New Delphi and then send to Paris for a singer? Or hire Monique just on the basis of a photograph and a recording? When I saw her come out on stage last summer, I was more surprised than you, believe me."
"I'll just bet you were," Michele Raymond teased.
"Anyway, she and Georges got married two weeks ago, so she's out of bounds for good where I'm concerned."
"She'd just better be, ma'amour. Now you go take your shower."
"Right. And then I think I'll turn in."
"Oh no you won't, M'sieu," Michele Raymond hissed as she reached up to pinch the tip of his cock. "You've paid me for all night and a bonus, and I'm going to earn every cent of it. I was a poule when you met me, you remember, because my parents were sick and I had to sell myself to get food and medicine for them, but even then I was an honest poule and always gave value for value received. You just hurry and come back and let me show you a few more specialties of mine. I'm not going to have you ever think you've got to look for variety in pussy when you're married to an ex-poule who would have turned out to be the best who ever walked the streets of Paris if she hadn't met you, ma'amour."
CHAPTER FOUR
THERE ARE LOTS OF THINGS A MAN DOESN'T AL-ways feel like telling his wife, especially when she's been needling him about his lack of attentiveness. Paul Raymond knew just how that was, even if his anniversary "celebration" had been everything a virile male could have dreamed of. It wasn't every wife who, after twelve years of marriage, had the imagination Michele had displayed by playing the role of a poule and actually soliciting him on the street, just the way a genuine streetwalker would do. And it had been absolutely spontaneous. Michele hadn't given him the slightest hint that she was going to pull a stunt like that; happily, he'd gone along with the act and played his part. And it had been quite a night.
True, the past year or two, things hadn't gone quite so smoothly between them. With his increasing responsibility at the advertising agency and his hobbies of chess and listening to FM and writing an occasional short story or magazine article, Paul Raymond hadn't always picked up the cues Michele flashed him to indicate that she wanted nothing better than a good old-fashioned fucking. Exactly a year ago, on the previous anniversary, for instance, after dining at the Burgundy Inn and bringing her a jeweled token of his affection from C. D. Peacock's world-famed shop, Michele had been all dewy-eyed and languorous when they'd got back home to the Marina Towers apartment. She'd kissed him, digging her tongue tip into his ear and whispered that she'd be right back as soon as she changed into something much more practicable for fucking than her going-out-to-dinner dress, stunning though that was. But when she'd come out of the bathroom in a slinky, gossamer-thin black nylon nightie, perfume wafting from her armpits, wrists, ankles and that delicious dark golden triangle which the clinging nightie outlined so cockhardeningly, he'd had to blush and stammer an excuse for not paying tribute then and there to her mouth-watering desirability. There was, alas, an early agency conference the next morning, and he knew very well that if he let himself go, he wouldn't be able to wake up the next morning, much less preside over the meeting. Michele's eyes had narrowed and she'd hissed that he might not live till his next anniversary.
Well, fortunately, that crisis had been met and passed with honors last night. Even if all his muscles ached this morning and he had to blink his eyes rapidly and drink a couple of cups of strong coffee which his secretary thoughtfully brought him, he'd acquitted himself valiantly, and now he was out of the doghouse, for a while, anyway.
He'd better do his best to stay out of it, because Michele could be really inventive when it came to making life miserable. And sometimes her inventions complicated the pattern of his life. He wouldn't soon forget the episode, only a few months ago, of Ken Barnold. Michele had sulked over his negligence in bed for quite a while after last year's anniversary, and had finally decided to teach him a lesson. In Marshall Field's, she'd had her purse snatched by a thug, and a suave fellow had tackled the thief before he'd got out of the store with it and beaten him up. Michele had been charmed by such flattering heroism, and had accepted a couple of dates with this fellow Barnold. Just about then, his friend and client, Frank Setarchia, owner of the Burgundy Inn on the North Side, had become the target for a ruthless gang who were terrorizing the area's restaurants by forcing the owners to buy meat at their price, or else. Frank had begged him to look into things, because he didn't want the police, and he'd relied on Paul Raymond's friendship as well as the fact that Paul's agency was doing such a fine job of his advertising.
And what happened? He'd tracked the gang down to the Leland Packing Company at 43rd and Throop Streets, found that they'd taken over the company after murdering and disposing of old Matt Leland, and none other than Ken Barnold was in charge of the extortion and terrorist racket. Not only that, since Michele hadn't known Ken Barnold's real identity, his gorgeous, sexy blonde wife had cock-teased Barnold (just to make him jealous, of course) till the latter had brought her to the packing company and, at gun point, made her peel down bare with the intention of fucking hell out of her. Fortunately, Paul and the cops had arrived at the crucial moment, and now Ken Barnold was awaiting electrocution in a cell on Death Row a couple of weeks from now. Michele had sworn she'd never intended to go to bed with Barnold; she'd just wanted to teach him a lesson not to take her for granted. So from now on he wouldn't.
But the biggest crisis of all in their marriage had been this affair with gorgeous Monique Laurien, the red-haired mistress of the Algerian terrorist leader. It had been his first and only infidelity of their marriage; and, after all, it had been justifiable in the interest of tracking down that murderous hoodlum. Just the same, if the long arm of coincidence hadn't reached out and brought Monique to Chicago to work for his nightclub-owner friend Georges Pretre, Michele might never have found out about that memorable episode. Not only that, if he hadn't fooled around with Monique in Paris, Michele wouldn't have been visited by those three vicious Arabs, stripped, fucked and buggered like the lowliest whore. It was one thing for a man to see a gorgeous piece of pussy, take it off to bed for a quickie and then resume the pleasant if unvarying routine of marital fucking every man with any red blood corpuscles in him did it all the time-; but it was quite another to have to realize that because you enjoyed a piece like Monique, your own gorgeous wife was left alone at the mercy of three rutting Arabs who made her do it all three ways including her mouth. And that was one secret he was always going to hold back from Michele, because he could never stop feeling guilty over it.
Of course, now Michele knew of his one indiscretion, and she knew also it was over; Monique sang at the New Delphi and was now officially engaged to Georges. And the two women who had drawn more passionate spunk from his cock than any others in all the world had already met, talked about him and decided to be "wary friends. So that part of it was all right unless, of course, he tried to fuck Monique again, now that she was here in Chicago. And he could be very sure Michele would be checking up on that angle all the time, probably even after Monique and Georges legally became man and wife.
He sat at his desk in his private office, sipping his second cup of strong black coffee. Lucille Furnol was a marvel among secretaries, just as she was probably a marvel among wives. Her husband Ed, the agency marketing director, usually reticent about the facts of life, had, only last week, after a few too many Martinis, said as much. "Paul, you lucky stiff," he'd chuckled, "it's a good thing that gorgeous Parisian wife of yours doesn't visit you at the office very often, or I'd feel like finding out what it's like to go to bed with a French sexpot. Now don't get your blood pressure up, old man, I was just kidding." Then he'd winked and added, "Confidentially, even if Lucille is starting to get middle-aged spread, she's just about all my cock can take care of these days. She's enthusiastic and she thinks I'm the only guy in the world which is the way I want it. With a girl like your Michele, I'd get jealous as hell every time another guy took a squint at her legs or those juicy bombers of hers. You know what I mean, guy."
Yes, he did, only too well. But apart from that "punishing," cockteasing series of dates with Ken Barnold who naturally Michele hadn't realized was actually the head man of the restaurant bombing gang-, he'd never really had to worry about Michele's changing beds.
Now, as he lit a cigarette and waited for the ten o'clock weekly round-table conference which was standard procedure at the agency, Paul Raymond closed his eyes and thought about Monique Laurien and how there had been a special, unforgettable chemistry between them in the City of Lights was it centuries ago? Yet it was as vivid as yesterday. And Michele's exciting "anniversary game" had started the cogs of memory going around in his brain all over again ...
He had first seen Monique Laurien in a quiet, rather luxurious bar on one of the sloping streets running south from the notorious Place Pigalle. Since he'd understood Arabic one of the reasons the Surete had asked for his aid he'd managed to overhear a description of the mistress of the dreaded Algerian terrorist, and he'd visited a dozen bars before coming into this one. The description had said: coppery-red hair with the most curious streak of silver blonde running back from her forehead over her head to the end of her thick long curls. Pouting lower lip, dark, magnetically compelling eyes, small dainty nose with very sensuous, thin wings that quivered incessantly, the way a butterfly's do hovering over a flower. But that description hadn't given him much about her body. And what a body it was and still was, now that she was living here in Chicago and working at a nightclub that was just a stone's throw from his apartment!
He'd ordered a Scotch and nursed it as he'd done at all the other bars before coming to this one. Monique had been sitting at the other end of the bar, singing into a little microphone. The room was small, intimate, and her voice had that sensual throatiness which made you think she was singing directly to and for you and nobody else. It was, the first moment he'd heard it, the kind of voice you wanted to hear beside you in bed when your prick was aching from its pent-up needs and you knew that the owner of that voice was naked and even more eager for fucking than you were. They could talk all they wanted to about Helen of Troy whose divine beauty launched a thousand ships and burned the topless towers of Ilium, but he was willing to bet all his fucking quota for the rest of his life that a voice like Monique's could instantaneously create more erections at the same time throughout the civilized world than any other sexual image he knew. Paul Raymond chuckled to himself as the fantasy came to him: suppose Monique's voice, the way it had been that first night in Paris, as well as the bedroom conversation that had followed, had been perpetuated on a recording and played over the air on every radio station all over the world at exactly the same moment. It would take a computer to estimate the number of stiffened cock rising in immediate homage to the frank, uninhibited lust which that voice would evoke.
She'd been wearing an amber-colored dress, cut very low on her full breasts. When she leaned forward to emphasize a certain phrase of her song, she revealed those magnificent titties of hers almost down to the nipples. Yes, he could remember every detail of their first meeting and of her attire and later on, the lack of it! Her dress had been caught up in a couple of long folds that stretched over her thighs just at the juncture which those luscious columns made with her hips, and attached with a bow at either hip. She had worn exceptionally high-heeled pumps which had made her long, slender legs seem even more slender. Her arms glistened with silver bracelets, which matched the glitter of sequins placed in exciting circles all over the dress. After she had sung her song, there hadn't been much applause, but that in itself had been greater tribute than loud cheering. Her song had simply left every man in her small audience figuratively limp and realistically aching between his legs. There wasn't anyone there who didn't want to take off her dress and give it to her on the spot. But the moment she had finished her song, she had slipped out of her dress and stood there in a pair of gold-cloth panties, a tiny gold cloth circlet apparently pasted on each nipple of those magnificent titties of hers. It was such a spectacular mise-en-scene that Paul Raymond had gasped and felt his own cock throb with his savage eagerness. And at the moment, he had quite forgotten that he was married to the complaisant Michele who combined in her voluptuous body all the talents of an excellent wife and an expert mistress all the talents that both are supposed to posses, if a man is lucky enough to find such a combination in one woman and one soft, tightly clinging pussy.
Her body was sinuous, but that did not mean that it was meager. There was a certain athletic quality to her figure which at once told him that she would be demanding and more than a match for the most virile and discriminating cocksmith. She began to move in fluid circles, turning to him so that he could see her bottom. The cheeks weren't too large, yet they were compact and sumptuously firm, tightly spaced, with a narrow fissure to cleave them. In the rhythmic undulations she began to make, he could see the pouting inner edges of those bottom-cheeks of her shiver, as if appealing to be yawned apart, to disclose her second temple of Priapus, which those of the cult of Sodom are wont to venerate in their venery. Her hips, as they swayed to the music, were long and well molded, with just the suggestion of hollows above her thighs showing through the gold cloth of the panties, which were rather more tight than panties should be. When she stretched out her slender arms, he could see the exquisite hollowness of her ribs against the flesh of her sides. Her titties didn't jiggle, suggesting a mouth-watering heaviness for his hands to fondle, but they seemed to stretch and then lay heavily as she moved. Her dance had coordination to it which told the story, never old in its sexual intensity. It was as if she were telling everyone in the audience, "You've never seen anything like me before, and you know it. You can't touch me, but you'd give a year's pay just to run your hands over my titties, squeeze my bottom, poke a finger into my little pussy, wouldn't you? See how every part of me merges into the entirety that is my body. See how my thighs come together at the apex where you want to dig yourself until you break it off and wear it out yes, but you never will, because I can take everything you've got and then some, and ask you for more when you're lying there no good to anybody from then on in. What do you think of me?"
After the dance, the little combo had tuned up and then some of the couples at the tables beyond the bar had got up to dance and she'd come back from the side door into which she'd vanished after her dance, wearing an emerald-green evening gown, and gone back to her place at the bar. Fortunately, there had been an empty seat beside her, and he had walked over there, lifted his glass and toasted her health. They'd had some chitchat, and she'd asked him how he'd liked her dance. "If it gets any sexier," he'd told her, they'll have to build a grating between you and the customers."
"The boss seems to think it'd be sexier if I took off my pants," she said.
"Your boss has an eye for business," Paul Raymond had reposted. "Of course, I've always gone along with the Freudian theory that concealment adds a great deal to a woman's attractiveness. On the other hand, with a figure like yours, if you didn't wear anything at all, I'm afraid the boss would have to exchange the seats and the stools of this cozy little bar for beds and provide instant pussy to ease their agony, since obviously he'd never let a treasure like you service the customers."
That remark had made Monique Laurien tilt back her lovely head and utter a soft, husky laugh that had sent the blood boiling in his veins and made him shift himself on the thickly padded stool in order to ease the aching cramp of his savagely turgid cock. She'd glanced down at him knowingly, her lips curling in a faint little half smile of understanding. She'd known what he was experiencing right then. And she'd told him that he was very flattering, and that it was true: Her boss was rather jealous and gave her a bodyguard. At this time Paul Raymond had suggested that they try to sneak out and lose the bodyguard. Monique had told him to go sit in the car and she would come out and join him after her final number.
They'd gone to a hotel not far from the Champs Elysees. Paul Raymond had tipped the night clerk fifty francs, so that no questions about baggage had been asked. Also, the room assigned to him had a bed that was big enough for a sultan's orgy. He'd lit a cigarette and had puffed at it savoringly while undressing, eyeing her as she stripped down to almost transparent pink bra and panties. Through the tight cling of the bra, he could see the sharp points of her nipples. The dainty little pink panties hugged around her bottom-cheeks like a second skin; through their front he saw the dark muff of hair with the soft, indented flesh behind it flexing against the thin fabric. That sight alone would have guaranteed his adequacy for at least their first coming together!
"You're lovely," he told her. "But the real reason I have this date with you is that I want to see you with your panties off."
"You seem to have an obsession on the subject of my panties," she had told him with a naughty little wink. Of course he hadn't given her his real name then; he had called himself Pierre Roland. There was just the chance that all this nosing he had done around Paris had been reported back to the Algerian terrorist gang, and they were no slouches either when it came to tailing a suspected spy and counter-agent who could endanger them. He had faced her and, tugging off his shorts, had let his stiff cock prod up into the air, saying, "I think this will answer your question."
"Not quite," she told him, as she moved towards him, her eyes slipping over him and resting on his violently surging weapon. "The proof is in performance, you know, and I know that Americans are good talkers. For all I know, you might go off like a bomb the first time you touched me."
"Well, there's only one way to find out," he had smilingly agreed.
"All I've got to say, mon vienx," she had murmured as she moved into his arms and pressed her big hard titties against his chest, "is that if you brought me all this way up here just to see me with my panties off and then to lose what you've been saving for me, I'll never forgive you."
She had been hot and sweet-smelling, the kind of woman who, the moment a man touches her, seems to quiver and vibrate in the most zealous anticipation of being fucked. His hands had run gently and lingeringly over her back, his fingertips tickling her chinbone, giving each of her bottom-cheeks a squeeze, then moving up to unhook the bra. Then he could feel her hard, juicy titties press against him, with their pointed tidbits, and his hands had moved up to cup the sides of those love globes.
Adroitly, while his lips merged to hers, Paul Raymond had slid the tips of his forefingers against the nipples, and begun to massage and caress them, feeling them throb and tauten under his ardent manipulation.
"Oh Dieu-" Monique had moaned, and she had dug her fingernails into his neck, and her tongue had lashed out between his lips to scrape against the roof of his mouth as she arched her body to him. His cock had been clamped between their bodies, and the vise-like pressure of her belly and his own from the other side against it had been all, he remembered, that kept him from going off prematurely and ruining what promised to be the most memorable lust-night of his entire life. She didn't move, obviously understanding that he wished to regain his self-control. He had put his hands behind her again and gently removed those tiny pink pants. She didn't even wriggle, but simply stepped out of them when they slid to the floor. His hands had gone back to the naked satin of her bottom-cheeks, rubbing in tiny circular gestures over the furrow that separated them. Her arms locked around his neck, and incoherent little animal noises escaped her. Her eyes had been almost entirely closed, and the hot breath of her hissing nostrils had fanned his face. Then he had felt her hand slide down his naked cock and give it a tiny squeeze, and he had had to grind his teeth to keep from bursting then and there. Now she took hold of it in the middle, and gradually tightened her fingers and her palms, so that he could feel every iota of his organ being smothered and cuddled and tightened, until all of his life existed in that structure and nowhere else.
He had picked her up and lifted her by the bottom-cheeks. Adroitly, Monique had wound her warm, smooth legs around his hips as he carried her to the bed. She had reached under her bottom while he carried her, taken hold of the tip of his cock, and rubbed it against her furry crack. Then she had wriggled herself down towards him until the already moist lips of her pussy had clamped over the tip of his organ. And when she had felt him go into her, she seemed to have gone wild with passion. Her mouth crushed his, and her tongue dug into him, and she twisted and arched herself until nearly half his cock had been buried in her warm quim. He'd had, as a matter-of-fact, to use all his self-control to keep from falling with her onto the floor and fucking her then and there, but somehow they had reached the bed, her jogging on the end of his cock with every step he took.
Not even Michele, with all her seductiveness and artistry, had for sheer lust and conscience-free rutting, been able to surpass Monique Laurien's amorous aptitudes that night. As he had lowered Monique down to the bed, he had gone straight between her wide-spread thighs, and almost without losing a motion in the transition from the floor and bed, and at once her body had begun to arch, to twist, to wriggle, driving her crotch against his, her face twisted with passion, her mouth working, the cords of her neck standing out, her nostrils flared, and beads of perspiration standing out on her forehead under her tangled and lovely hair. He could feel the hot, humid flesh of her cunt-walls clamping him, nibbling and pulling all around his bursting organ. He struck his toes into the covers of the bed and arched into her, wanting to give her more than he had, and the very vigor and energy he exhibited made her open her eyes, glazed with ecstasy. He had dug his fingers into the juicy cheeks of her backside, lifting her slightly from the bed, as he arched himself for even greater leverage, he thrust into her with a spasmodic vigor that his hips and thighs enforced. But the visual delight of fucking Monique Laurien had been almost as intense as the physical bliss itself: to see her face flushed and twisted in the rictus of fucking, to see those heavy, yet magnificently proportioned, titties pant and quake and shift, and to see their dark, flinty-tipped nipples prod at one was almost more than a man's control could endure.
It had been a shattering climax for the two of them, simultaneous and synchronized. And he had her twice more after that before their night had ended. During their bed-talk, that was when he had learned who her boss was; actually, Monique would really not betray his name, except that her description of his having special, secret meetings with other men in a room above the bar, and mentioning to Paul Raymond that many of these were Arabs, had given him the final clue he had needed to break up the terrorist gang. And then, just before leaving Paris with Michele, after the terrorist had been killed and after a wild chase, he had gone back to Monique to say good-bye, or at least what he thought had been good-bye, but now she was right here in Chicago.
There was a knock at the door of his private office. He opened his eyes, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. The evocation of that never-to-be-forgotten night in Paris had just about made him forget that there was work to be done and a living to be earned. The way he felt right now, if it wasn't that Lucille Furnol was married to a damn nice guy and that you didn't play around with people in your own business firm, he would have locked the door, thrown Lucille down on the floor or over the desk and given it to her right now and pretended, closing his eyes, that she was Monique!
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS AMAZING HOW, NO MATTER HOW INTELLECTUAL or sophisticated a woman was, you could invariably straighten out your marital difficulties by the simple expedient of giving her a good and thorough fucking. For the next few weeks which had followed their unusual anniversary, Paul Raymond discovered that his beautiful gray-green eyed wife, Michele, behaved like a different woman. Or, to put it more accurately, like a new bride. For one thing, having been married to her for a decade, he was by this time familiar enough with all the thousand subtle signs by which she let him know that all was right in the world because all was right in bed. When she was irritated with him and there had been quite a few periods of such indifference over the past year or two she didn't seem to care about her attire. On the other hand, when she wore that satisfied smile which a woman puts on after she has had an ample number of orgasms, she took particular pains to make herself look as delectable and desirable as if she were still the poule she had been on the streets of Paris when he had first seen her over a dozen years ago.
Right now, she was wearing her honey-gold hair in a very chick helmet-style coiffure, which made her look even more of an odalisque, because it emphasized the sensitive oval of her face, and the straight fringe along the top of her high-arching forehead called special attention to the luminous intensity of those fabulous eyes. By dint of such a hairdo, Michele liked to pretend, with the eternal instinct of the female, that by changing her looks, she could do away with Paul Raymond's blithe unconcern for her and become a different woman whose pussy-potential would be enough to withdraw him from his usual distractions of chess and music and listening to FM and sitting at his typewriter well past midnight instead of going to bed tight against her with his stiff cock buried to its hilt in her quivering cunny.
As for Paul Raymond himself, this happy and fortuitous change in their domestic relationship made him feel not only more mellow on the job, which was always taxing because the advertising agency was constantly growing and giving him more and more responsibility, but also enabled him to feel as young and virile as he had the first evening he had come upon lovely, svelte Michele on a dimly-lit corner of the Rue de Fauberge near Montmartre.
She spoke as excellent English as he did, but always with a delicious Parisian accent which gave a most exciting and provocative coloration to her entire personality. It was enough for her to say the simplest sentence with just a covert glance from those luminous gray-green eyes of hers to make him feel a throbbing promise of a full-size erection. That was a good feeling, because as long as you had it, the terrors of maturity and old age were still an eternity away. At least, that was Paul Raymond's philosophy.
Now that it was the middle of March, he was going to be a bachelor for about a week. Last night, Michele had snuggled next to him on the couch, wearing an extremely provocative black nylon shortie nightie, red thong sandals and off-black nylon hose held up by rougish purple rosette satin-elastic garters high up on her lithe thighs. She had worn a pair of tiny gold earrings, a special present he'd bought her on their first anniversary, and this too was one of her subtle signs. She referred to the earrings as "Les cadeaux pour baiser." Translated, it means "my fucking present." On the occasion that he had given them to her, she had squealed with joy, and then and there, in the living room, had let him hike up her dress and slip, while she herself aided him by fucking down her white nylon panties, and then she had nipped down his trouser fly, taken out his weapon and guided it to her burning sheath. Thereafter, whenever she was in a coquettish mood, she would roll those lovely eyes of hers, murmur that she was going to put on her special anniversary present, and would add, "I trust you know how to behave when I put them on as a signal, mon vieux?"
He'd been in just his bathrobe and pajamas, and had intended to stay up late preparing the first in the series of ads for the Delvano canned meat account. Ray Murray, a lean, good-natured, blue-eyed, thirty-seven-year-old recent Benedict, was the account executive on Delvano. But it was obvious that both Michele's nightie and her earrings meant that he wasn't going to do very much work on that ad.
"Would you mind terribly much, darling," she had asked when she cuddled with her arms around his neck and her sleek thigh against his, "If I took a trip to San Francisco all by myself?"
"I suppose not, ma petite. What's the attraction out there?" he'd asked.
Michele gave him a tiny stinging kiss on the neck and pressed her thigh even more tightly to his. Then she took the lobe of his ear between her sharp white teeth and gave him a delicious love bite, flicked the tip of her tongue into his ear and then informed him: "I had a letter yesterday from Paris, mon ange. You know, when my parents died, I was left all alone and you saved me from what in this country your very bad novelists call a fate worse than death."
"I know. Yet, judging from your performances on our anniversary, I somehow don't think you would have starved to death. If I'd never met you, Michele, you would have been running a salon de luxe by now, with about a dozen beauties working for you at top prices."
"You are forgetting Marthe Richard as well as the good General. They changed all that, mon vieux. No," she wrinkled her nose adorably at him and then pretended to be very serious in her contemplation, "I should probably have had to become the mistress of some very rich industrialist. Yes, I should have survived, but that's enough of such talk. I'm your poule, and don't you ever forget it. Don't let me catch you chasing around, because in the whole town there isn't anybody who can take care of you the way I can, and I think you know that."
"Yes, my adorable little poule." He slid one hand under the hem of her shortie nightie and let his fingers revel in the faintly moist, velvety, warm juncture of her groin, where the thigh merged with that enticing pelvic basin into the threshold of all that is feminine sweetness, allure, and maddening fuckingfulfillment, for his demanding organ.
"Let's go back to the original statement. You still haven't told me what's so important about San Francisco," he pursued.
"I was getting to that. I do have just one relative left, and that's a second cousin on my mother's side. It was she who sent me the letter. I'd lost track of her for so long. She married a G.I. who stayed in Paris with the Army of Occupation for a few years. But now he's a very important man in a big insurance company, and that's where Renee is living. They'd gone back to Paris for a second honeymoon, you see, just as we did, remember?"
He had flushed guiltily. He could never forget that second honeymoon, nor Monique Laurien either, nor what those three Arabian thugs had done to his own delicious Michele when he had been away in a hotel room fucking red-haired, lascivious Monique.
"At any rate," she had gone on, arching herself a little so his fingertips could reach the soft twitching lips of her petal-pink pussy. "Renee wants me to come visit her next week. Jim, her husband, has to go on to a convention in Florida, and he's not taking her, so she thought this would be a wonderful time for us to be together and talk about old times."
"Why not?"
"You're a darling, mon vieux," she had whispered huskily, as again her tongue had flicked into his ear. Now her other hand slipped down and unbelted his bathrobe, then found its way to the buttons of his pajama trousers and drew out his turgid cock. With thumb and forefinger she deftly pinched the sensitive meatus, and Paul Raymond had groaned with the delicious tantalus of her intimate caress.
"Besides," she had murmured, "it's good for married people to have a vacation from each other now and again, but just don't let me hear that you made a beeline over to the New Delphi to see if Monique can take care of this naughty boy I've got my hand on. I shall tell Georges before I leave so that he will be forewarned. Now that he's just married Monique, you'd better not be unfaithful to me with his wife, do you hear me?" Her fingers tightened against the tip of his cock, and he winced with the sweet anguish of her mock-punitive caress. He nodded. And then his mouth had fused with hers and his own forefinger had found inroads between the quivering pink lips of her cunt until it had brushed the adorable and already tumescent nucleus of her Venus: her ultra-sensitive clitoris.
Michele uttered a stifled little gasp of pleasure. Her left hand tightened against his neck while her right thumb and forefinger gave the head of his bulging cock a tantalizing little squeeze that very nearly unmanned him. Her lips sucked at his, her tongue slithering between his lips to forage invitingly. That kind of soul-kiss was a simulacrum of reality of cock-intent. Irrelevantly, Paul Raymond found himself amusedly thinking that God knows how many adolescent boys and girls who were going through their first stages of puppy love had recourse to this kind of kissing without going "all the way." And yet, if they only knew it, the use of the tongue was a powerful but conscious symbol of what they really wanted to do to each other.
"Mon vieux," Michelle had purred as she squirmed closer and closer to him until he felt as if she were trying to slide inside his very skin, "you really won't mind being all by yourself for a week, mon cher?"
"To tell you the truth, ma belle," he had told her, "it's not a bad idea. I've got a lot of work to do at the agency, especially on this Delvano account, because Ray Murray is going to be gone for two weeks so I'll have to take over his chores. You go right ahead and have yourself a wonderful time. I know you've never been to San Francisco, and you'll like it."
"So now you want to get rid of me, do you?" she made a petulant little moue. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe you've got something planned. I wouldn't put it past Monique to make a pass at you, mon loup sauvage."
He knew that she was teasing. That playful term, "my savage wolf," was one of her pet endearments for him when everything was right with the world for her, especially when she had enjoyed a consummate fucking. "Well, if she does, I'll just have to show my heroic qualities and turn her down. You remember that story from old Roman days, Michele, about the young Christian who was tied naked to a stake in the arena and told to recant to save his life. When he kept refusing, the Emperor sent in a beautiful naked dancing girl who went to work tickling and tantalizing him, just to show him what delights he could have if he gave up his faith. So what did he do? He bit off his tongue so he wouldn't weaken and give in."
She had given his cockhead an extra-hard little pinch, and her gray-green eyes had danced with a malicious merriment as she had murmured huskily, "Now you're putting ideas into my head, mon vieux. Maybe if I cut it off for you and took it with me to San Francisco, I'd be sure that you wouldn't give in, either. I'll admit that a man would have to be an eunuch to withstand Monique if she wanted to go to bed with him. Just you make sure that you're not home if she comes calling. Or, see to it that you don't go prowling around the New Delphi while I'm away."
"To hear is to obey, my adored one," he chuckled and kissed the tip of her piquant little nose. Michele had uttered a happy little sigh, wriggled away from him for the moment and shrugged off her shortie nightie. Then, cupping her titties and holding them out to him proudly, her eyes half-lidded, she'd murmured, "But before I take it along to San Francisco with me, I'd like to feel it one last time where it belongs. If you please, mon vieux."
He'd stood up, shucked off bathrobe and pajamas, and fallen upon her there on the couch without bothering to carry her off to the big bed. With a delightful little squeal of acquiescence, his milky-skinned wife had clamped her lissome thighs around his and locked her arms around his shoulders as her mouth greedily and bruisingly fused to his. With a single massive thrust, she had felt his cock dig between the soft moist lips of her vulva, find its furrowing way to the hilt inside her still wonderfully tight, exquisitely mobile and possessive sheath. Knowing exactly, after all these years, the way Michele loved to be fucked, Paul Raymond hadn't hurried although that had taken a bit of doing, considering the maddening excitement of feeling himself gripped and nibbled and clipped and kissed by those over-active cunt-walls of hers. He had deliberately held himself immobile, burrowed to his roots inside of her, closing his eyes and forcing himself to think of advertisements and presentations and projects anything but the furiously enervating feel of her naked flesh against his, of the contractions of her vagina against his embedded weapon, of the sweet fragrance of her perfume and the scent of her softly downed armpits, of the scraping friction which her dusky coral nipples were inflicting against his shuddering chest.
He had lingered there in that exquisite purgatory which is neither calm nor fury but the midway plateau between the onset of a fucking and its fulminating finale, till tiny whimpering sighs and the seductive squirmings of her loins and hips told him she was dying for it. Again, exercising all his self-control, Paul Raymond had begun to consecrate his manhood to that nuptial diversion which, as nothing else in the world, creates the strongest bond of empathy between himself and this honey-haired siren who had once been a poule in Paris, and who now, though chaste wife for a dozen years, was more talented in bed than a legion of expert whores.
With slow digging thrusts, at the end of each of which he rested there so magnificently housed, Paul Raymond had fucked his exciting, mercurial wife. His hands had slipped down to the compact globes of her satiny bare bottom, ultimately guiding her to respond to his own mounting needs by means of rhythmic squeezings and pressures against those succulent hillocks. When he sensed that all her tides were swirling towards the shattering cataclysm of climax, he deftly inserted his left forefinger between her bottom-cheeks to prod the crinkly little rosette of her anus, while his other forefinger sought the turgid buttons of her titties. At the same moment, his pace accelerated, as with furious thrusts he crammed himself homeward. Michele bit, scratched, writhed like an eel, her sharp white teeth nibbling at his lower lip or at his earlobe, or at last, when the spasm seized them both, sinking her teeth into his shoulder until he almost roared with the sweet agony of it all.
Then, when at last the blissful consciousness returned to both of them, she raised drowsy, langorous eyes to him and murmured, "There, mon vieux. I think I can trust you for a week. Because I don't think you'll find in that short time anybody who can give you a better time between the legs than I can. Admit it's true, mon loup Sauvage."
And so he was going to be a bachelor for a week, and it was time to think about plans for their vacation. They really hadn't had one in the past few years, even counting that trip to Paris to help the Surete break up the gang of Algerian murderers. For him, maybe, it had been a vacation by discovering Monique, but poor Michele would hardly have categorized being fucked and buggered by those brutal Arabs as the ideal way to travel. He wouldn't mind seeing San Francisco himself these days, what with the topless waitresses and the flower children as two new elements that hadn't been in vogue when he'd been out there a few years ago. And then there was the sourdough French bread and crabs down by Fisherman's Wharf, and Chinatown with all those shops and exotic restaurants along Grant Avenue. And the view from Twin Peaks and the drive over the Golden Gate Bridge out to picturesque Sausalito. And Mrs. See's candy, better than anything you'd find in Chicago these days.
Still and all, he couldn't think about vacations until at least May. There was a chess tournament to be held in Chicago the end of the month, running into the first two weeks of June. He might just spend his vacation that way, playing in it. He always wanted to do something like that, and since this was an open tournament, anybody could enter who could prove having at least a membership in the Federation with dues fully paid up and no less than a Class C rating. Well, at last report, he had been considered an expert, because he had been in a few chess matches played by mail against fellows who ranked as experts. That meant an average of 2000 points. Yes, it might be a lot of fun to spend a vacation that way, pitting his intellectual skill against the unknown potential of somebody from Vancouver or Tampa or even the Philippines. It was to be for the United States championship, a competition under the Swiss system so anybody in the world who entered had a chance. And, for one thing, if he spent his vacation playing chess, using wooden queens, Michele couldn't very well accuse him of having flesh-and-blood ones.
CHAPTER SIX
HE HAD SEEN MICHELE OFF AT O'HARE INTERNATIONAL Airport. When they'd called that it was boarding time on the big United Airlines DC-8 jet, he'd taken Michele in his arms and, running his hands down her back so they finally pressed against the edges of her slinky hips, had given her a very long and ardent kiss. The other passengers had turned to stare and to chuckle and to whisper the two of them certainly hadn't looked like an old married couple with twelve years' experience in bed. And even if Michele was now entering the third decade of her delightful life, she looked just about as beautiful as she had that day almost thirteen years ago in Paris. Her boarding costume comprised a dainty green felt turban with a coquettish feather sticking up at a rakish angle, a trim green knit wool suit which seductively clung to all the curves of her svelte figure with a pure white satin blouse that had the provocative nuance of a tiny black bow-tie to contrast ever so strikingly with her pale dainty skin. There wasn't any doubt that she was a sexpot and Paul Raymond could, not without some small smug satisfaction, read in the eyes of the male passengers about to board that jet along with his wife, a considerable envy. That didn't hurt his ego any, either. One of the extra dividends in being married to an ex-poule was that when he took her out in public, he knew she was going to draw looks the way a magnet draws steel; and the notion that he could sit at their table across from her and tell himself that he was the only one who was going to put his stiff cock into her tight hot pussy a little later on, while all those goops at the neighboring tables were staring over at her and mentally taking off her clothes and stretching her legs apart and digging themselves in her to the balls. Something like that never failed to make him both grateful and randy.
"Have a wonderful time, petite. Are you sure you have enough money with you?"
"Oui, mon vieux. Five hundred dollars in travelers' checks. It was very generous of you. I think you deserve another kiss." She put her arms around him, arched up on tiptoe, and her soft, honeyed mouth merged to his. For a tiny instant he felt the hot stab of her nimble little pink tongue, and then her loins had ground against his crotch. "There! That's to remember me by. Will you phone me at Renee's?"
"Every night, I promise."
"Good." She made a face at him, pretending severity. "Just be very careful, mon vieux, that when you do call I don't happen to hear a woman whispering or giggling in the background. Otherwise, mon ami, I might decide not to come back. Well, a bientot."
He gave her a last kiss. "Bring back a box of Mrs. See's candy. The dark chocolate butter creams for me. And when you're there, have yourself a steak at Grison's Steak House on the corner of Pacific and Van Ness. Bob's a good friend of mine, an ex-Chicagoan, and he still uses mid-Western beef in spite of all the Chamber of Commerce has to say about it." He gave her an affectionate, underhanded smack on the backside, and two men, stuffy, fat businessmen probably off to a convention in the City by the Golden Gate, had glared at him indignantly. He chuckled, turned on his heel, and left the boarding ramp just as Michele, svelte of figure, flanked by her two new and still indignant protectors, disappeared from sight. Paul Raymond was reasonably certain that those two would-be defenders of Michele's virtue had not guessed that he and she were, statistically speaking, just another old married couple.
Paul Raymond went back to the office to clear his desk of the morning mail. As soon as the big DC-8 jet had lofted from the runway, he had said a little prayer for Michele's safekeeping, and then taken a cab back to the Loop. He wondered idly what sort of woman this second cousin of hers was, this Renee. Somehow, there was always the connotation of sexual expertise associated with any female of French origin; maybe it was just an American myth, because we still haven't grown out of the juvenile era which the Puritans foisted upon us. In France, people made love and went in for mistresses whom their wives invited to tea without a second thought. Over here, the bookstalls were crammed with lurid paperbacks extolling the virtues of fucking. Over there, they did it; over here they wrote about it, with a kind of guilty, naughty-boy yearning for the forbidden. Paul Raymond was happy that he had taken unto his bosom a girl like Michele for whom sex was as natural as breathing; the analogy didn't quite hold up, because with Michele there were innumerable variations, whereas there are only a few standard ways of breathing.
Genial Ray Murray had already boarded his plane, so Paul Raymond turned to the task of drafting a rough on the first of a series of Delvano ads. By quarter of five he was satisfied enough with it to turn it over to Lucille Furnol to be neatly typed and inserted in a new manila folder for presentation to the client sometime tomorrow afternoon. The morning had been sunny, although chilly, and already it was dark outside and he could see the lights of the Merchandise Mart as well as the ascending rows of lighted windows in the Marina Towers where he lived. His own apartment was dark, naturally. It reminded him that his bachelorhood was starting right now. He didn't feel like whipping up even so simple a repast as a frozen dinner; tonight, he told himself, he'd treat himself to a dinner at Le Boulange, that delightful French restaurant on North Lincoln Avenue run by jovial Lajos Szathory. Lajos had come to Chicago a couple of years ago after teaching young hopefuls in the New England area how to light a broiler and do justice to a good Chateaubriand. Prior to that, he had escaped Budapest and the Russians had taken over. Now he was regarded as one of the best chefs in the country and he was also an ebullient humorist as well as a lover of life and beautiful women. Paul Raymond and he had been good friends ever since Lajos had opened the restaurant. He didn't need to advertise, because the place was small and always crowded, and one needed reservations. In spite of that, just about every night of the week, every month of the year, there would always be a long line of expectant customers, hoping against hope that somebody wouldn't show up to claim their reservations. Paul Raymond reached for the phone and in a few moments had himself a table at six-thirty. After that, perhaps one of those French art movies over at the Plaza North Theater, and then back home for a nightcap and a little after-midnight FM from WFMT while he worked out the start of another ad for Del. He felt very righteous and conscientious with a schedule like that on his first night of freedom; not even critical Michele could find fault with it.
But just as he was leaving his desk to get his coat from the rack, his phone rang. With a frown, the brown-haired, bespectacled advertising executive went back to his desk. "Paul Raymond speaking."
"Paul? This is Maxine. I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you, but I would like to see you."
His eyebrows arched with surprise. Maxine was none other than the former Maxine Thorson, now Mrs. Ray Murray. That romance had started during the restaurant bombing caper. Ken Barnold had hired Maxine from an employment agency whose directress had made a specialty of screening out girls with the dubious background of some incriminating misdemeanor charged against their past girls who generally would be rejected by big, impersonal corporations who didn't want ne'er-do-wells or problem employees. The only blemish on Maxine's record was that she had refused to go to bed with her boss in the industrial chemical plant where she had once worked. In vindictive and punitive anger, the boss had contrived to frame her for theft. He hadn't pressed charges enough to send her to jail, but he fired her for cause, and that would be enough to blacklist her, until of course Ken Barnold's conspiring employment agency had managed to get hold of her and send her out to Leland Packing to be his private secretary and to run the switchboard.
When Ken Barnold had met Paul Raymond's wife, Michele, in Marshall Field's and started dating her, only to discover that she was using him simply to teach Paul a lesson and had no intention of going to bed with him, the saturnine syndicate boss had gone over to Maxine's apartment one night and brutally raped her, and then left her sprawled on her back in the kitchen and contemptuously tossed a fifty-dollar bill between her twitching thighs as an expression of his contempt. Later, Rudy Signatti, the henchman who had pretended to steal Michele's purse in Field's to give his boss, Ken Barnold, a chance to play the hero and get to know her, had caught Maxine in a phone booth near the plant. He had taken his belt to her to force her to tell whom she was calling; but by the time Paul Raymond and the police had arrived, the restaurant bombers were put out of business for a long time to come. And Ray Murray, who had had a date with Maxine and found her sympathetic, had been dating her steadily since that caper and got her to say a very happy "yes" to his proposal of marriage.
Indeed, he did remember Maxine. She was twenty-eight now, with platinum blonde hair done in a fashionable upsweep, large and widely-spaced blue eyes, a tremulously ripe mouth, and a very delicious pink skin. Her titties were lush and ripe; her thighs and bottom, of the same breathtaking proportions. It was actually her second marriage, because she had come from a broken home and tried to escape by marrying a drinker, a chaser, and a bully when she was only seventeen. He picked a fight with her and knocked her down just a week before she had been scheduled to go to the hospital and have her baby, which had been born dead, and she had left him for good after she recovered. She had been paying for the divorce herself by working as a department store sales clerk, but then she had gone to night school to learn secretarial procedures and the elements of bookkeeping, but just then fate had given her another kick in her gorgeous backside by giving her a job in the industrial chemical plant and thence to Linda White's employment agency.
"I'd like that very much," he told her. "How about having dinner with me? As a matter-of-fact, I've just made reservations for my lonely self over at La Boulange. Have you ever been there?"
"Oh, no, but I've heard so much about it. I'd like that very much, Paul. Shall I meet you there?"
"Sure. Make it six-thirty. How are you and Ray getting along?"
He heard Maxine utter a contented little sigh at the other end of the wire. "Just wonderfully. And I'm ever so grateful to you, you know. I'd never have met him if it hadn't been for you."
"I can't take too much credit for that, Maxine."
"That's where you're wrong. If you hadn't been so worried about your friend who runs the Burgundy Inn and started investigating Leland Packing, I don't know what that horrible Ken Barnold would have done to me. And you sent Ray over to snoop around and find out what he could. That's how I met him."
"Well, I'm glad things worked out the way they did. Ray's a great guy."
"Yes, he is," came her surprising answer, with a nervous little laugh, "and I'm going to tell you just one thing and not even Ray knows it. If it hadn't been for him, I'd probably have gone for you in a big way, Paul. Of course, you're married-"
"Right now I'm a bachelor. But I promise not to tell Michele if you promise not to tell Ray about our dinner date tonight," he chuckled.
"Oh? Don't tell me you've broken up with that wonderful girl?"
"Not on your tintype, Maxine. No, she just flew to San Francisco to see a cousin. She'll be gone about a week. And I didn't feel like fixing my own dinner tonight."
"Well, it puts us both in the same boat, Paul, doesn't it? I'm a widow this evening, too. See you at La Boulange."
Paul Raymond put down the phone and pursed his lips. How very interesting. Now what in the world did Maxine want to see him about? Well, at least it wasn't going to be a boring evening. Sitting across the table from a cunt like Maxine was going to make a temporary bachelorhood very easy to take.
Lajos Szathory himself was on hand to welcome Paul Raymond and his voluptuous blonde companion as they entered through a narrow door of what had formerly been an old fashioned retail bakery. He wore a tall chef's hat, which made him tower over everybody in the room, and he was already six feet and a few inches to start with. His brown eyes sparkled with humor, and his humorous, genial features were dramatically enhanced by an enormous red moustache whose waxed points rose at each side of his cheeks.
"Good evening, Paul. But this can't be Michele!" He took Paul Raymond's hand and shook it warmly, his merry eyes admiringly scanning Maxine Murray, who glanced nervously around and then flushed and lowered her eyes.
"Are you trying to blackmail me, Lajos?" Paul Raymond chuckled good-naturedly. "Of course that's not my wife. That's another lady. Maxine, may I present Lajos Szathroy, the most gifted and virile cordon bleu west of the Mississippi? Lajos, this is Mrs. Ray Murray, the wife of one of my smartest associates at the agency."
Lajos Szathory reached for Maxine's hand and brought it gallantly to his lips. "Beautiful lady, you will always be welcome here, even if you come alone," he said in a romantic fervor. Then, to Paul, "I have a table for you in the back room, near the kitchen, so we can schmoos, when I have some time. Will you let me order your dinner?"
Paul Raymond looked at his beautiful companion. "I think we ought to put ourselves in Lajos' hands, Maxine. I mean, of course, in a culinary way of speaking."
The portly, mustachioed Hungarian clapped both hands to his heart, fell back two steps and gave Paul Raymond a hurt look. "And I thought you were my friend!" he exclaimed with so lugubrious a tone that Maxine Murray had to clap her hand over her lovely mouth to keep from giggling. "Beautiful lady, have no fear of Lajos Szathory. If ever you need a friend and protector, here beats an honest heart."
"He's right about that, Maxine," Paul Raymond chuckled as he pulled out a chair and seated his companion and then himself. "However, I'm not so sure that if I were you, I'd trust myself to be alone with him. Wait till he tells you about the time he made love to an all-girl orchestra in Budapest."
"Yes, it's true," the Hungarian chef nodded, then rolled his eyes ceilingward, "but after all, there were only three of them. One played the violin, the other the cembalo, and the third the clarinet."
"I see," Maxine Murray smiled. "Of course, Mr. Raymond is making a joke."
"Madame," Lajos Szathory exclaimed, again clasping both hands to his heart, "I assure you it is gospel truth! You see, it was raining hard and the Inn was crowded where the three delightful young ladies wished to stay, and I was the only gentleman there gallant enough to offer them my room. In their gratitude, they did not want me to sleep on the floor in the hall, so they invited me back into my room. And," he shrugged expressively, "since all three of them were terrified by thunder and lightning, I found myself obliged to comfort and soothe their jangled nerves. But now let me get back to the kitchen to select your dinner. I will concoct something very extraordinary to welcome you here for the first time, beautiful Madame." With this, with a courtly bow, Lajos disappeared into the kitchen, whence at once there rose the clatter of pots and pans and fiercely guttural expletives to his helpers as he began his creative process.
"It's delightful, and so is he." Maxine Murray leaned back in her chair with a sigh of comfort. "Such a charming little place."
"Yes, it's one of Chicago's finest. And it would compare with anything in New York or Paris or Montreal," Paul Raymond agreed. A pretty young blonde in a black dress and black stockings curtsied beside their table as she set down a platter of freshly baked, crusty white bread and a bowl of butterballs. "You could make a meal onthis bread alone, Maxine. Lajos gets it from a little bakery nearby which specializes in it. He could bake it just as well himself, but he has to save his time for such delicacies as beef Wellington and chicken paprikash. I've a hunch he's going to make this a memorable dinner."
Paul Raymond was right. The pepper steak which he and Maxine enjoyed had a mouthwatering, inimitable sauce; a complimentary bottle of Tokaji Furmenti, a tart cool Hungarian white wine, gave admirable accompaniment. And for dessert, a Linzer torte with scalding, strong black coffee topped off a meal that whetted every gustatory taste bud of their palates. A serving of smoked salmon with Lajos' inventive, original sauce was another highlight.
Then, over cigarettes, after Paul and Maxine had paid their host effusive compliments, Paul eyed his beautiful dining companion. "Now that we're relatively alone, suppose you tell me what prompted you to ask me to date you. We're both married, and it's much too close to home to go on doing it much as I'd like to."
"I'll level with you, Paul," Maxine Murray blushed a little as she returned his candid gaze. "It it's about my marriage. I want it to work so very much."
"Hey, now, don't tell me the honeymoon's over?"
"Oh, no, it isn't that. Or maybe well, it's all very complicated and I don't want to tell you here. And I told you I owed you a lot for steering Ray my way. Just this once, Paul, I want to be alone with you yes, you heard me right. To be alone the way a fellow and a girl are who like and want each other. Because if that happens, then I can tell you what I really want to say it'll be easier then."
He glanced around. The restaurant was crowded and noisy now, but nobody was watching them. "This sounds awfully mysterious, Maxine."
She, too, glanced around to make sure no one could overhear what she was about to say. And her cheeks were furiously crimson as she murmured, "It's not mysterious at all. I want you to take me home and fuck me, Paul. It's as simple as that. Will you?"
Paul Raymond felt his cock stiffen at the sound of those appealing words; just to see that luscious, red mouth shape them made him visualize what it would be like to have Maxine's lips salute what he had to offer her right now, obdurately hard and throbbing between his legs. It was a good thing the table hid him from the waist down!
He hesitated. To cuckold Michele on her very first night away wasn't something he'd planned; besides, getting involved with Maxine might mean antagonizing Ray, a co-worker. But she pursued, "I promise it'll only be this once. It's terribly important to me. Because then I'll feel I can confide in you on a very personal subject. You understand?"
"Not entirely, but I'll never say no to such a beautiful bed partner. Oh oh, here comes Lajos. We'll say our good-byes to him, and then get out of here."
"Well, Paul, did you enjoy it?" the genial Hungarian chef beamed.
"Fit for the gods, Lajos. That smoked salmon was a masterpiece."
"So glad you enjoyed it. You and Madame must have a liqueur, a Grand Marnier, perhaps?"
"Fine." Paul Raymond gave Maxine Murray an imperceptible nod. In a few moments, the pretty young blonde who'd served their bread and salad hurried up with a tray on which three glasses of the brownish liqueur were posed, and served Maxine, then Paul and then her employer.
"Now there," Paul Raymond lifted his glass to toast the charming young waitress, "is also a dish for the gods, Lajos."
"Ja, ja," the portly chef sighed. "She reminded me a little of the one who played the violin at that inn in Budapest. Ah, what happy days those were! I was a gay bachelor then. How the years fly. And you, Madame, you will come again?"
"Oh, yes. I know Ray will love this place. And thank you so much for a wonderful dinner and wine and this," Maxine raised her glass of Grand Marnier.
"Tell me something, Lajos old boy, " Paul Raymond murmured sotto voce. "How did you manage to screw the cembalo player? I can understand with the violin and clarinet, the girls could stand and play while you put it to them."
"Easy, my dear friend," the portly Hungarian chef stroked his moustache. "I had her seat herself on my lap, while I bestrode a chair. She could play the cembalo and move up and down as the music inspired her." Then he turned to Maxine, said aloud: "Long life to you, beautiful Madame."
He kissed her hand, bowed low, and at last returned to the kitchen. Paul Raymond left a substantial tip for their waiter and the pretty blonde aide, then helped Maxine on with her Borgana coat.
"My place?" she whispered, her eyes questioning.
"Let's get a cab first. The night air's cool, isn't it? There comes one hey taxi!"
As the cab slowed to his signal, Paul Raymond faced the dilemma of deciding where to bed his beautiful and eager inamorata of the night. A bed was a bed, and he could fuck her anywhere, even on the floor. But some snoopy neighbor might just chance to see them going in together at Ray's place and, when he emerged much later because you didn't give a dish like Maxine Murray a fast fuck and then say good-bye the neighbor might recognize that he wasn't Maxine's husband. And there wasn't any point in breaking up a good working team at the agency just over a piece of pussy, no matter how delicious a fuck that piece was about to give him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PAUL RAYMOND COURTEOUSLY HELD OPEN THE door of the Yellow Cab for Maxine Murray to enter, then seated himself beside her. He was just about to direct the driver to the Murray address on North Kenmore, when a sudden blazing recollection stopped him short. Michele had arrived in San Francisco several hours ago. There was a two-hour difference in the time zones. She never called him at the office unless it was an emergency, but she was--likely to call him tonight to chat with him about her trip and how things were with her cousin Renee. She'd probably make allowances for his going out to dinner by himself but it was a cinch that if she tried him about eleven o'clock, Chicago time which would be nine in San Francisco and didn't find him home, he might have a little awkward explaining to do when she got back.
"Marina Towers, please," he said. Maxine Murray snuggled up close to him in the back of the cab and gave him a sultry look. "Your place, then," she murmured.
Twenty minutes later, the cab drew up in front of the entrance on State Street, and Paul Raymond got out and helped Maxine out of the vehicle, then paid the driver with a liberal tip. As he held open the lobby door for her to precede him, he glanced around uneasily, out of force of habit. Fortunately, the Marina Towers wasn't like a hotel where the night clerk would know that the woman accompanying you was not your wife. The lobby was huge, and there wasn't always a clerk on duty at the mail desk. Off to the right and straight ahead was a series of corridors which led to elevator banks and shops and an attractive little restaurant.
"What a wonderful view you must have from here, Paul." Maxine Murray exclaimed, as they walked towards the elevator. A grilled door confronted them, a safeguard planned by the Marina builders so that only legitimate tenants could have access to the apartments. Paul Raymond took out his key, unlocked the door, then ushered Maxine towards one of the waiting self-service elevators and pressed the button for the 48th floor.
"Its just one of the many things that keeps me sold on the Windy City," he smilingly observed.
As he unlocked the door to his apartment, he couldn't help glancing around again. After all, this was the first time he'd ever brought another woman up to the apartment which he shared with the beautiful, honey-haired Michele. For a moment he felt almost as if, by witchcraft, she had sent her spirit to keep him under surveillance, while her material body was across the continent in San Francisco. He made a mental note to remind Maxine, as tactfully as he knew how, to take particular pains and not leave any stray hairpins or lipstick-smeared Kleenex tissues around, and especially not to lose either her bracelets or her earrings, both of them presents from her new husband, Ray.
"Let me fix you a nightcap, Maxine. What'll it be?"
"I really shouldn't. That wine and after-dinner liqueur were just marvelous, Paul. I've got to get Ray to take me there just as soon as he gets back." Maxine Murray began to remove her Borgana coat and the attractive little pillbox hat. She took them and disposed of them in a nearby closet. "Thanks, dear. Maybe just straight Scotch will be fine."
"In a jiffy, Maxine."
"It's just enchanting here! Why do you have that shoji screen in the middle of the room?"
"Well, since this apartment is much too small to give me any kind of study, we decided to cut it in two and use one side as a combination living room-dining room, and the other I use for my typewriter stand and my hi-fi. Then there's the bedroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom. It's really not much more than an efficiency, you see. I'll admit it would be nice to have a little more space, but so far we've managed very nicely. Here's your Scotch."
"Nothing for you, Paul?"
"Somebody has to keep a level head at times like this," he observed whimsically. She moved over to the big, comfortable couch in front of the huge bay window that looked out on the Loop, seated herself and promptly crossed her legs. The charcoal-brown nylons which caressed her deliciously rounded calves and dimpled knees caught his gaze, and he followed them until they disappeared under the hems of her red satin skirt. It clung to the full, appetizing columns of her thighs, molding her luscious haunches with a breathtaking fidelity. The bodice of her dress was modestly cut, but just the same he could see the narrow crease between the jutting cantaloupes of her superb titties. They were full and firm and, he suspected, didn't really need a bra to stay that way. Ray Murray was a very lucky guy, and it was easy to see why he had given up his bachelorhood. Paul Raymond lit a cigarette and took his place beside her, pulling up an ashtray closer to him on the glass-covered coffee table before them.
Maxine Murray finished her Scotch and set the glass down, then clasped both hands against the curve of her right knee, indolently waggling her pumpshod foot. He couldn't help glancing down at the flawless beauty of her nylon-sheathed calf. And now that he was next to her, his nostrils quivered as they picked up the scent of Chanel Number Five.
"Well, now," he tried to make his voice sound as airy as possible, "it was really very nice of you, Maxine, to keep me company tonight. Besides, I've been meaning to have a brotherly little talk with you. Ray and I work so closely on a couple of accounts at the agency that I almost feel he's like a brother. And since I was just about willing to bet he'd never give up the pleasures of single-blessedness, I don't mind telling you I was very glad the two of you found each other. How's it going between you?"
"Wonderfully, except for maybe one thing. That's what I wanted to ask you about, Paul. That's really why I wanted to be with you tonight."
"Oh?"
Her blue eyes humid and earnest now, fixed on him with an instant look. "I know you are very close to him, Paul, and you probably know things about him I won't find out for a long time yet. But that's just the point I want so much to make this marriage work I've sort of held myself back."
"In what way?"
Maxine's Murray's lovely soft, pink skin flamed with a sudden blush as she lowered her eyes and seemed to stare absorbedly at her entwined fingers over her knee. "Now that I'm alone with you, I suddenly feel shy as a bride," she confessed in a husky voice.
"No need to feel like that. I never did subscribe to the theory that a man ought to broadcast and gossip about his bedtime habits. Whatever you tell me will be safe with me."
"I know that, Paul, it's just that well, I'll tell you something about myself maybe you didn't know. When I was a kid, like a lot of girls who think their folks are squares, I wanted to get away from home and be on my own. My mother and father were always quarreling, and they soured me on marriage. At least, they soured me on theirs. But, to get away, I picked a real lemon. We eloped to Crown Point and at first everything was rosy. I mean, young as I was, I liked fucking a lot and he was quite a hunk of man between the sheets." She bit her lips and recrossed her lovely legs, this time letting him catch a glimpse of nylon-gauzed thigh as the hem of her skirt fucked up. "But he turned out to be a drunk and a brute in just about that order. I won't bore you with the details. Then I had a job, as you know, where I got framed for theft just because I wouldn't let my boss screw me. And then this Linda White found me a job with Ken Barnold. You know what he was."
"Yes. But you don't have to confess your soul to me, Maxine. So far what you've told me doesn't make me think any the less of you."
"You're sweet. Michele is awfully lucky."
"I er yes, she is. But do me a favor and don't mention her name again. You know."
"Sure. I'm sorry." She leaned to him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. The scent of her perfume made him shiver a little, and already he was starting to feel a suspicious ache between his thighs. No man with any potency left, and no matter what age he was, could sit next to a hot piece of ass like Maxine without getting a real hard on.
"You see," she went on at last, her voice a little unsteady. "I can't help feeling guilty that I let Ken Barnold screw me, rape me. But the trouble is, Paul, even when I hated him and wanted to kill him for doing it, that was in my mind while my body was answering him. Do you know what I'm trying to say?"
"Only what any amateur psychologist could tell you. The cranial and sacral regions never did get along very much. In other words, from my male viewpoint, I could fuck a girl whose personality and outlook and prejudice would otherwise make me want to strangle her. That's because my cock doesn't have any conscience and because what she's got between her legs would make me forget how little she's got in her brain."
"That's it, I guess. Anyway, with Ray it it's been awfully sweet. But, like I said, I I guess I've been holding back because I don't want to let Ray think I'm really the kind of slut who could respond to a bastard like Ken Barnold. And yet, because Ray's so nice, I find myself wanting to be everything to him his bitch, his slave, his plaything. Because with him, since I love him, it would be so thrilling and wouldn't be cheap and dirty like with Ken Barnold. Do you see my problem?"
"And you think if you act like a hundred-dollar call girl in bed with your husband, you might shock him and make him think the less of you, is that it?"
She nodded, her cheeks a furious crimson.
"Then the secret, Maxine, is to get Ray so worked up that whatever happens to him in bed will seem like his own idea."
"What what do you mean by that, Paul?"
"Well, do you want me to speak frankly? It's agreed that nobody is ever going to find out about tonight. And I'll tell you very honestly, Maxine, that though you're really a luscious piece of pussy, I don't intend to start an affair with you."
"I know that, Paul. I told you, just this one time I wanted us to be together. Besides, I owe you that don't shake your head. I want to. Don't you know that every girl who really--likes sex has a tiny little compartment in her mind well, all right, then in her cunt, if you're going to pull psychology on me which makes her want to find out what it's like in bed with a certain nice guy she knows she can't have. Ray can be everything to me, though he isn't right now, but one night with you isn't going to change it. Get what I mean?"
"I get it."
"Then tell me. You won't shock me. I know all the words even though I've never used them yet with Ray. I tried to be like a lady just because I want to hide my past."
"But you really haven't had much of a past, Maxine. Apart from an early, unfortunate marriage, and a couple of bouts with Ken Barnold, you've been a very good girl. However, if it will ease your mind, I'll speak frankly. Look. I suppose what you mean is that you and Ray have tried just the normal position."
"Uh-huh." Her face was very red now, and she was staring down at her knee, and her magnificent titties were beginning to rise and fall with a quickened erratic rhythm.
"The first rule to remember in fucking is that anything goes, if the partners are fond of each other and reasonably imaginative, Maxine." Paul Raymond coughed nervously, flicked cigarette ashes into the ashtray before him, feeling very much like a professor about to address a class. The incongruity of the situation was almost hilarious, although Michele would probably be the last person in the world to laugh if she were here right now. "And then I know that Ray has had one or two transient affairs, the usual one-night stands, which every man worth his salt is--likely to enjoy, but nothing really serious until he met you. And I take it you want to be everything to him, the complete wife-mistress-whore bit."
"I couldn't have put it better myself, Paul."
"All right. From the few remarks about sex which Ray and I have from time to time exchanged after hours, I can tell you that he is not a Puritan. I also think he knows you're mad about him and he feels the same way about you, except that a guy doesn't go around starry-eyed telling all his cronies that all he's got in his mind is pussy. Not in our business, he doesn't. So you'll never expect to get any admission from me that Ray has bared his heart of hearts to hope that you'd show more initiative in bed. No, Maxine, you've got to take the bull by the proverbial horns, or, to use a more practical metaphor, see that a cock in hand is already on the way to your bush."
Now Maxine Murray was really blushing, and she uttered a nervous little laugh as she uncrossed her beautiful, rounded legs and tried to smooth down her red, satin skirt. "I I do want to do everything for him, you know. Even that. And suck him off, too. And just give myself up and let him rape hell out of me when he fucks me. "But I can't out and out tell him what I want, can I?"
"Ordinarily, I'd say yes, you could, Maxine. It's this damned reticence, this throwback from our Puritanical forebearers, that leads us to be mealymouthed and hypocritical when it comes to bed and pussy and cock. But since obviously you've got a bug about being afraid that if you do just that, he'll think you a fallen woman, you've got to play it differently. For instance, when he's in the saddle fucking you, what's there to prevent your reaching down and fingering his tool under the pretext of pretending it's so terribly big and you're such a little girl, you're scared? It'll make him feel like a giant in bed, and believe you me, Maxine, there's nothing that will innate a man's ego like inflating his cock at the same time." Paul Raymond chuckled. "Then, once you've done that, you've broken the ice. Take it from me, there isn't a man alive, who prefers girls to fellows, who doesn't go wild when the girl he's fucking plays with his cock. In your case, you'll have to do it accidentally, shall we say, and before you know it, Ray will think it's his own idea and show you what he wants. The same way goes for positions, too. You know, you could go in for the old siren routine and let Ray come into the bedroom and find you on your hands and knees on the bed in the thinnest kind of sheerest nightie you've got while you're pretending you've lost one of your earrings. I'd take bets he'd go on from there."
"You you know an awful lot about women, don't you, Paul?"
"A lot by reading when I was young, and the rest by adapting my booklore to practical experience. There's nothing like the latter for straightening out domestic friction and substituting instead Mother Nature's neverfailing remedy for it, just using good, old-fashioned friction between cock and pussy. You may regard that as a Paul Raymond aphorism."
Maxine Murray quivered and moved closer to him until again he felt the pressure of her thigh. Then she slipped her hand onto his leg and hesitantly ascended it towards his crotch as she breathed, "Teach me, too. Put your words into action, Paul darling."
He felt his prick ache and swell with an exuberance he hadn't expected, not after the tribute to Venus which he had paid Michele the other night. But the luxurious dinner, and the stimulating wine, and, more than that, the aphrodisiacal enticement of platinum-haired Maxine Murray proved the unerring truth of his earlier remark that a cock has no conscience, only a desire for appeasement in the nearest available pussy. Thereupon he circled her waist with his left arm and, tilting up her dimpled chin, took her mouth in a long, luxuriating kiss. He felt her tremulous, soft, red lips move against his, part and then almost shyly, hesitantly, as if she were venturing on some first-time experiment, he sensed the moist, hot tip of her tongue moving into his mouth. At the same time, Maxine's soft hand clutched his rampant cock and took hold of it through the straining material of his trousers and shorts. He had to set his teeth to summon up self-control lest he pay his tribute to this substitute Venus much too early in the game by spilling his cream in spurts into his pants instead of in the cunt he craved so much.
"You know," Maxine Murray confessed in a shaky little voice while she kept her eyes averted from his face, "I'm getting hot just from talking this way with you. Is that wrong of me, too?"
"Of course it isn't. There's a Latin word describing that particular phenomenon, Maxine. When you're in the mood for fucking, talking about it in advance helps to whet the amorous appetite and to create all sorts of titillating mental images, that's all. My God, you really must have had a thwarted childhood after all."
He said this lightly, wanting to aid her in making the transition from chaste wife to uninhibited love-partner, so that she would fuck him eagerly when the. time came.
It worked. Emboldened, her soft little hand began to forage at the zipper of his trousers, disengaged it, and delved inside, unbuttoning his shorts and drawing out the turgid staff of his manhood, now in furiously full erection.
At that very moment the phone rang. Paul Raymond's eyes widened behind his glasses, then he disengaged himself from Maxine's clasp, and rose. His face flushed. He put a finger to his lips to urge silence, then walked towards the phone which stood on a little tabouret at the far end of the combination living room-dining room, just at the threshold of the kitchen. It was ten-thirty, which meant eight-thirty in San Francisco he knew that it was Michele, and he was grateful that her call hadn't come in a little later when extricating himself from the snare of Maxine Murray's eager pussy would have been a thousand times more difficult.
"Hello?"
On the other end of the wire across the continent, that deliciously accented voice told him that he had ESP. "Ma'amour, it's so nice to hear your voice again!"
"And yours, Michele darling." Over on the couch, Maxine Murray smoothed her skirt again, leaned back and nonchalantly lit a cigarette, but with trembling fingers and flushed face.
"It was a wonderful flight. And Renee was waiting for me at the airport. We spent all afternoon and evening gossiping about Paris and our husbands. She's almost made me a little envious describing hers, you know."
"I'll have to meet Renee sometime."
"Well, darling, she'd like us both to visit the end of May, because her husband goes on vacation then. Do you think we might manage it?"
"Sure. Matter of fact, I was just thinking about taking a vacation around that time of year. There's a big chess tournament coming to Chicago, and I'd like to play in it."
"I don't think I'd like that, mon vieux." Michele's voice sounded a little petulant. "That would make me a widow while the tournament was goingon, wouldn't it?"
"Not necessarily. I haven't had a vacation in quite a while, so I'm entitled to at least three weeks a vice president of an agency has certain fringe benefits, you know. So what we do, I take off the first week before the tournament, and go with you to visit that charming cousin of yours, then leave you out there and fly back to Chicago."
"That wouldn't be so bad. We'll talk about it when I get back, won't we?"
"Of course, darling."
"What are you doing with yourself?"
Paul Raymond glanced down at his open fly from which his still violently swollen manhood protruded. "Wishing you were here," he said truthfully. Maxine gave him a pouting moue, and then patted the couch beside her to indicate that she was ready for his company. "I've already started to miss you terribly hard." And that was no lie. He was aching now, a dull, deep ache which began way down in his testicles. At that moment, Maxine decided to tantalize him by taking hold of her skirt and lofting it about her waist to disclose the foamy white nylon slip beneath, which shaped out the mouthwateringly ripe curves of her thighs.
"That's very sweet, mon loup sauvage. But now you be a good boy until I get back and just save all that hardness for me, do you hear?"
"To hear is to obey."
"It had just better be, ma'amour. Well, Renee wants to talk to you for a moment. I'll say good night. Sleep well and be sure you're sleeping alone, Paul darling."
"That I can promise you, scout's honor," he chuckled. He could. Fucking Maxine Murray was one thing; letting her spend the night in the bed he shared with Michele was quite another. He heard whispers in the background at the other end of the wire and then a soft, contralto voice Michele's second cousin, Renee came on. "Paul! I feel as if I know you ever so well. Michele has just been raving about you ever since she got off the plane."
"I was just telling her, Renee, that I can arrange my vacation for the end of May and both of us can visit with you. Then I'll leave her with you and come back here to take care of some business."
"That will be wonderful. My husband and I would really show you the town. Well, I won't keep you any longer. Michele wants me to convey a thousand kisses to you. Consider them conveyed."
"Tell her I send two thousand back. Good talking to you, Renee, and you look after that beautiful wife of mine. Good night now."
Paul Raymond exhaled a sigh of relief and walked slowly back to the couch. He glanced ruefully down at his deflated tool; the awareness of Michele's psyche in this room, though conveyed only over the telephone wire thousands of miles away, had acted like a psychosomatic cold-water douche.
"You see, Maxine?" he joked, "I'm obviously not an old hand at infidelity. Now you will just have to start all over again."
"I don't mind at all, darling. In fact, I'm going to be a very bold hussy from now on. Maybe, though, we ought to have gone to my place."
"Then there'd be the problem of one of your nosy neighbors seeing my leaving you before dawn and, sure as you're born, she'd find a way to tip Ray off that you aren't the virtuous little bride he married. This is fine right here. Now let's for the rest of the time, pretend we're both back in circulation and just let yourself go. Maybe you feel uninhibited, but I don't, so you'll have to help me. And by doing that, you'll find the key to unlock the door between you and Ray. There will be no charge for this evening's session in bedroom psychology."
He sat down beside her and Maxine Murray, with a soft slurred little laugh, promptly bowed her platinum-haired head and put her tremulous, soft red lips to the tip of his dwindled cock. The effect was magical; he could feel his prick at once responding, and the dull, aching pangs returned with a vengeance as Maxine's lips grazed and nudged the pink-skinned knob. He felt her bestow a series of rapid little kisses all over it, and his now fully tumescent weapon tilted up so that she had to lift her head to follow its ascent. He cupped her flushed, warm cheeks with his hands, watching her intently. Somehow, there was a tremendous excitement through the visual image of seeing a beautiful woman perform such oral obeisance on his prick. It conjured up all the erotic history of the past when the male was a feudal lord and a woman nothing more than a slave dedicated to pleasing his every whim. In those happy days, there wasn't the equality of today; nowadays, a beautiful woman was only too well aware of her desirability, and she might turn out to be narcissistic and hence a lousy lay.
"Do you know, Paul, that's the first time in my life I've ever done that for a man?" her voice was low and thrillingly husky, and she didn't look up at him, either.
"That's a good sign already. You do that to Ray, and your marriage will last forever, I guarantee it." His voice wasn't too steady, either. "But why don't we get more comfortable? I'd like to see more of you, anyway."
"Oh, yes, darling. You just sit there and let me do everything for you, just as if I were your handmaiden."
"You know, it's amazing, how much rapport there is between us. A minute ago while you were Frenching me, Maxine, I was almost reincarnated back into the Middle Ages, like some robber baron forcing the wife of one of his serfs to come to his chamber and go to bed with him before she dared offer her pussy to her own husband. You go right ahead and let me sit here and enjoy it," he encouraged her.
Maxine rose, while Paul Raymond stretched out on his back on the couch, pillowing his head on his arms and watching her feline movements as she removed the red satin dress and draped it over one end of the coffee table. Next came her slip, leaving her luscious body garbed in the gauzy, white nylon bra and matching pantie-girdle, her charcoal-brown nylons and her pumps. He caught his breath at the provocative sensuality that radiated from her. Through the nylon cups of her bra, he could discern the sumptuous, proud outjutting globes of her titties, the broad, dark coral aureoles and, in their sweet centers, crinkly, ripely developed buds. The pantie-girdle clung to her hips and buttocks and upper thighs like a glove, and when she turned slightly to one side, his eyes glistened at the sight of those two tightly-set, upstandingly rounded, resilient and solid bottom-cheeks, quivering and contracting in a way that dissembled the ambery, shadowy separation between their succulence. For the moment she stood with her back to him, her hands reaching back to the bandeau of her bra. Then it fluttered to the floor and she turned slowly to face him. Head bowed, face absorbed in her ritualistic undressing, her fingers now attacked the final veil. Her titties surged out, rising and falling very quickly now, the satiny, pink skin flawless and velvety-smooth, her naked nipples duskier than he had first supposed them, and already larger from the erotic exacerbation which motivated this beautiful platinum blonde houri.
Having unfastened the shocking tabs of the sheath, Maxine now tugged it down, stepped out of it, and was naked in hose and pumps. She was not, he saw at once, a natural platinum blonde. The curving goblet of her belly was kissed deeply and widely by the umbilical niche, and then came the thick curly dark-browned triangle fleece, which covered the appetizingly plump soft pink lips of her delicious cunny.
She moved slowly toward the couch and asked demurely, "Do I please you, Paul?"
"All you have to do is use your eyes for your answer, darling," he said hoarsely. Maxine Murray blushed down to her softly rounded throat, because his cock was thrusting out with ferocious obduracy, the turgid, dark blue veins surging against the taut skin of his shaft.
"My goodness, I guess I do at that," she murmured. "Can we do it this way?"
"You mean with you on top? Recommended for ailing, exhausted or just plain lazy husbands," Paul Raymond chuckled. "Go ahead, I'll make you the mistress of ceremonies for the occasion. You lead and I'll follow."
Maxine Murray knelt on the couch, moving slowly between his accommodatingly widened thighs. She reached down her left hand to his proffered weapon and took hold of the middle of the shaft, while with her left thumb and forefinger she parted the soft fleshy lips of her slit. Then very slowly and cautiously, she lowered herself to that impaling instrument. Paul Raymond closed his eyes and shuddered with delight as he felt the tight, hot clamp of her lovesheath over just the tip of his throbbing organ. "You know Maxine," he quipped, "one way to overcome your shy, bridal confusion with Ray is to sneak it to him before he wakes up. Van de Velde recommends fucking as early as five in the morning, when all the muscles and the mind are relaxed. Usually, a healthy man wakes up with a hard on, so all you have to do is get on top of Ray early some morning before it's time for him to wake up and get with the office grind. Take it away from him. Just like this ahhh, that's wonderful, Maxine! You won't have to give Ray any longwinded explanation about your motives once he wakes up and finds you fucking him this way. And from then on in, baby, you won't need Dr. Raymond's advice at all. Yes, you gorgeous little cock-teaser, now you've got it all inside you, get down here where I can hold onto you and start showing you that I'm fully awake!"
He was housed to the hilt inside Maxine Murray's tight, hot quim, their pubic hairs merging in an exquisitely exciting friction; slowly she sank down over him, her ripe, juicy titties mashing against his swelling chest, locking her arms under his wiry shoulders, fusing her avid, warm, moist mouth to his, as his hands gripped the succulent halfmoons of her bottom-cheeks. Experimentally, slowly, Maxine arched herself a little and he felt his cock retreat from its tantalizing tight, warm-haven ; then, with a little gasp of ecstasy, she returned all of him to her bower. It was a good thing, he told himself, that Michele had already made her phone call. It would just about be impossible to get to the phone now and it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do anyway. He took a deep breath, and then he began to join his rhythm to hers, as, emboldened, the naked beauty above him wriggled, undulated, and squirmed, arching herself only to sink back down with ever-quickening movements that sent his rigid ramrod burrowing savagely into the quaking volutes of her cunny channel.
"Ray doesn't know what he's missing," Paul Raymond panted as they neared the Nirvana of climax. His fingers dug into her satiny bottom-globes, regulating her movements now, divining from the contractions and weavings of her voluptuous bare backside the precise tempo of her self-impalement. "You do this to him a couple of mornings, baby, and you'll never have to worry about his going elsewhere for pussy. It's also a good thing you and I agreed that this would be our one and only night together, because otherwise I'd go looking for it myself. Oh, you sweet bitch, you, don't hold yourself back now! Give, Maxine, give! Don't worry about my keeping up with you, I'm ready any time yes, now, now ahhhh!! ! "
He felt the torrential, explosive power in his loins break past the dam of self-control, while, at the same moment, Maxine Murray, her eyes rolling, humid and glazed, uttered a hoarse, wordless cry of intolerable rapture and ground herself against him, her fingernails digging into his back. The earthquake seized them both and nearly rolled them off the couch, enlaced and entwined, mouth crushed to mouth, and tongues slithering together. For an eternity, they lay motionless, only the faint sound of tiny, sobbing breath escaping them. And then Maxine Murray squirmed against him and whispered tremulously, "Oh, my God, Paul darling, there's really nothing wrong with me at all, is there? Ray doesn't know it but he's going to get raped real hard as soon as he gets back home. And if you send him out of town again before at least six months, I'll come back over here and not only tell Michele how naughty you were the first night she was away, but I'll cut your prick off, too!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
MICHELE RETURNED FROM HER SAN FRANCISCO visit ecstatic over her reunion with her second cousin, Renee, and many glowing accounts of the sights and entertainment she had enjoyed as a first-time visitor to the City by the Golden Gate. She brought back with her several snapshots which indicated that Renee was herself quite a tasty Parisian morsel. Thirty-two, Renee had sandy-colored hair styled in a chic Sassoon bob which made her look very much like a mischievous gamine. She was perhaps half an inch shorter than Michele, still more svelte, with the same kind of sensitive, oval-shaped face and animated, eloquent eyes, both with a small and very ripe, sensual mouth. Her figure, and Paul Raymond could appraise it from a benignly discriminating viewpoint, was altogether different from Michele's; Renee's titties were like small oranges, her waist extremely slim, but her hips were undulatory marvels of swiveling enticement, her buttocks two appetizingly ample, sinuously set ovals and her long slender thighs and boyishly sleek calves gave her a most piquant allure. One of the snapshots showed her wearing slacks and a shortsleeved, low-necked blouse, so that the first impression suggested she was an attractive boy. There were many men for whom such an ambiguity of sex would an added fillip between the sheets, and Paul Raymond had to admit that Renee had a decided appeal for him.But when he considered the luscious contouring of his own beautiful, honey-haired wife, there could be no question as to whom he would choose if hypothetically he, Michele and Renee were stranded on a desert island.
He told her as much in bed on the very night of her return, exactly eight days after her departure from Chicago. Michele purred like a contented little kitten, thoroughly pleased with her husband's demonstration of manly ardor and appreciation of her connubial charms. So much so, in fact, that much to his relief, he didn't have to tell any white lies about whether he had been continent during her absence. And, to be sure, his only erring from the path of righteousness had been with voluptuous Maxine Murray. As a matter-of-fact, to expunge even this lapse from the folds of fidelity, Paul Raymond had immersed himself in after-hours labors for the good of the agency and particularly for the Delvaho account. Admittedly, he concentrated on that account by way of making spiritual amends to Ray for having enjoyed Maxine's very lavish favors.
For the next month or two, business at the agency continued to boom. With the prospect of his own hobby-chasing vacation not far off, Paul Raymond tackled his work with gusto, and once again brought an occasional frown to Michele's lovely forehead. So far as she was concerned, proficient as he was in his job, he shouldn't have to bring home work and stay up until the wee hours doing it while she was waiting for him in bed in one of her slinkiest black nylon nighties or one of the many breathtaking and equally sheer negligees with which she had fortified her wardrobe to make certain of his constancy.
Moreover, the thought of the way he intended to spend his vacation didn't make her any happier.
To be sure, she could hardly wait to be with him in San Francisco again and see Renee and Alix Montreuil. Alix was a tall, stately, brown-haired matron, all of thirty-five, also a Parisian and a dear friend of Renee's who had married a young restaurateur in Bordeaux a decade ago, and then followed him to San Francisco to start a new French restaurant of haute cuisine. The restaurant, "Le Coq D'Or," ranked as one of the very finest in San Francisco, and Michele was loud in her praises of the service and the food. Paul Raymond, himself an amateur gourmet, looked forward to dining there. But on the other hand, the thought of his returning to Chicago to shut himself up in a hotel for two weeks and do nothing but play chess while she remained in San Francisco hardly made her enthusiastic. And very--likely, if it hadn't been for Georges Pretre, she might have groused much more about it than she actually did.
Because, the first week of April, the genial owner of the New Delphi, so recently married to voluptuous Monique Laurien, telephoned Michele at the Marina Towers apartment while Paul was busy one afternoon working with Ray Murray to whip out the just approved Delvano advertising campaign. Michele, lounging at her ease in open-toe sandals, off-black nylons that clambered high on her voluptuous, lithe thighs, a narrow snug garter-belt and a green satin housecoat, was quite surprised to hear Georges' explanation as to the reason for his call.
"You see, I am planning another addition to the building in which the New Delphi is housed. We have had such a good response for our luncheons, thanks to your nice husband's advertising skill, chere Michele, that I've decided to imitate one of my great competitors and have a fashion show every Monday and Thursday noon. You don't have the tea hour in this country as we do in Paris and, of course, in London, as you know, but I hope that with this innovation of mine to get more patrons for the hours between one and three. It could be very good business for me."
"You're soon going to be the most enterprising restaurateur in Chicago, mon ami." Michele complimented him. "But I don't see how I can help you, Georges. Oughtn't you to call Paul and tell him if you want more advertising?"
"Non, non, that was not why I called you, ma eherie," George Pretre explained. "You see, there is going to be a West Coast restaurant show in San Francisco about a week before Memorial Day. That will be just about the time all my workmen will be here finishing the addition and then I have to arrange for a press showing you know, the usual thing. But my charming wife, Monique, is very much how do you say it ahhh, I have it up on what is going on in the restaurant world. And she suggested that she could go in my place and take notes and go to the meetings and then report to me some of the good ideas that perhaps I may adapt here at the New Delphi. And what I was wondering, Michele, was, I don't want her to go out there unchaperoned."
"I don't wonder," Michele Raymond said tartly, her lovely gray-green eyes narrowing. Then, quickly apologizing, she added, "I'm sorry, mon cher, that was a very catty thing to say."
Georges Pretre chuckled. "You don't offend me, ma jolie. I know very well that Monique leaves a trail of broken hearts wherever she goes. And I know, too and it is safe to say this because we are all friends now, that my wife and your husband once were very close in Paris."
"I know. And I've buried the hatchet, and Monique and I have shaken hands. But just the same, mon Dieu," Michele retorted softly, "if you're suggesting that you want my husband to escort your wife out to San Francisco, the answer is very definitely 'no'. "
"You are really in a jovial mood today, ma pigeonne. Of course I didn't mean that. I meant, how would you like to go along with Monique? I would pay all the expenses and it would be a kind of vacation for you. Also, psychologically, the two of you can become better friends, because I will tell you a little secret I wish to become a father and as quickly as possible and unless I miss my guess, I may already have achieved my goal."
"Georges! That's wonderful. Are you sure Monique is pregnant?"
"You make me blush, ma belle. Shall we say that since our marriage, I haven't neglected my necessary duties. No man would with a wife like Monique. And since I can't have you, you understand-"
"Tais-toi!" Michele giggled. "I will take you at your word. No, you very definitely can't have me. Any more than Paul can have Monique. That's why I'm so happy to hear the good news. As it happens, I'd love to go out with Monique. You see, Paul is taking his vacation about that time, and he was going to go to San Francisco with me for a week, then come back to Chicago and spend the next two playing in a silly chess tournament. So he could go along and perhaps, under my very careful supervision, help Monique make the notes for you that you need, but after that he would be well away from her."
"That's marvelous! Let's arrange it that way. Do you want to tell Paul for me?"
"I certainly do. And, with your permission, I shall go so far as to tell Paul that its going to be a long and happy marriage from your side, since Monique is already a little bit pregnant. Do you mind?"
"You are the most incomparable of women. As I told you, if I hadn't married Monique, I would have given Paul a battle for your affection. Then I leave it to you to arrange things. And since, as we both know, Paul handles my advertising for the New Delphi, I will pay his expenses too for that week."
"You're an angel, Georges. A bientot."
Michele replaced the phone, and on her lovely face there was the smile of the proverbial cat that had just swallowed the canary. Well, one thing was certain; no matter how much her loup sauvage might want to baiser that slinky, red-haired Monique, he would lose all interest once he found out Monique was enceinte. She stretched out on the couch and flexed her lovely legs. Her eyes were luminous as she thought of how she would break the news to Paul. In bed, in his arms, his big, hard, becque deep in her little con, his strong hands digging hard into her f esses, making her feel so hot and wanton that she felt as if she were crawling inside his very skin. And while he was giving it to her hard and long and good, she would tell him that Monique was finally out of circulation as well as out of bounds. Because there is nothing like a pregnant woman, no matter how bitchily desirable she is, to make a philandering husband's passions cool.
It worked out exactly as she had planned. By eleven o'clock that night, deliciously naked except for soft powder-blue mules, gunmetal-gray opera length stockings that rose high on her magnificent thighs and were held up with red satin-elastic rosettes, Michele Raymond lay entwined with her ardent husband. He knew something was up when she had called to him in a seductive, husky voice and told him, before he entered their bedroom, to bring along that chilled half-bottle of champagne. Also, she had added, "All you are to wear is the bottle, M'sieu Paul."
Seeing her clad only in her diaphanous hose with those gaudy garters and fluffy, dainty mules told Paul Raymond that she had a special project in mind and meant to get his approval in a way that would brook no argument. Because a costume like this was traditional for the sexiest and most expensive of ponies, as he well remembered from his days in Paris. While they finished the champagne, she caressing his aching cock with one slim hand while she winked at him most provocatively over her brimming glass of champagne, he fondled her titties and her dark-gold-furred pussy with his free hand while he returned her toast to a passionate night in store for both of them. Slowly, and anticipatingly, she sinuously stretched out on her back to receive him. He slipped his massive organ between the pouting, pink lips of her voluptuous nook, and gradually hilted himself. He gave it to her slowly, the way she liked best at the very outset, and about the time he was feeling the need to quicken his gait, Michele, nibbling at his earlobe, whispered what Georges Pretre had asked her to do that afternoon. "But, ma'amour," she murmured as she dug her fingernails into his back and clutched her thighs avidly over his buttocks to prepare herself for their final conclave, "this is sort of a punishment for you. You're going to go along with Monique to that convention and help her make notes for her husband, but you will be remembering that I'm there in town, too, and that I'll know if you try any tricks with her, you hear?"
"I may be many things, darling," he told her in a rather unsteady voice, for the clutch of her stockinged thighs and the convulsive tensing of her vaginal walls against his embedded cock were taxing him almost beyond endurance, "but I'm not a homebreaker. From now on, you've got my word I'll just look longingly at Monique but not touch."
"That's all right. The day you stop looking at a pretty girl, mon Dieu, I'll order your coffin. Now stop talking about Monique and get your mind on your homework. And I'm not going to be content with just one servicing tonight, you understand?" Michele purred as she nipped him sharply on the chin with her gleaming, white teeth.
For the rest of that night, Paul Raymond didn't talk about Monique, much less think about her. Michele was practically insatiable. Indeed, after giving her two long, heavenly fuckings, he had to beg for mercy to gain a respite from his connubial duties. But his honey-haired wife granted it her way, not his. Crouching between his thighs, her soft lips and tongue diligently plying his deflated weapon back to fervent vitality, she finished off the exciting night by taking the man's position atop him. "There," she gasped when she had felt him shudder forth the last drop of his vital essence in her chalorous sheath, "I think I would be safe in bringing Monique into the room naked as the day she was born right now. I don't think you'd be any good to her, my poor, old husband. Forty years old. What a shame. The day will come when I shall have to find your replacement. But not for a while, that I promise. Now let's shower and go to sleep, spoon-fashion. I shall dream of what fun I'm going to have in San Francisco again, seeing Renee and Alix. And you, you can dream about your wooden chess pieces. Because while you are playing in the tournament I've got Georges' promise to drop in on you ever so often and make sure it's chess you are playing, compris?"
All Paul Raymond could do was nod and sigh.
By the first week of May, Chicago's weather was warm and sunny, and so was Michele's disposition. Paul Raymond had been working extra-hard to get his affairs in order preparatory to the three-week vacation. He had sent in his entry fee to his friend, George Koltranoff, a genial Belgian who had been a professional chessmaster in Europe, set many records for simultaneous and blindfolded play, and was now making his home in San Francisco with his handsome wife, who had once been a Spanish movie starlet and, though now in her early fifties, was still an intensely vital and desirable woman. Koltranoff wrote a weekly chess column for the San Francisco Bulletin-Post, which had become syndicated throughout the major cities of the United States, and his actual chess playing was limited to occasional exhibitions and postal chess lessons with aspiring young master candidates at so much per lesson. He had been named as the Tournament Director of the Congress to be held in Chicago from May 29 through June 14, and Paul Raymond meant to have dinner with him in San Francisco and then go back with him to Chicago, leaving Monique and Michele out in that fabulous town where once the Barbary Coast had flourished. It would be exhilarating to match his skill over the board with some of the country's best young players, players who were half his age. Paul Raymond himself had actually played in only one minor tournament, but had kept up postal chess for a good many years as a diversion, and his bookcase was filled with tournament books and studies by the greatest masters. He didn't expect to score very many points, but it would be fun. Besides, when one played with someone stronger than oneself, one invariably produced better quality of chess.
He had mixed feelings about Monique's being out in San Francisco with Michele for the slightly more than two weeks he would be back here in Chicago at the tournament. Although the two beauties had come to a wary truce and were almost friends, Paul Raymond knew very well that when two women are alone together and let down their hair, cats can be let out of the bag. It was true that Michele was aware that her violation by those three Arabs had been mainly due to his having fooled around Monique, but she had accepted the fact that this single act of philandering had been necessitated by his role as a counter-agent for the Surete, but what Michele didn't know was that Paul Raymond had gone back for seconds before leaving Paris. That was something he wanted to keep to himself for the rest of his happily married life.
Maxine Murray called at the office one afternoon just a week before his departure for San Francisco. She asked him whether anybody was with him at the moment, and when he told her he was quite alone, she effusively exclaimed, "Oh, Paul, I just wanted to tell you that I took your advice and that Ray and I are just about having a second honeymoon. It's so wonderful. He's a new man and I'm a new woman, and its all thanks to you."
"That's wonderful news, honey. But just don't go and spoil things by intimating to Ray that you learned some of your tricks from yours truly. And don't ever let me catch you blurting out in front of Michele the fact that we're anything more than very good friends. I want to keep my happy home intact, and I'm going to leave for San Francisco pretty soon with my wife and also with a certain young lady who very nearly caused me to break up my marriage."
"Do I know her?"
"I don't think so, unless you've been to the New Delphi. And that's all I'm going to say about it. By the way, Maxine, I know Ray hasn't asked me, but you can tell him that I've lined everything up for the Delvano campaign so that he can just coast along while I'm on my vacation. And, of course, I'll be back in time to play in that chess tournament. If you've nothing better to do, you might come out to the Belmont Hotel and watch me squirm."
"Maybe I will at that. Tell me, Paul, do any women play chess?"
"Of course. As a matter-of-fact, this open tournament will have two titles to be won; the player with the highest total score will become United States Open Champion, and then the woman who scores the highest among the women entrants will win the championship for her sex. You see, its staged on the Swiss system. Do you know anything about chess, Maxine?"
"A little. My boss at the chemical plant used to play it and tried to teach me. I was interested until I found he was just using it as an excuse to fuck me."
"Take it from me, no man needs any kind of excuse to want to do that. But to go on about chess. They probably will have at least a hundred fifty competitors in this tournament, Maxine. Now it's physically impossible to play a round robin that is, everybody playing everybody else. So what they do is figure out a player's rating and ranking, assign him a certain number of rating points, and P then match him in the first round with somebody of about the same strength. Then every winner in the first round meets another winner in the second round. Those who draw their games meet another player in the second round who also drew. And then, of course, the losers from the first round are paired with other losers in the second. It goes on like that for fifteen rounds. The person with the most points is the champion. And let's say there are ten women in the tournament, and one woman scores only five points, but that happens to be more than her nine rivals get then she's the women's champion. See?"
"Yes, I think so. Well, good luck. And thanks again."
"Your quite welcome."
As he hung up the phone, Paul Raymond shook his head with a wry smile. Maxine's voice had a certain eager tone to it. He wouldn't be surprised at all if she were trying to get a return engagement in bed. But that was definitely out.
Georges Pretre and his wife, Monique, Paul Raymond and Michele were in the Red Carpet Room at O'Hare, half an hour away from takeoff of the United jet to San Francisco. Monique was devastating in a green felt turban which set off her magnificent red hair, with the vividly arresting silver-gold streak down the middle, a trim, tailored suit coat-skirt combination, and charcoal-brown nylons and brown suede pumps. Michele had made very sure that she and Monique would sit together on the plane with Paul behind them in a window seat. And she had teasingly told him in the cab in route to the airport, "I hope some fat, dull conventioneer sits beside you and bores you to death all through the trip. Monique and I are going to have a lovely little girl-talk, all to ourselves."
It had finally been agreed that Michele and Monique would return to Chicago about a week before the chess tournament ended. The restaurant convention would end on the first of June, but Michele had slyly suggested to Georges that it would be a lovely vacation for his wife to come along and meet some of her own friends and see the sights of the Bay area. And when the boarding call finally came, Georges Pretre took his red-haired wife in his arms and kissed her passionately, tapping her dainty nose with his forefinger and teasingly added, "Now just don't you forget you're a married woman and the future mother of our son, Monique Pretre. There are lots of younger and much more handsome men than I am out where you're going. That's why I'm glad that Michele's going to be with you."
"What makes you think it will be a son?" Monique said with a sly wink at Paul Raymond. Michele frowned, having intercepted that exchange between the two of them. He coughed and looked down at the floor.
"Well, it's an old wives' tale, you know, that when the woman is stronger in bed than the man, its a boy; and when the man is stronger it's a girl." The restaurant owner gave Monique another ardent kiss, and surreptitiously reached his hands around to squeeze her bottom in a most unhusbandly way.
"The very idea!" Monique gasped as she wriggled out of his embrace, her cheeks a delicious crimson. "We're not back in Paris now, Georges. You just behave yourself until I get back, that's all I've got to say. I've caught you making eyes at that petite dishwater blonde who dances in the chorus when I do my numbers. That Mimi. When I come back, I just better not find out that you've promoted her to do a number. I know she's been after you to give her a chance."
Georges Pretre looked hurt. Then he made the sign of the cross over his heart and, looking wide-eyed at Michele and Paul, exclaimed in an injured tone, "I swear on my hope of salvation that I'm not at all interested in that Mimi. Yes, it is true, she has asked for an audition but that's all she will get, you have my solemn promise."
"See that you keep it. Well, call me up, darling, and tell me how the New Delphi is getting along without me. Au revoir." She patted his cheek, then turned to Paul and Michele. "Let's go!" She eagerly exclaimed. "You, Michele dear, there's nothing like a little vacation to change a married woman's outlook."
"Oh, you've discovered that too, have you, Monique dear?" Michele drawled with an exaggeratedly sweet smile. She linked her arm with Monique's, then glanced back at her husband. "Monique, I'm going to look after you as if you were my own sister. After all, you've a big responsibility to Georges now. You've got to come back and present him with his first son."
"Sister?" Monique gasped, her eyes widening with indignation.
"Yes, cherie," Michele's voice dripped honeyed malice, "That's the way, the only way, I'd like to think of you as a big sister. Now let's get on the plane."
CHAPTER NINE
THE PLANE TRIP TO SAN FRANCISCO WASN'T especially eventful, though Michele didn't get her wish about having a fat, stuffy businessman sit beside him. Instead, he found himself next to a bespectacled gray-haired school teacher who was making an emergency trip to visit her critically ill brother, so he had to play the role of sympathetic humanitarian throughout. Meanwhile, ahead of him, Michele and Monique chattered away like two magpies. Every so often, his honey-haired wife would glance back at him and give him a teasing little wink. The only highlight of the trip was the admirable steak luncheon topped off with domestic champagne and served by a brown-haired stewardess with deliciously long legs and an enchanting southern accent. If he had been by himself and alone with a empty seat beside him, Paul Raymond would have done his artful best to induce the brunette to help him wile away the time. But it wasn't to be.
At the San Francisco International Airport, Renee was there to meet the three of them. She was a delightful, vivacious creature, but she wasn't exactly Paul Raymond's type. If there had been the slightest chance of sneaking Monique away to a motel near the airport and giving her a quick fuck for old times' sake he would certainly have done it, because Monique had certainly never looked more pleasing and beddable. The warmth of her skin tone, the sparkle in her eyes, the moist, eloquent quivering of her red mouth, and the cock-hardening lilt of her bottom as she walked, told him that pregnancy had made her fairly bloom as a female. Unfortunately, her husband was reaping all those dividends, not he.
Renee and her husband Jim had bought a little house out in Twin Peaks with a stunning view of all of San Francisco, from one end of the town to the other, and she insisted that there was room enough to put them all up during their stay. So Michele and Monique shared the bed in one guest room and he slept by himself in another. Just before he went to his room, after thanking his hostess for her hospitality Renee turned out to be a fabulous cook in her own right and their dinner of frogs' legs and a tossed salad and a chocolate mousse was as good as anything he had had anywhere Michele whispered to him, "Just don't let me catch you sleepwalking, mon vieux. I don't know about Monique's sleeping habits that is, with a girl like me but I'm going to sneak a chair near the door of our room, so if she tries to creep into your bed, she'll tumble over it and wake me up. And I'm a very light sleeper when I'm not in my own bed at home, as you know. I permit you to dream all you like, but that's all!"
To tell the truth, Paul Raymond did dream a little. Oddly enough, it wasn't about either of these two delicious morsels of pussy; it was about Maxine Murray. In his dream, she was playing the piano, wearing only gauzy nylons with red, flouncy garters high on her luscious thighs, and pumps, and he was sitting on the piano bench with her atop him. And while she was playing "Tiny Bubbles", she was jogging up and down on his stiff cock imbedded in that tight, hot sheath of hers. In his dream Maxine had bet him that she could make him come before she finished the number but she lost. He was just about to claim his forfeit it was to be with her lying astride the piano bench and gripping the front legs with her hand while he opened up her bottom-cheeks and tested her virgin bottomhole for size (he was reasonably certain that Maxine had never gone that sodomitic route), when he was awakened by Michele's kiss on his mouth and then, as he blinked his eyes and tried to restore himself to the world of reality, he felt her slim hand sneak under the sheets and take hold of his rampant ramrod.
"Comme tu es geant la-bas!" she breathed. "Why it's bigger than it was at home last time. I'm sure you were dreaming of me, weren't you, ma'amour?"
"Er yes, yes. Naturally I was. Whom else would I dream of except my beautiful wife?"
"I wish your cock could talk, because I'm sure it would prove you to be a very wicked liar. But, no matter. Get up and get dressed, you lazy slugabed, because Monique, Renee and I are going shopping at Cost Plus Imports. You can do whatever you like, so long as you don't tag along after Monique. Then I've got to take her over to the Restaurant Show at the Fairmont. I'm not going to let her out of my sight until we get back to Chicago."
Renee had prepared a most satisfying breakfast of waffles, crisp bacon, sliced oranges and strong black coffee. It was a mild, sunny day, though Renee remarked that there had been a great deal of fog the last two or three weeks. After breakfast, Renee drove all of them downtown, and let Paul off at the offices of the Bulletin-Post, then drove on to the big warehouse near Fisherman's Warf where one could find everything from canned ants to shojo screens, Paul Raymond took the elevator to the third floor and told the receptionist he wanted to see George Koltramoff. A moment later he was ushered into the latter's office and exchanging vigorous handshakes. Koltranoff was as tall as he was, heavier, with thick gray hair and glasses, and, even though he was a chessmaster, he could have passed for the head of a construction gang.
"Good to see you again, George. You're looking very well preserved. And I'm looking forward to showing you some of my own home town hospitality."
"I've been to Chicago once or twice and I like it," Koltranoff smilingly admitted. "It ought to be a great tournament. So you're going to take part, are you?"
"I don't exactly like the way you say that, buddy. I'm a pretty fair chess player. Of course, I haven't kept up tournament practice the way you did, back in the thirties and forties, but I can still give some of these young hopefuls a decent game. Anyway, you know perfectly well that in a Swiss event like this one, even a duffer has a fair chance of upsetting a master."
"That's true enough. And anyway, since you're not going to play for blood and worry about ratings, you may be relaxed enough to surprise a few of these young experts, at that. Well, now, I just finished a column for next week, so I'll be free for the rest of the day, if you'd like to come around the town with me."
"I'd like that a lot, George. Had any good earthquakes here lately?"
"A few minor tremors, nothing to get excited about. We haven't had any real jolts since back in 1957. Just let me buzz for a copy boy and then I'll be with you."
"Go right ahead. I'll check today's paper and see what's new." Paul Raymond lit a cigarette and began to study the front page of the Bulletin-Post. George Koltranoff folded the typed sheets before him, tucked them in an envelope, and handed them to a black-haired, slim teenager who dashed into his office and dashed out as quickly.
"I see you've got a big story about the narcotics haul, George," Paul Raymond looked up from the newspaper.
"Yes, that's true enough. After all, San Francisco is one of the biggest ports in the country, and we get an awful lot of shipping from the Orient. We get opium and heroin and cocaine smuggled in, and the customs boys have to be on their toes pretty much these days. There's big money in it."
"Filthy money, if you ask me. I'd certainly think more of an honest prostitute than someone who made his living off human suffering and hooking people onto the habit. But don't get me started on sermonizing this early in the day. Now, you're going to be my guest today, George. I'd like to have a nice leisurely lunch in some quiet little place, and then maybe we can have dinner how about inviting your wife?"
"I wish I could, Paul, but she's in Paris right now, visiting some friends. By the time I get back from the Chicago tournament she'll be home, and then we're going on a little vacation. Maybe to Honolulu."
"You lucky dog. Well, I asked to spend my vacation playing in the chess tournament, so I'm stuck with it. I'll be here about a week, then I go back. Hey, maybe, we'll go back together on the same plane."
"Could be. You know, you've got a few top-ranking players entered in that tournament in your home town, Paul."
Such as?"
"Well, there's Stefan Gregorivich. You remember him. He's a Yogoslavian grandmaster, one of the top ten in the world these days. When he was just a kid, he fought with the underground against the Nazis. Now he's a newspaper man back in Belgrade, and quite a ladies' man, too."
"Yes, I've seen his picture. Black-haired, sleek, and in his early forties."
"That's Stefan all right. He reminds me of that great Russian master of the last century, Tchi-gorin. You know the stories about him. Whenever he went to a different town to play in a tournament, he would order a bottle of brandy and a girl to fuck him in his room if he won. If he lost, all they sent was the brandy. It was a pretty good diet, too, because he almost became world's champion."
"Yes, I've got a book of his collected games. He was a terrific attacking player."
"In bed as well as on the chessboard, Paul. Well, then, you've got two of the best American masters, Bill Braslend and Robert Corey. But the women's entry is going to be surprisingly strong this year."
"How many girls are going to play in the tournament that you know of?"
"Fourteen, to be exact, and the total entry of players is a hundred sixty. There will be fifteen rounds in all. I think a score of about ten points ought to win the tournament."
"You're probably right. What about the girls, though, George?"
"Well, last year's champion, Greta Golding, is going to defend her title. But there is a newcomer who has been playing sensationally out here at my own chess club and she just might win the title away from Greta. Her name is Mona Semmring. She's nineteen and a gorgeous creature besides."
"That's a switch. I can't remember many good looking women chess players that is, good ones."
"No, usually chess skill and female beauty don't go together. The only great woman master we've had until this lovely young Yugoslavian girl came along last year was Vera Menchik, the Czech master who beat a lot of great male experts, as you know. She weighed close to three hundred pounds."
"I know. I've seen pictures. But tell me more about Mona."
"Well, she's an only child. Her mother died a few years after she was born and her father is in his middle sixties. He's a banker, and quite wealthy. About three years ago Mona decided to take up chess as a hobby and came to my club for lessons. At first I used to give her a rook odds, but inside of a year, I had a dickens of a time holding her even at the odds of a pawn and move."
Paul Raymond whistled appreciatively. "That's considerable progress in so short a time."
"I told you, she may very well win the women's title. She might even finish with a better than even score out of fifteen rounds."
"It's unusual that a girl of her background should actually become an expert. Usually women are bored to tears just sitting over a chessboard and the clock ticking four or five hours for a single game," Paul Raymond agreed.
"That's true. But Mona Semmring seems to be a perfectionist. She told me when she first came into the club that she wanted to learn as quickly as she could and to find out whether she had any talent at all. And if she did, she said she was going to go as far as she could with it. She--likes to aim for the top in everything she does."
"You said she was a gorgeous dish, George. More details please."
"I see you're still the same old Paul Raymond."
"Lay off that old stuff, George. I'm just forty, which is a couple of years younger than our Yugoslavian heartbreaker. Now give with the details."
"Well, let me see. She's about five feet seven inches, wears her light brown hair usually in a ponytail, very creamy, warm skin, and really a magnificent figure. What difference does it make to you? You're married."
"So I am, and so are you. I just like to know the facts about the opposition, that's all."
"You might not even be drawn against her in a Swiss. You know perfectly well how that sort of a tournament operates. The idea is to win as many games as you can in the first few rounds, so you get drawn against the better players. After that, you either go ahead or you get knocked down. Mona probably will start at a better pace than you, because she's simply had more tournament experience than you have."
"Does she play a defensive or an offensive
game?"
"Now, that's the interesting thing, Paul. She's careful, she can defend, and yet she can work out combinations and crush you with a smashing attack before you get the drift of what she's doing. She tries to adapt her style to her opponent. Good tactics.
"Say, come to think of it, you can meet her before we go back to Chicago. She's going to come over to my place this evening after dinner and play a simultaneous of fifteen players. A kind of warm-up for the tournament."
"I'd like to play her. I don't think my wife will miss me, so long as all I do is play chess."
"Good, then I'll arrange to have you take a board against Mona tonight. It will be good for your own work in the tournament, Paul. Well, I'm finished here. Let's do some sightseeing and have ourselves a day."
Paul Raymond had telephoned Michele at Cost Plus Imports and told her about his plans to spend the day with the Belgian chessmaster and then get some practice at the chess club in the evening. Michele didn't mind at all.
"Renee and I are going to keep Monique busy, so you have your fun, because I know how much you like the game and your friend George Koltranoff. Only don't come back too late, you might wake us up. We're going to the Restaurant Show from here, and after that we want to have dinner at Alix's husband's restaurant. Then we'll probably see a movie or something like that, and we'll be in bed by midnight. So you'd better get there around that time. I know you and your chess games only too well back home, remember?"
"I know. Because sometimes when I stayed up late and was working out a problem or playing over a game, I forgot that you wanted me to come to bed instead."
"That's exactly it. And not just come to bed to sleep either, if you know what I mean, mon amour. Well, see you tonight, then."
It was an eventful day and Paul Raymond enjoyed his tour of San Francisco. George Koltranoff drove him out past Candlestock Park to San Mateo, where they had lunch in a little Italian restaurant that had magnificent ravioli. In the afternoon they drove back to the city and on out to the ocean, visiting the Cliff House and the famous Seal Rock, then headed for picturesque Sausalito and the artist's colony. Evening found them back in San Francisco, with dinner in Chinatown at Shanghai Low. Beef sub gum with whole almonds was Paul Raymond's choice of entree. As they were about to finish their tea, mandarin oranges and fortune cookies and leave for George's club, Paul reached for one of the fortune cookies, saying, "Let's see how well I'm going to do in that tournament you're directing, George boy." He broke open the cookie, took out the little slip of white paper, unfurled it, and read aloud: "A beautiful woman will be your downfall."
George Koltranoff chuckled. "Well, that's probably going to be true enough, since you're going to be playing Mona Semmring in about half an hour. She'll mop up the board with you."
"We'll see. No, quit reaching for the check. You're my guest, George."
George Koltranoff's chess club was located at the second floor of an old limestone building on Union Street. A buzz of conversation was heard as they opened the door and walked in. Fifteen tables had been set up in a kind of circle in the larger room at the back, but in the smaller front room the place had originally been an old apartment building Koltranoff had purchased and remodeled there were about fifty spectators and players, some of them seated at boards and playing casual games at limit of ten seconds a move, others playing over master games from old tournaments to improve their own skill, and about twenty men ranging from their early twenties to their late sixties crowding around one of the most beautiful girls Paul Raymond had ever seen. He glanced at George Koltranoff, who nodded. "That's Mona."
"I can see why she wins so many games, Just looking at her, you forget what you're doing," Paul Raymond said.
"You'd better play your best tonight, because I'm going to have to tell my steady members a real whopper to let them give you a chance to play. Everybody wants to play her, but she agreed to take on just fifteen. Come along, I'll introduce you to her."
George Koltranoff shouldered his way to the avid circle that was formed around Mona Semmring. Koltranoff's description hadn't done her justice. Paul Raymond felt his cock begin to harden the minute her huge, beautifully eloquent dark brown eyes fixed on him, the minute those full, ripe red, soft and moist lips curved in a polite smile of greeting. She had an adorable little snub nose, with very thin, widely flared wings. Her forehead was high and arching, and with her ponytail fixed with a silver barrette just at the back of her head, she looked like a charming young girl instead of a wealthy heiress.
She wasn't dressed like an heiress. She wore saddle shoes, probably for comfort, since she was going to walk round and round the circle of tables, going from player to player before making a move. A simultaneous exhibition went on without any time limit until the last player had either turned down his king in token of defeat, or managed to get a draw, or, very infrequently, got a win over a simultaneous performer. Her brown cotton skirt and her white, short sleeved blouse were fashionable enough, but could have been purchased in any department store. However, the breasts they shaped out couldn't have been. Mona Semmring had mouth-wateringly pear-shaped titties, set closely together and up-tilting so their firm nipples thrust hard against the thin bra and slip beneath the equally thin blouse. Her waist was narrow and enviable, but her hips flared into enticing curves. As she turned for a moment to acknowledge a question from a member behind her, Paul Raymond could see that her bottom-cheeks were upstanding, softly rounded, and sinuously grooved, as well as that her thighs were flawlessly rounded and of proper length. She had lithe, firm, smoothly muscled calves, and altogether he had never seen a girl unless it was Monique, or of course Michele he had wanted to fuck at first sight and more ardently than he did right now this beautiful woman chess expert.
George Koltranoff made a little speech about the exhibition which was about to take place, introduced Paul Raymond as a visitor from Chicago who had been a friend of his for many years, and craved the indulgence of the members to permit him to take a board. There was some grumbling but no real opposition, and a few minutes later Paul Raymond sat down at the fifth board, with a white-haired, short, bespectacled and morose-looking player at his left and a gangling, tow-headed collegian at his right. The simultaneous player is given the white pieces on every board, and thus may select the opening. To play fifteen games at once requires not only perfect concentration but also physical stamina: Mona Semmring entered the circle, approached the first board, glanced at her opponent for a moment, then took hold of a pawn and moved it forward two squares. Swiftly she moved to the second boards, this time moving her king's knight and then she went on to the third board. Before the evening was over, she would have made that circle scores of times, standing and studying each board in turn as she planned her reply to her opponent's riposte. Her youth stood her in good stead for the physical endurance part of the contest ; Paul Raymond was mildly curious to find out how good a chess player she was. With beauty like hers, it didn't matter, really. And even if Mona Semmring hadn't been an heiress, there wasn't a red-blooded man anywhere who wouldn't take her to bed just to put his mouth to the boldly jiggling titties and sink his fingers into those juicy bottom-cheeks while he drove his cock back and forth into her soft cunny till he had poured forth every possible drop of sperm in tribute to her desirability.
She had very thick, eloquently arching eyebrows. As she stopped before Paul's board, she looked at him with a hint of a little smile, then played her king's pawn two squares forward. Paul Raymond looked up at her, gave her a warm smile of admiration and nodded. It was a signal that he would move when she had returned to his board. In simultaneous games, the players who are pitted against the expert may, if they wish, reply immediately to the master's move. If he wishes to continue for a few moves, he will do so; otherwise, the procedure is simply that of the endless circle and move to move. In this instance, Paul Raymond wanted to make a good showing as a stranger-guest in the club, and particularly did he want to make a good impression on Mona Semmring. If he was going to play in the same tournament as she was back in Chicago, he didn't want to look like a rank dud tonight.
When she came around again the second time, he moved his king's pawn forward one square, for the French defense. For the black side, this is a slow and careful game which tries to minimize the opponent's attacks. It also takes considerable patience, which was not always one of Paul Raymond's virtues.
After she had left him, he sat back and enjoyed watching her as she moved from board to board, sometimes leaning forward and planting both hands on either side of the chessboard; sometimes stepping back, nursing her lovely dimpled chin with a slim hand and frowning in concentration.
But about half an hour and twelve moves later, Paul Raymond began to forget Mona Semmring's devastating fuckable beauty, because the position the two of them had arrived at on the fifth board was extremely difficult for him. She already had a slight positional advantage, and all she had to do was consistently apply pressure not, alas, the kind he would have liked from her, with her soft cunt lips squeezing the tip of his entering prick, or feeling her resilient, creamy titties clasped in her hands and pressed tight against his turgid shaft and holding him there in the sweet vise of her bubby-flesh, or just along the shadowy grooves between those saucy bottom-cheeks of hers and feeling her luscious ass muscles tighten and quake and quiver at the threat of his browning her. No, this was purely an intellectual problem, and now that he was dedicated to it, even if she had stood there stark naked, he would still be forced to pay attention to his position. One false move now could turn the entire game into an inexorable win for Mona Semmring.
The old duffer at his left had made the mistake of playing as swiftly as she did. The last three times she had stood before his board, he had instantly replied, and she had made another move and she another, the result of which so deteriorated his position that as Mona came towards Paul Raymond to make her thirteenth move, the white-haired club member grumbled something, turned down his king, shoved back his chair, and stomped angrily out of the club. It was the first win for beautiful Mona Semmring.
Their eyes met, and Paul Raymond glanced at the empty chair beside him, smiled at Mona and shrugged. She nodded, her luscious lips curving in an enchanting smile, and leaned forward so that her titties preyed hard against her blouse and he could see the outlines of her well-developed nipples. She moved a knight swiftly to her king's bishop's fifth square. Paul Raymond frowned at the threat of a sacrifice of the piece for two pawns, which, if accepted, would give her a relentless pressure, probably enough to win. Before she could move away, his hand shot out and moved a bishop one square. Her eyes widened, she nodded, then she pushed a pawn. Paul Raymond sat back and nodded. He wanted time to think.
An hour later Mona Semmring had forced eight of her opponents to resign their games, agreed to one draw. Six players, including Paul Raymond, still survived. The callow collegian on his right was one of these. But he was already two pawns down, with a hopeless game and only hung on to make a decent showing.
Half an hour later, three more wins had been recorded by the beautiful heiress, and one draw. Now Paul on one side of the circle, and a bald headed, fat, florid-faced man in his early fifties were the only one left. In a simultaneous exhibition, when there are only a few players left to match wits with an expert the latter has all the advantage. There isn't the time any longer to sit back and think while the expert makes the rounds of the other boards. He found himself having to move whether he wanted to or not, because in an exhibition of this kind, courtesy demands that he not take an inordinate length of time to make his reply.
Paul's game had come down to a rook and five pawns against a rook and six for Mona. Two moves later, the bald headed man had disappeared, glumly going out into the hall to take out a pocket chess set and analyze his game to see where he had gone wrong. Now the spectators had crowded behind Paul Raymond to watch his game with the luscious young expert. He was getting a headache from concentrating on the chess pieces and not on Mona. Fortunately he was able to make a rook move which regained his pawn and equalized the game. Mona Semmring nodded and said in a clear, sweet voice, "I offer you a draw. Very well played."
He got up and shook hands, and people he had never met before were crowding around him to set up pieces on the board to point out where he could have done this or that or where Mona could have done thus and so. He laughingly took his leave of them and walked back to the corner where Mona Semmring was standing with George Koltranoff.
"I don't know when I've enjoyed a chess game more, Miss Semmring."
"Thank you, Mr. Raymond. George tells me you're going to play in the tournament in Chicago. I'm looking forward to it a great deal. That's your home town, isn't it?"
"That's right, Miss Semmring. Maybe we'll get to meet again."
She held out her hand. "I'd like that very much. George has told me a lot about you."
"None of it good, I'm sure. Well, thanks again. And see you in Chicago."
Mona Semmring gave his hand a tiny little squeeze. Her eyes frankly appraised him. He had the feeling that, although she was only nineteen years old, she knew the score in bed as well as on the chessboard. And since Michele was going to stay in San Francisco during most of the tournament, it was just possible that he could find out just how much of the score she really knew. He had to turn away and leave before she could catch a glimpse of the way his cock was starting to erect against the crotch of his trousers. Besides, it was eleven-thirty, and he didn't want to get locked out of Renee's house. Michele would be just capricious enough to keep the door barred, if he didn't make it before her curfew. And then, no pussy at all would be his lot!
CHAPTER TEN
THE DAY AFTER PAUL RAYMOND'S CHESS BATTLE against luscious Mona Semmring which had ended with honors even, he, Michele and Monique went to the Fairmont Hotel to see the regional restaurant show. Paul had volunteered to make his own notes on the exhibits and some of the forums, because as an advertising man who himself handled two Chicago restaurants, it was a good idea to keep abreast of what was going on in that field. The cool truce between his wife and the red-haired Monique continued. Nonetheless, whenever he and the redhead happened to visit an exhibition booth and stand side by side, honey-haired Michele always managed to be right beside him, or right behind him to make sure no secret messages were being exchanged between her husband and her deadly rival. As for him, although being next to Monique was enough to start him remembering their passionate nights in Paris, he had already said "good-bye" forever to that voluptuous body and its feverish and gifted fucking technique. Michele had been right; there is nothing like knowing that a girl is pregnant to dwindle his selfish interest.
At noon, the three of them adjourned to the delightful little French restaurant, known as "Le Coq d'Or." It was on Polk Street, just off Van Ness. The owner was at the market at the time, but his delectable wife, Alix Montreuil, was very much present as the hostess. Paul Raymond's eyes widened with appreciative admiration as he spied the tall, lithe brown-haired beauty in a tight-fitting black satin gown, cut low enough to show off just the start of the narrow valley between her high perched, orange-round titties. Her slim waist and supple, almost boyish hips had a magnetic appeal for his loins and once again he felt the tell-tale gnawing of accumulated spunk in his throbbing testicles. Alix Montreuil had dark brown hair which was styled in a chic, Sassoon bob that gave her an even more perverse allure, since its initial effect was mannish. But there was nothing mannish about her long, beautifully-muscled, nervously-chiseled thighs, nor the tightly spaced oval cheeks of her extremely undulating bottom. Her skin was tawny, and she had a delicious little black beauty spot, high on her left cheekbone. Her voice was a husky contralto, an ideal bedroom voice, and she had even more of a Parisian accent than his own wife, Michele.
Renee had taken a cab to join them and came in just as Alix was ushering them to a table for four. She and Renee were old friends, and Michele had already met her and corresponded with her back in Chicago. For a few moments, the three women left Monique and Paul to themselves and their own devices while they chatted away as they recollected the old days in Paris. Paul Raymond kept his eyes steadfastly away from Monique. She was wearing a trim, tailored suit coat-skirt, but it clung so faithfully to everything she had that she might just as well have been naked. And it wouldn't do any good to think about her that way.
Just the same, a change of scenery and meeting so many attractive women in so short a time had made it obvious to Paul Raymond that he had to get relief from the goading pangs in his cock. Not necessarily with his own wife, either. After all, a one-night stand would remain for him a beautiful experience with plenty of memories, but it wouldn't in the least detract from his love for Michele, a love that had something more than just lust to justify it. He had always intimated to her that he wasn't the jealous kind, and that was true; if she ever tired of him and decided to go to bed with another man, he'd realize that it was through his own inadequacy. What was fair for him must certainly be fair for her, otherwise he'd be a hypocrite. But that philosophizing did not eliminate his mounting need for a spicy little adventure to make this visit to San Francisco really memorable.
Alix herself brought them all glasses of a fine, dry sherry, then summoned the headwaiter to take their order, recommending the restaurant's quiche Lorraine. When she approached the table again, and, going to Paul Raymond, extended her hand and, with fascinating smile, proffered, "Renee and Michele have told me so much about you, M'sieu Paul, I'm so glad at last to meet you."
"If I were to tell you my pleasure in meeting you, Madame Montreuil," he promptly replied, "I'd run the risk of being in the doghouse. You can see that there are three other beautiful women here, but if we were alone, I know what I'd tell you."
"Up to your old tricks, eh, mon vieux?" Michele laughingly interposed. There was a suspicious look in her narrowed, green-gray eyes.
"Not at all. I believe in candor and honesty at all costs. And Madame Montreuil is an extraordinarily beautiful woman. The fact that she is co-owner of one of San Francisco's finest restaurant is still another point in her favor. After all, Michele, even your talents don't include that," he quipped.
The luncheon couldn't have been better. A bottle of Peuilly-Fuisse 1964 accompanied the entre, and French pastry and coffee concluded a most satisfactory meal. Alix Montreuil wished to have them accept her hospitality without a check but Paul Raymond insisted that, after all, as an outsider, he wasn't entitled to the same privilege. Laughingly, Alix suggested, "Then leave the pourboire for the waiter and it will be quite enough. But since you feel obligated though you mustn't, do come for dinner before you leave San Francisco, M'sieu Paul."
"That I promise to do," he chuckled. Alix sent over a Benedictine for all of them with her compliments. As the three women were at the checkroom getting their coats and hats, Paul Raymond left the tip and then sauntered towards the foyer of the restaurant. Alix Montreuil approached him, an enigmatic smile on her sensual lips. Her face was oval, her nose slightly aquiline with thin, widely flaring nostrils, her cheekbones slantingly set, and her mouth a lascivious red, full, moist curve which bespoke an ardent temperament in bed. Her dark brown eyes, surmounted by short but very thick and curly lashes, conveyed to him an empathy which set his cock further to a disturbed throbbing. There was just something about French women which made him think of bed at first sight.
"It's been such a pleasure to have you and I hope I shall again, for a much longer stay." Her voice was a husky murmur, and at the same time Paul Raymond felt her press something into his hand. Automatically his fingers opened, then closed, and he felt that he was holding a slip of paper. Deftly, he slipped it into his trousers' pocket, thanked her again for her gracious hospitality just as Michele came back towards him to say, "We're ready, mon cher."
They went back to the Fairmont, but it wasn't until about an hour later, in the privacy of a man's washroom, that he had a chance to read the note. It said, "I'd like very much to see you before you leave San Francisco. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon at three, at my apartment? The address is 2741 Lombard. I promise you a very pleasant afternoon." It was signed "A.M."
Paul Raymond lit a cigarette and began to whistle Everything's Coming Out Roses.
The next day was the last of the restaurant show, so Paul Raymond had no difficulty in concocting a plausible explanation for his itinerary. He was going to meet his friend, Koltranoff, play some chess, be interviewed by a reporter as to his opinions of San Francisco, but he would be back at Renee's house in time to take them all to dinner. Michele put up no argument because it did not involve being around Monique. As for the redhead, she was apparently beginning to chaff just a little from Michele's stickily sweet surveillance.
After lunching downtown at Sorrento's, a delightful little Italian restaurant with incomparable minestrone and ravioli, Paul Raymond strolled along Market Street, then back towards Fisherman's Wharf till it was time to keep his date with Alix Montreuil.
The cab deposited him in front of the stately old house built on the inclining, tortuous street. It was two stories tall, with gables over the attic, surrounded by a huge hedge. It was quite obvious that the French restaurant was doing very well. Paul Raymond rang the bell, and a petite black-haired maid about twenty, with lace cap and white apron over her tight black silk dress, admitted him. "Madame is expecting you. This way, if you please," she told him. As she ascended the winding stairs to the second floor, Paul Raymond feasted his eyes on her deliciously rounded calves and equally plump thighs, sheathed in off-black nylons that rose to mid-thigh and were hooked there by the tabs of a very narrow pink satin-elastic garter belt. She wore white nylon pantie-briefs, so brief, indeed, that the succulent base of her temptingly rounded, full bottom-cheeks were exposed in all their milky, quivering beauty. As a preface to his meeting with Alix, nothing could have been better devised to give him an erection, and he went up the steps slowly to favor it as well as to enjoy the view.
The maid led him to a room at the far left end of the corridor, knocked, and flashed him a dimpled smile and disappeared. In answer to the quick and eager, "Viens," he opened the door and entered.
His eyes widened again and this time with even more admiration than he had shown the maid. Alix Montreuil reclined on a chaise lounge, wearing only a red satin housecoat and open-toe sandals. The sleek, tawny-sheened contours of her bare calves, her delicately chiseled toes of her bare feet, augmented his erotic anticipation, and he turned slightly to one side so's not to make his erection too obvious.
"I'm very glad you came, Paul let me call you that, mon cher." Alix's voice had even more of a bedroom quality now. She pillowed her head against her folded arms, thrusting out her comparatively small, but splendidly firm titties tightly against the bodice of the housecoat. "From the way that Celeste looked at you, I think she approves of her mistress' selection in gentleman callers."
"She's a very charming girl."
"Yes," Alix Montreuil calmly replied, "and very versatile as well. She's my husband's mistress with my full permission, to be sure. And on lonely nights when he's out of town, she shares my bed, too. It's a menage a trois, you see."
Now it was extremely difficult for him to hide the bulge in his trousers which, up to now, he had been trying to do by the expedient of looking around the room. There were tapestries and thick green velvet drapes, the Venetian blinds were drawn over the big bay window, but his gaze kept coming back to a massive, low, wide canopied bed. The covers had already been removed, and the sheets were pure white, invitingly fresh and cool.
"I approve, too," Alix murmured huskily. "Judging by appearances, you don't find me displeasing?"
"If you're referring to what you can see very rudely demonstrating itself where it shouldn't," he parried, "you're quite right."
She rose from the chaise lounge and came towards him, an enticing little smile on her passionate red mouth. "Veux'tu me baiser, mon cher?" she murmured.
Paul Raymond gulped. Without more ado, this voluptuous, mature and worldly siren had just asked him whether he wanted to fuck her. There was only one possible answer, unless he wanted to be accused of having lost his manhood. He took her in his arms, his mouth covering hers as his hands roamed over the resilient, tightening and rippling cheeks of her backside. Her housecoat was thin and there was nothing under it except bare, tasty, palpitating flesh. No sooner had his mouth firmed over hers, than her nimble, pink tongue darted between his lips and her arms locked around his neck. She arched to him until he could feel those firm, little titties of hers mash against his chest, and her crotch began to rub in a slow, deliberate, rotary movement against his bulging prong.
There was no doubt she was febrile, seething with carnal energy. Against his fingers which dug through the thin material of the housecoat, Alix's bottom-cheeks weaved, twisted, clenched and rolled. He could not identify the perfume she was wearing, but it was spicy and exciting to his senses. He felt himself overwhelmed by her concupiscence, and when at last she paused to catch her breath after that long soul-kiss, he gasped, "I've never been so flatteringly welcomed, Alix. But might I ask to what I owe such special courtesies?"
Alix Montreuil, her arms still linked around his neck, regarded him with half-lidded, smoldering eyes. "Michele was telling me what a hero you were in Paris when you caught that Arabian gangster. I said to myself, 'Alix, voila un homme!' Because a man who can do such a thing must be a remarkable amant and for a woman like me, the inspiration of being fucked by such a man keeps me young."
"You're incredible, Alix. One more vulgar question how does your husband let a sexy piece like you give any time at all to other men?"
"That's very simple, mon ami." Alix gave him a mocking little smile and moved in against him, grinding her pussy against his by now frenzied cock. "My husband is a very sophisticated man. He knows I don't mind his little amours. We tell each other about them, and that makes our own fucking so much more thrilling. But that's enough talk. You know you want me. Rip off my housecoat and give it to me hard. You're so strong and so big I can feel you rubbing against my little con. Don't spare me. Pretend I'm the girl friend of that horrible Arab and you've caught me and you're going to have all you want of me before you turn me over to the flics." Her breath was quicker now, her voice quiveringly husky, and her dainty pink tongue flicked her lower lip as she stared at him with mute appeal.
"Always happy to accommodate a lady. But it's a shame to tear such a lovely housecoat," he chuckled. Then he put his hands to the bodice of the sheath and ripped downward. The shirring sound of torn cloth was accompanied by Alix's hiss of expectant lust. The garment slipped from her shoulders and festooned her slim ankles. As he had guessed, she was naked under it. Her titties were panting now, their aureoles a brownish coral hue, centered by turgid dark pink tits which trembled and shuddered with every breath. Her belly was sleek and flat, her navel deep yet tiny. The thicket of very dark brown hair covered the lips of her mount completely, her thighs were boldly long, superbly muscled and quivering with their erotic intensity.
He undressed swiftly, down to shorts and socks, while her eyes were sternly fixed on his violently swollen prong. Then, before he could stop her, she sank sinuously down on her knees, grasped the backs of his thighs with her slim fingers, and, bowing her head, attacked his aching cock, from tip to scrotum with a score of tiny, stinging little kisses. Then she drew back toward the tip; this time the point of her soft, hot, moist tongue rasped all along his organ. It was an indescribably, maddeningly rousing sensation. He plunged his finger into her short bobbed curls and tilted up her face, then, with a groan, flung her down onto her back on the thickly carpeted floor, and in a trice, had saddled himself between her eagerly widening, long, tawny-sheened thighs. Alix Montreuil echoed his groan as she felt his spear drive through her thick, silky fleece, find the pouting, already moistened lips of her pussy, and with a single violent shove, imbed itself to his very balls. Her legs clamped around his bottom, her arm lashed across his shoulders, her fingernails clawing as her mouth greedily sucked his, her tongue driving in and out like a piston. She might have seemed boyish, almost perversely Lesbian in the contours of her figure and the styling of her hairdo, but there on the floor in her elegantly furnished bedroom, Alix Montreuil was the hottest whore he had ever fucked, and he knew it the moment his cock entered her tight, quaking, moist channel.
She swore at him to do his utmost, using Parisian slang from the gutter and the Place Pigalle. It enflamed him, goaded him to more furious reprisal. She writhed, shifted the clamp of her arms and legs, ground herself to him to meet his every charge, and her eyes were blazing with her animal ferocity he had never before encountered, not even in luscious Michele, or even Monique.
The room exploded all around them, and they rolled over and over and over as orgasm shattered them together and flung them ashore on the atoll of half-swooning lassitude.
He was wakened from this drowsy reverie by feeling soft fingers caress his buttocks and thighs. Wanly looking up, he saw the charming blonde maid, Celeste. She was naked except for those slinky, gauzy stockings, but this time they were held up by purple rosette garters; high-heeled black gleaming leather pumps completed her costume. His eyes widened again, and the flame of passion burned once more in them. Celeste could not have been more than twenty, and she had the figure of a houri. Her titties were widely spaced, uptilting, big pears, with saucy little pale nipples and wide coral-tinted aureoles. Her delightfully rounded belly had a shallow, wide navel-niche, and her mount of Venus was plump and deliciously prominent, with dark blonde down over it quite evidently trimmed, most--likely by manicure scissors. Her skin was that adorable carnation-blend of pink and white indigenous to blondes of her type, and she made a superbly exciting contrast with her slim, darker mistress, as well as indifference in temperament, and contouring.
"What the-" he began, but Alix uttered a throaty little laugh and murmured, "you must give Celeste her chance, too, mon ami. She will be very angry with me if I keep you all to myself. She's quite good, too. And she--likes you very much, that's evident, or she wouldn't have come here of her own volition."
With this, she disengaged herself from him, rolled over onto her side, while Celeste, with a charming apologetic little smile, pushed him onto his back and whispered, "M'sien, you let me do all the work. I will do my best to please M'sien." With this, she sank down on all fours, and Paul Raymond closed his eyes and groaned as he felt his somewhat diminished organ being once again saluted by an expert pair of moist, warm lips and tongue as agile and as delicate as any that had ever saluted his maleness. It didn't take long for him to be restored to full potency. Celeste uttered a little squeal of pleasure, and crawling over him, grasped his tool with her right hand while, with the fingers of her left, she yawned open the soft, plump pinks of her quivering cunny. Then she sank down atop him, her beautiful, big pear-shaped titties rubbing his shuddering chest. But even as he reached out his arms to enfold her, Alix entered again into the tourney. Kneeling astride him, she lowered her thick-fleeced loins to receive the oral homage which she believed was her due for having welcomed him this afternoon with not only her own enticing person but also that of her voluptuous, young maid.
Paul Raymond surrendered. There was nothing else to do. While Celeste rolled up and down upon his throbbing instrument, displaying a talent fully the equal of her mistress; he took his revenge on Alix by grasping her bottom-cheeks and delving is tongue against the erect pink nucleus which as the very lodestone of all her erotic emotions.
When both mistress and maid had achieved climax, each indicated that she would not be loath to continue this interchange of pleasure. But Paul Raymond knew the virtue of the old maxim that discretion is the better part of valor; another ound with these two naked beauties, and Michele would be sure to see from his face as well as his listless attitude that he had honked himself out by fucking all afternoon long. He thereupon reluctantly excused himself from further participation, and bade Alix and Celeste farewell not, however, without a whispered invitation from each in turn to come back before he returned to Chicago.
He didn't dare keep those invitations. If he did, he'd not only wear himself out and infuriate Michele, as well as destroy a beautiful friendship between her and the restaurant owner's wife, but wouldn't be any good at all in the chess tournament. Playing for a little over two weeks in a crowded, stuffy room, watched by hundreds of spectators, with the clock inexorably ticking away and forcing you to make a certain number of moves in a given time or forfeit the game, requires not only powers of concentration, but a physical endurance as well. Maybe Tchigorin could fuck a woman every night after he won a game, but Paul Raymond knew darned well he could not ...
Paul Raymond, his wife, Michele, Monique, and Renee drove to the airport on Tuesday afternoon, May 28. The chess tournament would begin at the Belmont Hotel in Chicago at 2 o'clock Wednesday afternoon. He was glad he'd gone to San Francisco, but just as glad he was going back home where for some seventeen days he could devote himself to intellectual pursuits. If he'd stayed any longer in the City by the Golden Gate, he'd be paying a visit to Lombard Street, maybe more than one visit, too. As it was, Michele hadn't suspected a thing and she was in a very gay mood. More so because Monique was going to stay on as Renee's houseguest.
"You'll call me and you'll write, won't you, 'amour?" Michele purred, as she put her arms around his neck and nuzzled her sweet mouth against his chin and cheek as they stood waiting for the gates to the boarding ramp to be opened.
"Of course. You have a wonderful time. When I get back to Chicago, I'll wire you some more money so you can buy yourself some nice new clothes, darling." He told her.
"You're an angel, mon loup sauvage."
"With a kind of tarnished halo, but I'll try to retain that much anyway until you get back."
"You had just better. Anyway, Monique is going to be far away from you all that time. So I'm really not going to be too suspicious about how you behave all by yourself back home. Besides, only men play chess, don't they?"
"Well, er-" He didn't get a chance to finish. Suddenly a clear sweet voice was exclaiming. "Why, Paul Raymond! How lovely! It looks as if you and I are going to be taking the same plane back to Chicago, doesn't it?"
He turned, a startled expression on his face. It was Mona Semmring. At that very moment, the uniformed United Airlines attendant took up his microphone and announced that the plane to Chicago was ready for boarding.
"Goodbye, Michele," he blurted. "I'll call you tonight. Don't worry about a thing. I love you very much."
Mona Semmring was carrying what looked like a briefcase in her right hand. She tucked her left arm around his right and cooed, "I do hope we'll be sitting together. Maybe the stewardess can arrange it, if we aren't. George Koltranoff tells me you have lots of old tournament books, and I'm just dying to ask you about certain openings they used to play in the old days. You'll be a big help to me, because I'm bored on a plane as a rule Shall we go?"
Paul Raymond looked back helplessly. Michele was standing with her hands on her hips, her gray-green eyes narrowed, and she didn't look any too loving at that particular moment. Mona Semmring was pulling him forward and the surge of passengers prevented his turning back and doing anything about the situation. He would just have to explain on the phone tonight. But he rather thought that Michele's question about whether only men played chess had just been answered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SINCE HE WAS GOING TO BE HANGED ANYWAY, Paul Raymond thought, he might as well be hanged for a wolf as for a sheep. Once Michele had seen luscious young sexpot Mona Semmring link her arm through his and lead him away from her at the boarding ramp, he was due for holy hell when Michele got home. Explanations wouldn't easily extricate him from avowing to his beautiful and thoroughly French wife that there was absolutely nothing between him and Mona except the chessboard. All she'd remember would be the sweetly possessive, familiar way Mona had led him off. And, to be frank about it, he wouldn't at all mind having just one piece of Mona's squirmy young cunt. Maybe he could trick her into playing some offhand games in his hotel room or hers on a forfeit basis; if she lost, she'd peel down and spread those creamy legs of hers and give him pussy. Trouble was, she was rated as a master and he as only an expert; nine times out of ten, she would probably win the game. And what forfeit would he pay her then? With all the giggling young men who followed Mona Semmring to every tourney she participated in, she didn't have to be so hard up she'd have to invite a forty-year-old advertising executive to bed to furrow her hot cunny and ease off the steam she worked up over the chessboard.
Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy his temporary freedom while he had it. But before either he or Mona could board the plane, they were stopped by a bevy of newspaper photographers as well as a TV cameraman and crew and a remote radio broadcaster complete with a mike for Mona and one for himself. "Just a couple of minutes, please, Miss Semmring," the TV reporter signaled to her. "KTVH TV wants an exclusive interview with the loveliest woman chess player in the world. "
"How very sweet," Mona purred, giving Paul Raymond a beguiling smile and wink. "All right, always happy to oblige. But let's not delay the plane. Now, what would you like to know?"
"Miss Semmring," the TV announcer was a young but heavily built black-haired man with glasses, "for our viewers, tell us if you're after the title of womens' champion in Chicago."
"Of course. Every chess player plays to win, you know," Mona laughingly responded. "I finished second to Greta Golding who's a very fine player last year at Saranac. But this year is going to be my year. I'm sure of it."
"Can you tell our viewers why?"
"Surely." Mona held up what Paul Raymond had first thought to be a briefcase. It was, instead, a traveling case of black Moroccan leather. "Do you see this case? It has my lucky set, the one I used when I won the brilliancy prize at Saranac for my game with Edith Forintos in the last round. It was the first time I'd used it in a tournament, and I'm convinced that if I'd used it for every game, I'd have won at Saranac."
"Just one more question, please, Miss Semmring. Will this be your first visit to Chicago?"
"Yes, and I'm looking forward to it and my stay at the Belmont Hotel, where the tourney's being held. I know this is my home town and I hope San Franciscans will forgive my heresy, but I'm eager to sample the cuisine of some of those fine Chicago restaurants I've heard so much about. And I expect to put on a couple of ounces. That's how confident I am of victory because I always lose weight when I lose a chess game. Well, I think I'd better get on the plane now."
The reporters around her and Paul Raymond were scribbling furiously, and flashbulbs were exploded, as Mona Semmring finally and smilingly walked through the open door of the big jet to be greeted by a pretty black-haired stewardess. Paul Raymond sighed contentedly. It was going to be a very pleasant trip. That stewardess had an exceptionally delicious pair of titties, big and firm and narrowly spaced, and long, willowy legs he was going to goggle at every time she walked down the aisle. But the piece de resistance was when he discovered that he and Mona were seated side by side, she with the window seat and he beside her.
She turned out to be a delightful traveling companion. At times he was conscious that her leg seemed to brush against his, which increased his blood pressure alarmingly. He found himself wondering what it would feel like to have that creamy-skinned flesh against his, merging with his, those juicy titties of hers mashing against his heaving chest, his cock aching from its grip inside what he was sure must be a tight, blazingly hot cunthole. Mona Semmring was, however, as witty and well versed in current topics of discussion all the way from politics to the latest best-selling novel as she was in stirring his cock to full erection. He didn't even think of following that black-haired stewardess' trips up and down the aisle, not with Mona Semmring fluttering her eye-lashes at him or giving him intense looks from under lowered eyelids.
Also, considering how young she still was and how quickly she had progressed in chess ability, she was quite familiar with the latest opening theory, and could rattle off references to moves which great masters had played in this or that European event for the past twenty years. He couldn't help asking, "You know, Mona, it's not just that you're a gorgeous piece and young enough to be a Lolita, but what I can't figure out is with a background like yours, why you decided to go into professional chess anyway?"
She gave him a sidelong look, with those big dark blue eyes of hers, and her sensual mouth curved with just a hint of contempt as she answered, "Look, Paul, don't you think I get a little sick of being reminded I'm a female all the time? It started with my dad, because he wanted a boy instead of me, especially after my mother died and there couldn't be any more kids. I just decided I was going to prove I was just as smart as any man who ever lived. I didn't have to work for a living, so I didn't go into business. But a fellow who wanted to get into my panties happened to be pretty good at chess and tried to teach me so we could play forfeits you know. Well, he was so smug about it all that I just looked at myself and said, 'Mona, baby, you're going to beat the pants off those bastards without having to take off yours to do it.' So that's how it started."
Well, Paul glumly told himself, there went any notion of trying to lure Mona into playing a game and putting up the stakes of her giving him a fuck for every loss. It had been tried before and hadn't worked!
The lovely, black-haired stewardess served them now, after having set up their trays. Steak and champagne, he thought, made a perfect prelude to the effort of trying to get Mona Semmring out of her panties and into bed. It seemed to him that her leg was brushing his more and more frequently. And during the meal, he was practically certain that she wasn't doing it by accident, especially when he caught her glancing at him with that teasing little smile which made her change instantly from a very pretty girl who played chess to a cockteasing hussy.
"So you brought along a lucky chess set?" he asked, more to make conversation than anything else. Mona Semmring nodded.
"Yes. Now, you know, everybody has his or her own little quirks. I'm rather normal, except I do insist on playing with my own set. Ever since I won that game at Saranac, I've used it in a tournament. It was made for me especially in Hong Kong. I never let anybody else use it. It's my good-luck set. It's going to win the title for me in Chicago."
And then with this, he suddenly felt her calf press hard against his leg, and she gave him another dazzling smile, this time directly. He'd finished his coffee by now, so he put his right hand down under his tray and slipped it onto her knee. He wanted to see just how far he could go; would Mona rebuff his pitch for a fucking session because he was, after all, more than twice her age?
He got an immediate and very prick-tingling answer. Mona's left hand moved down to clasp his, and then she rubbed his hand under her skirt, then took hers away to let his roam free. He quivered with excitement. She had beautiful thighs, gloriously rounded and firm and resilient. The sheer stockings she wore were almost like a second skin. His hand roved slowly upward, while he watched her face to see if she was going to call a halt to his play. But she didn't. Demurely, she took out a silver cigarette case with her initials in amethysts, put a cigarette between her red lips, and lit it.
"That's an unusual cigarette case," he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Yes. I was born in February, so that's my birtlistone."
Her voice was cool and sleek as ever, even though his finger-tips had touched the silky hairs which framed her pussy. Yet the bare skin of her leg palpitated and twitched voluptuously, and he knew from that alone that Mona Semmring was an extremely passionate cock-teaser. Most--likely she was a virgin.
"Well," he quipped, "a lot of famous people were born in February. My wife, for example."
"That's always the way. The nicest men are out of circulation." She looked at him with that mocking little smile of hers and puffed smoke right into his face, but she made not the slightest movement to close her thighs or to fend off his wandering fingers. He felt his pulses pounding and his cock stiff with longing as he advanced his forefinger towards the gateway to her womanhood. The lips were moist and soft. Mona was no more a tyro at finger-frigging than she was fingering wooden pieces on a chessboard. And she still didn't stir a muscle.
The black-haired stewardess was coming by now, and Paul Raymond froze, a rather sickly smile on his face as she moved towards them. "Can I get you something else? Would you like more coffee?"
"None for me, thank you," Mona responded. Paul Raymond took the hint.
"No, thank you."
"Let me take those trays away for you," the stewardess suggested.
"Er not for just a bit, if you don't mind," he blurted. If she did, he didn't think he could get his hand away in time, and it would be rather embarrassing for all concerned. "Tell you what. I'll have another cup of coffee after all."
"Of course, sir. Right away." She walked off down the aisle, out to the little alcove just beyond the first-class section, and Paul Raymond slid his forefinger well between the lips of Mona Semmring's moist, twitching cunt. By the time the stewardess came back to refill his cup, he had learned one very useful and interesting fact: Mona wasn't a virgin.
The beautiful young chessmaster gave him a languorous smile and put the tip of her tongue to the inner edges of her lips, as she whispered just loud enough for him to hear, "You know, you never ought to start anything you can't finish, Paul dear. But I think I ought to give you a little fun, too, for being so nice to me on this long flight. Can you shift yourself just a little towards me and I'll show you what I mean."
He squirmed a bit to turn towards the right, and Mona's right hand foraged between his trousers, found the zipper and tugged at it. The stewardess walked by and gave him a friendly little smile, but right then and there Paul Raymond wouldn't have cared if she had been naked. Mona's slim fingers were fondling the head of his cock with the most evanescent, tantalizing touch he had ever felt. Even his beautiful Michele couldn't have surpassed as a poule the artistry and shades of tactual stimulation which this young brown-haired beauty was inflicting on his aching cock.
Now that the stewardess had gone off to stop at some other passenger's side, Paul Raymond took a deep breath and maneuvered his forefinger against Mona's clitoris. It was already erect and throbbing, and quite well developed.
"Oh oh darling. I love that. I wish-" Her whisper was more like a hiss, and her thin nostrils flared and shrank excitedly. He felt her thumb and forefinger grip his cock right against the circumcisional groove as if to dam up the frenzied urge to jet out his hot bubbling spunk. It was a sweet torture. "Is that nice for you, Paul darling?" she murmured. He didn't dare speak: he just nodded. He began to tickle her clitoris by rubbing all around it with light little touches, and Mona Semmring arched and wriggled like a nautch dancer. But the amazing thing was that Mona's face, apart from being wide-eyed, didn't seem to betray what was going on down at the Y. She had amazing self-control and would probably make a wonderful poker player, Paul Raymond told himself. However, the way her thighs were wriggling and her bottom squirming and her lovebutton throbbing, it was pretty obvious that, given a bed and privacy; she would explode like a firecracker. He started to pull his hand away, but Mona hissed, "Don't you dare stop, or I'll pull your prick out by the roots."
There was nothing else to do unless he wanted to be discourteous to a very beautiful and passionate piece of pussy. So Paul Raymond did it. His finger quickened its pace, and suddenly Mona Semmring laid back her head, closed her eyes, ground her teeth, and went all rigid for an instant. Then he heard a long-drawn sigh, and she was looking at him with a beautiful innocent gaze in her dark blue eyes, just as if nothing happened. But at the same time she was beginning to frig him, just with the edges of her thumb and forefinger, and he didn't quite have her ability to show a poker face. He took a handkerchief out of the lapel pocket of his coat with his left hand, got it out of sight under the blessedly concealing trays, and just as he felt himself burst, managed to get it in front of the viscous stream so that he could mop up the damage with no one the wiser. Mona had turned toward the window, as if nothing at all had happened. Seeing the stewardess head their way, Paul Raymond hurriedly pushed into his trousers, pulled up the zipper and leaned back, his face flushed and perspiring.
"Did you enjoy your meal, Mr. Raymond?" The brunette had a very husky voice to go along with those gorgeous titties and slinky legs. For once in his life, Paul Raymond didn't really care. All he could respond, weakly, was "I I can't think when I've had a better lunch. You can clear away now."
It was a rainy muggy day when the tournament opened at the Belmont Hotel, and the largest Chicago TV station had a remote broadcast from the lobby of the hotel to let Chicago viewers know that a national open chess championship was starting in the Windy City, the first such major chess event in over thirty years. As an advertising man, Paul Raymond watched with considerable interest to see how the program was going to be handled. The announcer, fortunately, knew something about chess and didn't make an utter idiot of himself. First he introduced Stefan Gregorevich, the handsome, black-haired Yugoslav, who had the rating of grandmaster and was expected to be, if not the winner, at least up in the top three. Gregorevich was slim, poised, suave, and an excellent linguist. Standing very near to him in the circle of spectators, was a deliciously young, coppery-haired girl who couldn't have been more than twenty, wearing a mini skirt and sleeveless blouse, and apparently pantie-stockings, the extremely dark brown hue of which made her creamy skin even more excitingly white by contrast. She had a pair of titties, Paul Raymond observed, that would have rivaled the late Jayne Mansfield's, and in her sky-blue, widened eyes there was a look of positive adoration for the Yugoslav expert the kind of adoration visible only in the eyes of a girl who had been thoroughly and soundly fucked by the man she was looking at.
Gregorevich was extremely modest, admitted that he was married and that he wrote for a newspaper in Belgrade. He considered the city extremely lovely. When he made that last remark, he gave the coppery-haired girl a meaningful little glance, and she put a hand to those magnificent titties of hers and sucked in her breath, just as if he had told her that as soon as they were alone together, he was going to shove it up to the hilt inside her twitching little cunt.
The two young American masters, Bill Bras-lend and Robert Corey, were the next to be interviewed. The announcer saved Mona Semmring very wisely to the last. She was wearing a green cotton dress whose skirt went just to the rondures of her dimpled knees, and her legs were bare. Paul Raymond was just about willing to bet that she wasn't wearing panties. She was composed and even a little cool, as if she had withdrawn into the protective shell which an artist or expert uses as a defense to prepare the nervous system for a grueling competition. No, she wasn't engaged, though she had been once, briefly. Why did she play chess with men? At this question she gave the announcer a dirty look, but in a sweet voice responded, "Don't you think it's high time we poor girls tried to counteract some of the propaganda the male sex puts out about our being inferior? I don't know why a woman can't do anything as well as a man. I think the brain of a woman is actually several ounces heavier than that of a man, so she ought to be able to have more ability."
That was the second time Mona Semmring had used that word. A hazy idea began to shape in Paul Raymond's mind. No, it was crazy. And yet there was something a little strange about it all. Why would a girl talk about gaining ounces by overeating, instead of pounds? Why would she pointedly discuss the weight of the brain and describe it in ounces? But as he pondered the glimmering of a suspicion, George Koltranoff, the director of the tournament, made the concluding appearance on the TV program and urged those who were watching and who enjoyed chess to visit the Belmont Hotel and support the players.
With this, the tournament got under way. The big reception salon at the back of the foyer of the hotel would be the battleground for the top players, he explained. Across the corridor a larger, more common convention assembly room had been turned into a meeting place for about seventy of the contestants who would sit at thirty-five tables, and on each of which a chess-clock had been set. It was actually a double clock, with two sets of pushbuttons. After one had made his move, he pushed the button of his clock, and so on. The time limit for the tournament was forty moves in two hours. In other words, if the player's score sheet didn't show forty moves by the time two o'clock registered on his clock, he must forfeit the game to his opponent. All clocks were set at noon, regardless of the hour of play. And finally, on the floor above, two large meeting rooms had been turned over to the players of the congress, for the rank and file of lesser experts and weaker players who, after the first round or two, would be left behind by the leaders.
George Koltranoff clapped Paul Raymond on the back. "Good luck, boy. I see that Mona made the trip with you. Isn't she a wonder?"
"That she is, George. But tell me, what sort of a game does she really play?"
"Well, you know that she and her father have never really been on the best of terms. I think the way she plays chess sort of shows that. A very aggressive, attacking game, and she usually starts with P-K4. But I've found that most of her wins come when her opponents try to meet her in open combat. The best chance to win against Mona is to play defensively and let her make errors, because she wants to attack and win at any cost."
"I'll remember that. What's this about her lucky chess set?"
"Oh that's the real thing. She got it not quite three years ago when she took a trip to the Orient, I believe. But she's only started using it since last year. At Saranac was the first time. Sometimes she brings it to the club to give me, or some visiting master, a game."
What's this about her being a heartbreaker ? I heard her say that she'd been briefly engaged."
"Yes, that was just over a year ago. He was a Frenchman, about thirty-five, from Marseilles. I understand that he was the son of a very famous industrial chemist over there and quite wealthy in his own right. He was in San Francisco doing some post-graduate work at the University. Languages, I think."
Once again a tiny presentiment began to gnaw Paul Raymond's mind. A special set made in Hong Kong. Ounces. A liaison with a Frenchman from Marseilles. A man whose father was an industrial chemist. It was just coincidental, of course, that Marseilles was one of the chief points at which dope was shipped out to this country. Just as San Francisco at the other side of the continent was the open door to the narcotics trade. And Hong Kong, a free port, had long been known as a notorious source of all kinds of narcotics, from hashish to opium to heroin.
It was all coincidence. It certainly couldn't have anything to do with gorgeous, cockteasing Mona Semmring.
George Koltranoff was busy now, showing the typed list of pairings to the opponents for the first round of play. Paul Raymond found himself paired with a high-strung young master from Nevada as his first opponent. To his delight, he found that his table would be in the main salon, and that he would sit only two tables away from Mona, who was matched against an elderly, nearly bald expert from Connecticut. Mona had along her Moroccan traveling case and was opening it. She said something to one of the young volunteer attendants who would work with the chess players and run the thousand and one little errands they required during an event of this kind. One man took away the standard wooden set of chess pieces, and Mona now opened her case and took out a, magnificent teakwood box. She nodded again to the attendants, who removed the board. She had her own chessboard, of inlaid ivory. She began to set up the pieces. The set itself was of pure ivory, in white and black, but modeled in the accepted regulation Staunton tournament style. Circular green felt pads were glued to the bottom of the pieces, to diminish the sound of setting them down during a game for every whisper or extraneous noise can upset the trend of thought of a nearby chess player when the clock is ticking away and his position is irksome.
She had the white pieces, and after reaching out her hand to shake her opponent's and give him a rather cold and arrogant smile, she promptly played P-K4 and punched the button of her clock to start her opponent's going.
Paul Raymond turned his attention to his own game, because he had the black pieces. To his surprise, and even more to the young Nevada master's, Paul managed to draw a rook and pawn endgame. Often, during the progress of this game, Paul left his table and sauntered down the aisle to see the progress of other players. Mona Semmring sat back in her chair, her beautiful long legs crossed, one slim hand lying on her thigh, regarding her perspiring opponent who, with elbows on the table, heavy fingers locked together, was leaning forward with a look of frantic worry on his perspiring face. Finally he shook his head, uttered a low sigh, hesitantly reached out over the board, lifted one of his bishops with trembling thumb and forefinger and moved it backwards on its diagonal. Then he punched the lever of the double-clock. Instantly, with a toss of her lovely head, Mona swept out her right hand, plucked up one of her rooks and shoved it four rows forward, then punched the button of her clock. She rose from the table and walked down the aisle to look at the other games. En route, she gave Paul Raymond a saucy little wink and, putting two fingers to her red lips, blew him a kiss. Paul Raymond glanced at the inlaid ivory chessboard. Mona's rook move had demolished her opponent's position. The Connecticut expert was rocking from side to side on his chair, his face contorted in a more agonized expression than ever. At last, with a groan, he turned down his king and rose, shaking his head despondently. Mona Semmring had won her first game.
There was a buzz of whispers, quelled immediately by Director Koltranoff, who explained, "Quiet, please!" Mona observed the reason for the distraction, made her way back to her board, and shook hands with her defeated opponent. Paul Raymond stood beside her. "Congratulations. A very beautiful win. That rook move was very deep," he murmured "So am I, as you found out on the plane, darling," she roguishly whispered to him, glancing around to see that no one was near. She put out her right forefinger and prodded his instantly stiffening cock. "Maybe in a few days, if I keep winning, I'll have time for a little more attention. I liked what you gave me on the plane. I'd like a lot more of it, if you know what I mean."
"I think I do, and I'm very flattered. Say, that's really a magnificent chess set. May I look at the king?"
"No!" All of a sudden Mona's dark blue eyes narrowed, and her voice became a sibilant hiss. I don't mean to be rude, Paul, but I don't allow anyone to touch my set except during the game. It's priceless."
"Of course. I'm sorry. Well, good luck."
"If all my opponents are as stupid as this one, I shan't need luck." Her voice was cool and aloof again as she began to drop the pieces into the teakwood box which was lined with thick green felt. For the moment, at least, she had dismissed Paul Raymond from her thoughts. For the moment, the way she looked almost but not quite made him forget he had had his finger in her cunt and made her lose her cool.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BY SUNDAY, PAUL RAYMOND HAD PLAYED FIVE games in the championship tourney and won two, lost two and drawn one. Mona Semmring had started with two straight wins, then drawn her next two, and lost the next to young, tall, nervous Bill Braslend, one of the best American masters. Braslend's win had catapulted him into a tie with Gregorevich, both players having a score of four points out of a possible five. Robert Corey, who wore thick-lensed glasses, was short, squat and very absent-minded, and who at twenty-six worked as an accountant for a grocery chain that allowed him leave of absence to play in international tournaments, was next with a score of three and a half points out of five. With ten rounds yet to be played, anything could happen.
Monday was a day of rest for all the contestants, but not for Paul Raymond. After phoning Lucille Furnol at the ad agency just to see what was happening, he paid a visit to Dan Vander-berg, a bluff, hearty mid-fortyish inspector of customs at the Post Office and an old friend from years back. Dan was a chess fan, although a duffer when it came to playing skill, but Paul occasionally gave him a game just to swap yarns with him.
Paul walked into Dan's office in the old Van Buren Street building and shook hands, then sat down. "Thought I'd see you over at the Belmont," he chuckled.
"I plan to get over there maybe tomorrow night, that's when you play the sixth round, isn't it, Paul? Hey, I see you're doin' pretty good for a starter."
"Even score in a big field like this is fine by me, Dan. Most of the players are at least fifteen years younger and spend all their time studying the books. So I'm satisfied. It's fun, and I don't expect to win a prize or worry about my ratings. That way, I can relax and enjoy it."
"I'd like to relax and enjoy that sexy young gal who's expected to win the womens' title," Dan Vanderberg gave him a lewd wink. "Even an old married man like me can still dream of screwing a hot-pussied piece like Mona Semmring."
"That makes two of us. And she is hot pussied, for your information. Except, to look at her when she's playing a man over the board, you'd think she had ice water in her veins. She gives you the feeling she hates men and thinks she's better than any of them."
"Yeah, I've seen dames like that. But she lost yesterday, didn't she?
"Uh huh. To Braslend. He's a comer, cool-headed and plenty of know-how. Besides, he's engaged to a nice, quiet girl who works in the Public Library, so he wasn't rattled by Mona's little tricks of crossing her legs and pulling up her skirt or leaning forward to tap her cigarette ashes into the tray and show off those juicy titties of hers. You'll see for yourself when you come over tomorrow night, Dan. She's due to play Martha Engels, one of the best women players in the country. But I wanted to ask you something about dope, Dan. Have you been running into any narcotics smuggling through the mails?"
"Nope. But I'll tip you off to what a guy from the Federal Bureau of Narcotics told me last Friday. There seems to be a sudden outbreak of pushers all over the country. Don't know who's bringing in the stuff, but this guy's pretty sure it's coming out of the main ports on the East and West Coasts. And it's good stuff, too. Finest grade of heroin, and not cut with pablum the way so much of the junk is. Lots of money's changing hands somewhere, you can bet on that."
"I see," Paul Raymond said thoughtfully. "Tell me, Dan, can a guy smuggle it in coming back on ship or plane from Europe or the Orient?"
"Well, we work with the FBI sometimes when they've got a court order to check mail addressed to suspected narcotics handlers. Most of the customs people are on to all the dodges, naturally, and they get plane and ship passenger lists so they can check any suspicious parties."
"Suppose some society woman or important businessman flew over to, say, Paris or Hong Kong and came back with some pure heroin carefully concealed? Could they get away with it?"
"Yes, maybe once or twice. People in the limelight, of course, get routine checks anyway. But it's possible. What are you driving at, Paul?"
"Nothing. I just had a hunch, that's all. Well, see you at the Belmont tomorrow, him?"
"Sure. Hey, your wife being out of town, are you going to try to date that sexy chess player?"
"If I were, I wouldn't tell you about it, Dan boy. Michele'd find out sure as I'm born. You just come over and drool, though. Maybe I'll get to play her before the tourney's over."
Paul Raymond went back to the Belmont Hotel after lunch in the Loop. There was a message at the desk for him to call Mona in room 304. Arching his eyebrows and humming a tuneless melody, he walked into the self-service elevator. The suave black-haired Yugoslav grandmaster Stefan Gregorevich was the only other rider, busy in the act of lighting a cigarette.
"How's it going, Stefan?" Paul Raymond shook hands. "Looks as if you're going to run away with the title and the money."
"Not so easy, my friend. It is true I have won three games and drawn two out of five, but you must remember I have not yet played such strong masters as your Americans Braslend and Corey, or this excellent Mexican champion Miguel Alicante. And then you have Kupferstick, the Dutch master, and Jasperson from Sweden, to say nothing of young Portokoff, the emigree from Budapest who is almost of grandmaster strength. In a tourney of this kind, a draw or even a single loss can ruin one's chances."
"Not the way you're playing. I watched your win yesterday against Burgess. A brilliant queen sacrifice."
The Yugoslav grandmaster moistened a forefinger, smoothed his moustaches. "Last night, I got back my queen with how do you say it ample compensation."
"You mean the cute redhead I saw you make eyes at on opening day?"
"Oh, no, my friend. She fucks like a mink, but she is very stupid, really, about pleasing a man. She only wants to do it the usual way. When I wanted her to take it in her mouth, she flew into a rage and left the Hotel," Gregorevich shrugged, puffed at his cigarette. "After my game yesterday, a very charming married woman came up and asked for my autograph. She proved so sympathetic that I allowed her to drive me out to her elegant house in Lake Forest. Her husband is in Paris, and we were alone except for her maid, who is also most cooperative and attractive. Indeed, tonight the maid is to visit me at the hotel."
"You gay dog you! But aren't you afraid your wife back in Belgrade will read in the chess magazines how her handsome husband is winning queens right and left?"
"My wife never reads English chess magazines. She--likes French novels and she knows I have my amusements when I travel. Just as she herself is amusing herself now with my brother. But you must let me tell you about this woman in Lake Forest, my dear friend. No sooner had her maid led me into her bedroom, then she came to me and told me how excitingly good looking I was, and then, before I could stop her, she went down on her knees and took out my cock and began to kiss it. She wanted me, she said, to treat her as if I were a moujhik a peasant and she a captive aristocrat. She forgot that I am a Yugoslav, not a Russian, and that this is 1968, not 1917. But no matter. Of course, I granted her request. I ripped her clothes off and slapped her titties a little till she was nearly out of her mind with pleasure. Then I had her get on all fours over a footstool and I fucked her. She then was ordered to suck me back to life, and I rewarded her by making her open up the cheeks of her big soft white ass so I could bottomfuck her. It was most satisfactory. Tonight Louise that is the maid's name wants me to do everything I did to her mistress as well as some things which are her own idea. It is good I don't have to play a game tonight. I could not concentrate on it. And tomorrow, I can sleep till noon, because the game does not start till two in the afternoon. Well, thank you for your good wishes, and to you too the best of fortune in the games."
"Nothing like yours, Stefan, I'm afraid. But I'm surprised you haven't tried to fuck Mona Semmring yet. Isn't she your type?"
Gregorevich made a wry face." No. I think she is a demi-vierge how do you say it in English?"
"A cock-teaser or a prickteaser. But I don't agree with you. I have a date with her right now. Fact is, now that you're at the top floor, I'm riding back down to hers. See you tomorrow, Stefan boy. And don't wear it out in one night."
"That is not--likely, my friend. When I am home in Belgrade, I fuck only my wife and sometimes her sister. It is only when I travel to play in events like this one that I enjoy variety. Dosvedanya, comrade." The handsome Yugoslav inclined his head and left the elevator.
A few moments later, Paul Raymond pressed the buzzer of room 304. "It's not locked, come in," Mona's clear sweet voice called. He turned the knob and entered. "Now you may lock it, though," she said with a naughty little wink. As he did so, he kept staring at her, for Mona Semmring was really worth looking at: in a flaming-red satin robe belted with a narrow black felt band, charcoal-brown nylons clambering up those jouncily rounded calves and long, full, feminine thighs, her dainty feet shod in red throng sandals, with her ponytail falling in a sheaf just past her shoulder blades, she emanated an aura of young, ardent sensuality.
The black Moroccan case with her chessboard and set was placed on the floor to one side of the wide low couch on which she relaxed, arms behind her head, her big, firm, juicy titties boldly offered to strain their ripe-nippled peaks against the bodice of the robe.
"It was darling of you to come, Paul," she purred, patting the couch beside her. "Come sit next to me."
All this talk of coming served to rigidify his cock, and as he walked slowly towards her, he could feel his erection growing. "You look especially mouthwatering this afternoon, Mona," he said as he sat down next to her. "Wear that outfit tomorrow, and I predict you'll mate Alicante in twenty moves."
"You're very sweet and good for my morale, darling." She wriggled a little closer till her firm thigh pressed hard against his. "But Alicante is a very strong master, and he was white against me, which gives him the advantage."
"He's got Latin blood in his veins. You roll your eyes at him, lean over to put out your cigarette so he can see you're a big girl now, and you'll get him so flustered he won't remember any of the rules."
"Rules are made to be broken anyhow," Mona cooed. "But let's not talk about chess, Paul dear. I've been so tense this first part of the tournament, I need to quiet my nerves. And I want you to help me darling. The way you did on the plane, and lots more."
"That's the most flattering offer I ever had, Mona baby."
Her dark blue eyes narrowed, with a flicker of anger: "Don't call me that, I don't like it. That's what my father still calls me, and I loathe him."
"Now don't get your panties wet for nothing, Mona. It's understandable he'd feel tender and affectionate towards you. Don't forget, he's lived all these years without your mother, so he naturally turns to you as her substitute."
"That's a lie! He really hates me because I wasn't born a boy, if you must know. But I didn't call you here to talk about my father or me." Now she was kittenish as she slipped an arm around his neck and pressed her satiny-creamy cheek against his. "Love me up, Paul. I'm so tense and nervous can't you feel how my leg is quivering? I get wrought up when I play chess. And all these interviews wherever I go as if I were a special kind of freak. I have to be on TV tomorrow, just before my game with Alicante. They want me to explain what chess is all about and talk about famous women chess players and something of the history of the game. But I know they'll get around to asking me what I like to eat, if I sleep without pajamas, and-"
"Do you?" he interrupted.
"Do I what?"
"Sleep raw."
"Sometimes. Depends on the weather. But I'll tell you one thing." Her voice was soft, crooning music now as her lips nuzzled at his earlobe and her other hand wandered slowly along his thigh.
"What's that?"
"I always fuck raw, darling. Do you want to fuck me real good and hard?"
"Your hand can find out the answer to that one ohh, it just did," he gasped as Mona's soft fingers tugged down his zipper and, delving into his shorts, drew out his swollen cock.
"My, how big and strong it is, darling! That's why I don't care about fellows my own age. They're like jackrabbits, and they never think about giving a girl a hot come. All they want is to go off themselves. They might as well jackoff, so far as I'm concerned."
As she spoke, her soft thumbpad was rubbing the taunt pink skin of his cockhead, pressing against the puckering lips, and Paul Raymond had to grind his teeth to hold back the furious urge to shoot his wad then and there. The last thing in the world he'd expected had been dirty talk from gorgeous young Mona Semmring, the vaunted San Francisco heiress-chessmaster.
"Well, I'll admit, I long ago found out that it takes two to fuck properly, Mona. And it's more fun when the girl comes along for the ride."
"Uh huh. Lots of fun. Do you like that?" That was her sharp forefinger-nail rasping delicately around the lips of his urethral slit.
"My God, yes!"
"I want you to fuck me, all you want, dear. But you've got to do things the way I like. You will, won't you?"
"Just make up a little list and I'll cheerfully oblige," he gasped thickly, as her fingers clamped round his shaft and squeezed it.
"It won't be a little list. First, I want you to start by doing what the French call, faire minette. Do you know what that means, lover?" Her fingers were tickling his balls now.
"Of course. It means you want to be gama-huched. I didn't know you spoke French."
"I can talk it to a nice strong darling like what I've got my hand on, too."
"That would be on my list if I were making one, yes indeed.' "I knew we were kindred spirits the first time we met at George's chess club, darling. And I don't at all mind that you're married. You can be a big help to me, if you want to."
"At least till my wife gets back, which won't be till the tourney's over."
"Oh, that's just lovely. You're engaged to be my masseur, my trainer, my coach, and," here her voice became a sultry whisper as her moist red lips pressed against his ear, "my fucker par excellence."
"Did you take French at school, Mona?"
"Uh uh. Pierre taught me." She caught herself and frowned, then let go of his stiff cock and cupped his face with both hands as she gave him her ardent mouth. "Kiss me and put some feeling into it."
His tongue drove between her eagerly parting lips, and Mona sighed languorously. She drew one of his hands towards her suddenly-swelling titties, made him cup and squeeze one of the luscious globes. "Mmmmm," she moaned when he stopped for air, "you're no slouch at French yourself, darling. Do you like my titties?"
"I'd like them better if I could see them as they really are."
"That's easily arranged, lover. Let go of me for a tiny minute that's a good boy." She rose sinuously, tugged at her belt, then deftly undid two snap fasteners, and the robe yawned to bare her creamy nakedness. He could see the soft triangular dark brown fleece at her mount, not quite hiding the soft, beguilingly pink twitching corals of her cunthole.
"There," she breathed, as her soft hands shoved the robe off her voluptuous young body, "now I'm raw."
"Not quite. You've still got your stockings on, and somebody ought to tell you that the old-fashioned elastic garters will stop the circulation and leave marks on those gorgeous white legs of yours," he said hoarsely.
"Nobody talks to me about such private things dear. I'm a free woman now, you know. When I was engaged, that was one thing Pierre used to tell me what to wear and what not to wear. But I do what I like now, you see. Do you really think my garters leave marks, though?"
"Let me take your stockings off and you can see for yourself."
"All right." She remained standing, her hands cupping her titties in the most provocative way, and spread her legs to let him see the dainty, fleshy pink lips of her cunthole part and quiver in eager readiness for rogering. "Take them off then. Kiss your way down but start you know where first, darling. Work me up till I want to be fucked to a frazzle."
He put his hands on the succulent cheeks of her bare bottom, felt her tighten, then relax their agile muscles. Her skin was warm and palpitating. Maybe over the chessboard Mona Semmring was cool and collected, but right now she was a furnace of fuckery, promising untold incendiary fury for the man brave enough to thrust his ramrod into her hot eager scabbard. Well, a man could only die once, he told himself. And he was brave enough to want to feel that luscious naked body of hers writhing under him, her greedy pink cunt lips sucking up every inch he had to offer. Maybe he couldn't beat her over the chessboard, but he would glory in trying to make her say uncle to his stiff, aching, rampant cock.
His mouth brushed the dimpled niche of her navel, and Mona moaned, arching to him. "That's lovely for starters," she murmured huskily. "Fais moi minette, je meurs pour ca!" Her accent was nearly flawless Parisian, and he started guiltily thinking that Michele was here instead. But his fingers told him that the lovely elastic backside he was squeezing wasn't shaped like Michele's, and besides the scent of Mona's naked skin was different too. Whoever had said that all cats are gray in the dark obviously had never done much appreciative and observant fucking. Mona's was one of the rarer Coty fragrances, while Michele always chose Houbigant or sometimes Caron. And even Michele had never said to him in French or any other language what Mona had just begged him to do. "Gamahuch me, I'm just dying to be gamahuched!"
Once again, there were tiny warning signals flashing through some of the distant recesses of his mind, but when a man finds himself kneeling before a girl wearing only hose and sandals with her thighs yawned apart to promise all the pussy he wants if he is man enough to fuck as well as lick and suck it, he disregards mental exercises as a rule. Paul Raymond had his nostrils full of Mona's perfumed skin and now, as his lips neared the fleece of her mount, the subtle tang of her cunny odor titillated him still more. His prick ached savagely, standing out of his trousers, and if Michele had chanced to walk in unannounced right now, she would have had more than enough grounds for divorce.
He kissed just above her pussy and Mona sighed huskily and again arched to him, wanting him to be even bolder. Stefan Gregorevich had been quite wrong about her being a cock-teaser; she was more than willing to go all the way. But he wasn't about to tell Stefan that; that Yugoslavian ex-partisan fighter and now grandmaster of chess might try to replace him, and right now, Paul Raymond was ready to stake a cock-claim on Mona Semmring's voluptuous pink, soft, quivering cunt.
Now his mouth merged over the lips and with a sucking kiss paid tribute. A sobbing gasp escaped the naked young beauty; she let go of her titties and clutched the back of his neck, her head falling back, eyes glistening with lubricity: "Yes ahh ohh, that's so good, Paul darling, don't ever stop, ooooh, don't ever stop!"
His tongue flicked out to rasp over the two soft pussy petals, and he felt the dig of Mona's fingernails; his fingers felt how frantically her bare bottom-cheeks were clenching and spasming, proof that she was burning up with lust. This Pierre he must have been the guy she had been engaged to how could any man capable of a hard on pass up a red-hot, sizzling piece of young, luscious, tirelessly fuckable cunt like Mona? If she was as talented as this at just nineteen tender years, think of what she would be like, say five years from now with a little more experience!
Now his mouth fused hard against her cunt-hole, drawing a whimpering gasp from the naked girl; his tongue thrust between her quaking pussy-petals to find the lodestone of her life. He found it instantly; Mona's clitoris was virile, erect, a galvanized nucleus already quivering with yearning. And when his tongue tip furled over it, her fingernails gouged his neck painfully. "Hey, sweetheart," he protested, "speaking of marks, I don't especially want any from you for obvious reasons." They might just heal before Michele got back from San Francisco. And even a gifted advertising man might find it hard to think up a plausible reason why fingernail marks scored all over the back of his neck in his wife's absence from the bedchamber.
"Sorry ohh, darling, darling, you're driving little Mona wild!" Her hands caressed his cheeks and she pressed her loins forward, begging him to continue. His fingers had hold of the inner edges of her succulent bottom-cheeks, and now he slid one finger towards the dainty furtive little crevice between them, found the crinkly rosette of her bunghole and nudged it gently.
"Ooooooh!" Mona groaned as her fingers now dug into his shoulders. "Ohh, you're just wonderful, Paul ooh, yes, yes, I just love what you're doing to me! I'm getting so hot, you don't know-" There was a danger in being marked up some more, and besides, his prick was fiercely demanding appeasement. He rose, cupping her panting titties, kissed her hard on the mouth, and then his hands gripped her by the waist and forced her down on her back on the couch. A moment later, trousers and shorts and shoes off, he flung himself down over her as her arms wound round his neck and her wet red mouth crushed against his, her tongue rapiering in between his lips with a ferocious zeal. His cockhead rubbed over Mona's moist twitching cunthole, found the way, and as she sinuously wriggled to settle herself, he found the target and thrust slowly, deeply, into that chalorous chalice. "Ahhhhhhhh!" Mona's sobbing groan welcomed his inroads; her cunt was tight and feverishly excited, he could feel her clamp a stranglehold against his digging prick.
Her legs hooked over his as she strained up to take all of him. "Oh God, ohh yes, yes, Paul, oooh, now fuck hell out of me, oh fuck me till I burst," she panted, eyes wild and glistening, nostrils flaring and clenching convulsively in the turmoil of her rut.
Her hips weaved and jerked so violently that he had to keep up with her lest he be evicted from the hot, tight sheath of her rapacious cunthole; a hula dancer couldn't have executed more gyrations than Mona Semmring did now while being vigorously harpooned. Her titties mashed against his chest and her breath was quick and feverish, as, her eyes rolling, glazed and hugely dilated, she neared the brink of the abyss.
Now, with an agile wriggle, she shifted her beautiful long legs to clamp them over his bottom, panting, "Harder, deeper, ohh, ream me out, lover, ohh, I want to be fucked way down deep and along the sides, Paul, oooh, lover, don't spare me, ohh I want to be fucked senseless, darling, oooooh!"
Manfully, he tried to keep up with her, wishing idly for an instant that he was her own age; then he could have done it for twenty-four hours without stopping. Mentally, he still could, with a tasty cunt like Mona's to challenge all his cock-interest; but these days, the spirit might be willing but the flesh was getting weaker with the passage of time. He drew back, feeling Mona's belly grind to his to cajole his quick return; then, with a gasp, thrust some to the balls and felt the warm quivering walls of her vaginal sheath clench savagely against his implement. He still had hold of her bottom-cheeks, and now his forefinger prodded in between her restlessly tensing bunghole lips, found the way, and inserted slowly to the knuckle, then began to move back and forth while he timed himself with his cockthrusts, drawing up his final reserves of self-control.
Mona, baring her teeth in a rictus of utter frenzy, hammered at his back with her fists, tightening her thighs over his bottom, arching and squirming her pelvic basin as if she wanted to merge into him. A wordless, continuous, moaning cry exhaled from her parted lips; he drew back a final time, then launched himself deep till he felt his hairs rub with hers, and felt himself wrenched by the shattering spasm of hot gushing come. Even as his spunk burst deep into her womb, he felt her convulsive, shuddering start in her calves, race along her clamping thighs and then explode as her belly ground and writhed against his and her lovedew seethingly joined his own violent flow into the river of fulfillment.
Her quivering and spasmodic writhing lasted an endless time, while he kept hold of her contracting bare bottom, his forefinger still dug halfway up her bumhole, while his lips fused over hers and muffled her whimpering, sobbing plaints. He felt utterly drained, aching from their conflict, a cataclysmic fucking duel worthy of comparison with those nights in Paris and Monique, worthy though it was reasonable even to think of it of--likening to his most passionate sessions with his own beautiful wife Michele. Yet now, as his senses cleared and his brain began to work again, he could differentiate between these three cockpleasers; there was a perverse, almost dictatorial possessiveness to the way Mona fucked, while Monique fucked as if candid and lustful by nature, fucking was all that mattered in life; and Michele fucked because she loved him as her man and gave him her all because that was the bargain between the sexes. Even in fucking, he realized, you have to have to have a little love.
Mona had used him; he had been only the instrument of her own narcissistic pleasure. He had the feeling that if she could have derived as intense a come from jacking off or using a cucumber or dildo, she would have entirely dispensed with the male animal. Not that it hadn't been a memorable fuck; quite the contrary. But to be married to a girl like Mona would mean giving up your own talents and channeling them to her ultimate pleasure, to the point of enslavement. No, there were several things about Mona's character he wasn't overly fond of. As to her body and her cunt, that was something else again.
Slowly he disengaged himself, after having gone through the traditional afterplay with tender kisses and caresses. She lay sprawled, a serene little smile on her moist red lips. He slipped off her garters, then drew her nylons down to her knees. Sure enough, there were dark pink narrow bands marring the soft creamy whiteness of her naked skin. He kissed and tongued them. "See? What did I tell you?" he murmured.
"Mmmmm," Mona sighed luxuriously as she lofted her arms high above her head, arched like a cat so that her pear-titties surged up and out, their points still hard and dark. "That was just heavenly, Paul lover. Did you like it too?"
"You don't really want an answer, do you, Mona?"
"Uh uh," she looked up at him lazily, her lips curved into a teasing smile. "And now do you think you could do something for me?"
"Depends what it is."
"I've a friend who'd like to hire an ad agency. I've done some checking on you I hope you won't mind and I think your firm could be very helpful. It isn't a very big account, but it could grow. He'd want newspaper ads in most of the big cities. Maybe radio and TV, too."
"Sure, we'd be glad to handle it. What's his line?"
"Novelties. You know, like party favors and stuff like that."
"I'd be glad to meet him after the tourney this is my vacation, you know. But you can tell him I'm interested."
"Wonderful! Now come here and kiss me nice, lover."
He bent over, his mouth finding one of her still dark, stiff tittiebuds. Mona giggled, put out a soft hand and fondled his deflated cock. Did I do that?" she pouted playfully. "Here I was hoping for a return bout. I'm still edgy, darling, and my nerves have to be calmed down before I can play good chess."
"Tell you what I'll do. Up to now you've called the turn. You play it my way this time and I'll accommodate you," he said hoarsely as he felt her fingers tickle his scrotum and balls and magically summon back the fateful tingling which spelled fuck.
"Anything for you, Paul sweetheart."
"You wanted me to faire minette a while ago. Well, I will. But fair's fair; I want you to do it to me too."
"Soiante-neuf? Oh, yes, lover, I'd love that with you! Hurry up and get all naked so we can be together," Mona breathed.
It didn't take him long to shed the little remaining clothing he had on and stretch out over her on all fours, his mouth kissing her moist quivering cunny, while, winding her arms round his hips and drawing him down to her, Mona began to French him as deliciously as he had ever been Frenched. She would suck at the tip of his organ, get the head inside her mouth, then pop it out with an. expulsion of breath only to suck it back in again. Then her tongue would furl round and round the thin-skinned tip of his prong, then rub against the puckering lips whence his spunk emerged. It didn't take long to get his balls aching with a second libation to her artistry but it took longer for him to come than for her. Indeed, Mona had two hot, gushing comes before her gifted lips and tongue coaxed him to yielding all he could give her that afternoon.
Showering and dressing, he left her with the promise that he'd come around to her table tomorrow when she played Alicante, just to wish her luck. What he wanted was a nap and then maybe dinner at La Boulange all by himself. He needed a gourmet feast to build up his lost vigor, that was for sure.
Before he went back to the Marina Towers, however, he decided to ask Stefan Gregorevich about a special variation in the Ruy Lopez, an openinghe wanted to try tomorrow, since he'd have white against Carl Miller, a Maryland near-master who could be tough. He knocked at the door of the Yugoslav grandmasters room, but there wasn't any answer. Frowning, he turned the knob tentatively, as one does just as a token gesture and the door swung open. He saw why the Yugoslav hadn't answered. And his face turned red; he remembered that Stefan had said the maid of that Lake Forest matron was coming to visit tonight and he'd thought the grandmaster would be resting to get his full strength for the ordeal.
Stefan Gregorevich wasn't resting. His back was turned to Paul Raymond. He was in his shorts, vivid purple-striped ones, and that was all. Ahead of him was a deep low armchair. In it, a plump, black-haired woman knelt, wearing only a blue cotton sleeveless blouse, flesh-hued nylons held up by a narrow black satin-elastic garter-belt, and pumps, her hands gripping the back of the chair. Her bottom-cheeks were opulent rounds, closely set together but Stefan's wiry hands had forced them apart to bare her crinkly pink bumhole, and his stiff prong was burrowed midway inside it; the lips bulged on either wide of his surprisingly thick ramrod, and she was groaning softly, "Oooh ohh, my God, ohh Stefan dearest take it easy ooohh, it's splitting me wide open, ooooh, darling, but it feels so good " Paul Raymond didn't bother to apologize for his intrusion; he silently closed the door and tiptoed back to the elevator. A few minutes later, he was in a cab en route to his apartment. He was willing to bet that wasn't the maid at all, but her mistress, coming back for seconds. And the maid was due this evening. What a man! No wonder he was an invincible grandmaster!
A warm shower eased his aching muscles, a drink and a cigarette made him relax even more, and then he stretched out naked on the double bed he and Michele occupied. No sooner had his eyes closed than he was fast asleep ...
He was dreaming. He was lying on a huge bed that occupied an entire room. A dozen dancing girls were moving about, flirting with him with their eyes, their titties and jiggling hips, each of them undulating lasciviously to draw his special attention as a mark of regal favor. It would be hard to make a choice. Each one of them was gorgeous. None wore anything more than a pair of the filmiest harem pantaloons and silver slave-anklets, their titties bare. Would it be that redhead on the end of the line, the one whose bubbies had dark wide aureoles and stiff nipples, or that silver-haired slim nymph three girls to the right of her, with pale milky skin and a backside like a boy's, saucy and pert and tightly set? One of them had glided towards him, unbidden, and her hand was actually daring to caress his cock. A mighty shah commanded when a girl should touch him; should he have her beheaded or put to the bowstring or perhaps twenty flicks between the naked legs with a silken thong? And now the impertinent wench was daring to kiss his cock His eyes blinked, then opened, and he gulped. It was Michele. In her pert felt turban, in a gray suit coat-skirt ensemble, chic as ever, she was bending over the bed to fondle his prick and her lips were just hovering over the stiffening, aching tip of his ramrod.
"M Michele what the devil you weren't supposed to be back yet," he gasped.
"I know, m' amour. But I got so lonesome for you, and being with that sexy Monique started to get on my nerves, so I left her with Renee to come back when she wants, and flew back home to be with you. Maybe you'll need my inspiration to help you through the rest of the tournament. Shall I show you what I have in mind?"
It wouldn't be a good idea to argue, he knew. All he could pray was that, somehow, Michele's delicious, soft touch and warm moist tender lips could manage to coax out juice enough from his overtaxed cock to satisfy her concern about his welfare. If he was dry as a bone, then he would be in for trouble.
Fortunately, Mona hadn't quite drained him of every last bit of spunk. Besides, the way Michele frigged and sucked him would have drawn spunk from a stone statue left out in the dry Sahara Desert for a century. And the best thing about it all was that she didn't even bother to ask him if he wanted to be Frenched. Right there proved the difference between her and Mona Semmring. It always helped when a little love was brought into the act.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS IT TURNED OUT, MICHELE WAS SO FULL OF GOS-sip from her visit to San Francisco that she didn't seem to mind at all that Paul wasn't in a raping mood. He dressed and took her out to dinner at La Boulange, and Lajos, like the fine Hungarian gentleman he was, didn't even bat an eyebrow to observe that Paul was bringing a woman who wasn't the same one who'd been with him a few short weeks ago. After dinner, they stopped in Old Town to watch a "Second City" revue and have a few drinks, and thence to bed.
However, once in bed, Michele demanded cuddling and affection by way of being welcomed back. And Paul Raymond found, to his own amazement and secret thanksgiving, that lying on one's side with a lovely naked ardent blonde turned to you and rubbing up against you was an infallible prescription for a hard on no matter how much overindulgence you had had earlier in the day. Especially when Michele began to tickle his balls with a satiny fingertip and give him rapid little soul-kisses with her tongue darting back and forth into his mouth. Instinctively he rolled over into her back as her arms and legs wound round him, and, locked chest to titties, mouth to mouth, he managed to achieve a reasonably competent if not savagely inspired performance. Indeed, he discovered that the lengthy time it took him to coax a little residual lovejuice out of his cock provided added pleasure for Michele, who reveled in several long-drawn shuddering orgasms before he at last gave up the ghost. So it turned out to be a happy reconciliation.
Michele decided to go shopping after breakfast, and mentioned she might drop over to the Belmont Hotel to watch him play. After she'd left, he picked up the phone and put in a long-distance call to San Francisco for Jack Munson, a private eye who'd visited George Koltranoff's chess club the night he'd played Mona in the exhibition and with whom he'd had a friendly drink at the Owl and Leopard Club a day later. Munson was a friendly, knowledgeable bachelor who did some work for top industrial firms, and had a lot of valuable leads for info about top-echelon society people. It wouldn't do any harm to get some more data about Mona and her background. Those jarring little irregularities had begun to come back into his brain and bother him. He gave Munson a rundown on what he needed, which included some checking on the mysterious Pierre whom Mona had mentioned during their love bout yesterday afternoon. Then, showering and shaving and stopping at Quo Vadis for a chicken salad luncheon, he took a cab back to the Belmont to be on hand for Mona's TV interview.
She wore a tight fitting dress of shocking-pink faille, dark brown nylons, an attire hardly conducive to letting her male opponent concentrate on his chess position. She was charming, gay, and most informative. The announcer couldn't keep his eyes off her, which wasn't surprising. Finally he asked, "Miss Semmring, do you find yourself affected very much by moods when you play chess?"
"Oh no. It's all business when I sit down to a chessboard. I'm as cool as the Sphinx when the game starts. I never let myself get rattled, you see. And when I have a difficult position, I weigh everything very carefully, the way a druggist weighs ounces on his scale. In fact, I'd say the password to success in chess is an ounce of prevention. You know the old adage a pound of cure."
Paul Raymond frowned. Ounces again. A druggist didn't weigh ounces on his scale, he weighed grams. Something was very fishy. Well, maybe when Munson got back to him, he'd find out more about it. Meanwhile, there was a game to be played.
Two hours later, he was wincing as Carl Miller, a pleasant-faced thirty-year-old Army career sergeant on furlough for the tourney, relentlessly refuted his Ruy Lopez attack and won a pawn. Half an hour later, he turned down his king and shook hands with his victorious opponent, then strolled over to Mona's table. She was scowling, arms folded across her titties, glaring at the board. Two pawns down in a untenable position and little hope to save it. The Mexican master was staring at his pieces, not at her, his face a bland mask of concentration. Finally Mona made a nervous gesture with her hand, turned down her king, and rose without a word. A hum of excitement rose, quickly quieted by the tourney director's loud hiss, "Shh, if you please!"
Paul wanted to express condolences, but Mona was collecting her board and putting the ivory men into the case, not even bothering to congratulate Aliante. Besides, he'd just seen the blackboard at the back of the room; in big letters, he could easily read: "SEVENTH ROUND STARTS TONIGHT, EIGHT P.M." That was a switch; he'd expected it to be held tomorrow morning. Koltranoff must have changed the schedule. Well, no help for it; he'd phone Michele, have dinner at the hotel, try to relax and then find out whom he was going to play. Dropping the game to Miller meant he'd be paired with a loser, or someone whose total score was two and half like his. Oh well, there were nine more games before the tourney was over, still time to make a decent score. But for Mona, who had lost to stay at a total of three points out of six rounds, it was an obstacle to her path to the title; Greta Golding had won this afternoon, to reach three and a half, half a point ahead of the beautiful young challenger.
Michele Raymond had stopped at Saks Fifth Avenue to admire some negligees and finally chose one a very sheer and skimpy cut black nylon affair with a gold cloth belt that was certain to make her loup sauvage forget about chess and much prefer to come to bed as well as a pretty multicolored house dress. She decided to buy some French pastry in that little shop on Rush near Oak Paul would love it tonight for supper and then maybe have lunch at the Athena, that new Greek nichtclub-restaurant, and then head out to the Belmont Hotel. After buying the pastry, she discovered she was out of cigarettes. That was easily remedied; there was a little drug store right next door.
She walked in. There was a man with an expensive Borsolino hat and a trim Vandyke beard What an odd name it had, anyway the Sphinx, ahead of her, saying something in a low voice to the man behind the counter, a bald, fat man with a big wen on the end of his bulbous nose. She smiled pleasantly, rummaged in her purse for coins. As she looked up, the bald man was handing the bearded man a can of tobacco. The customer pocketed the can, handed the man behind the cigar and candy counter two folded greenbacks. Michele could just see a tiny slip of white paper sticking between the bills. Then the bearded man turned, eyed her, gave her a flirtatious wink, and walked out of the drug store. "Well!" she murmured.
"Yes, ma'am, something for you?" the fat man wearily demanded.
"Oh yes oh, darn " Glancing back over her shoulder, she had noticed that the man with the trim black Vandyke had stopped outside the store window to look at her, was now tipping his hat, and in her confusion, she dropped her purse. "What a silly thing to do," she said half aloud to herself, "If I'd only shown an ounce of prevention, this wouldn't have happened there goes my little perfume vial, smashed to bits " At last she reassembled the loose articles from her purse, turned back to the counter. "A package of Pall Malls, please," she said. The fat bald man reached under the counter, came up with a little green tobacco can with a white label, handed it to her, leaning forward expectantly. Automatically, she reached for it, then pushed it back at him. "No, no, not tobacco, cigarettes. Pall Malls."
"Oh yeah, sure, lady. Here y'are. Forty cents."
Michele put the cigarettes in her purse, paid the man and left the drug store. He made a sign to the bearded man outside, who hurried back into the store.
"What's the trouble, Harry?"
"I dunno. Some'pin real funny, Mr. P. That dame comes in, gives the password. So I hand her the stuff like I'm told, wait for the mazuma. She hands it back to me and wants cigarettes."
"Hmm. It could have been coincidence, you know."
"Who's gonna know that password less'n they heard it you know. Hey, here comes the boss. Better buy some'pin."
"I'm going to follow that dame, as you call her. I want to know whether it was coincidence or whether she's an agent. See you, Harry."
"Yeah, Mr. P. I know the reg'lars, but that dame's a new one, see?"
The bearded man, suave, handsome in a sensual way, olive-skinned, about thirty-five, walked slowly behind Michele without appearing to follow or notice her. When Michele got into a cab, he beckoned the driver of the one parked behind it, got in and said "Follow that cab. There's a five spot in it for you if you don't lose it."
Michele decided not to go to the tournament after all. There were still quite a few rounds left and besides, to be frank about it, chess bored her. She didn't play herself, and she sometimes resented Paul's absorption with it, especially at times when she was dying to be fucked and he would sit there doggedly in front of his silly old board and move the wooden pieces back and forth instead of giving her what she needed. No, she'd visit the New Delphi and talk to Georges and tell him how Monique was getting along.
Georges Pretre was in the kitchen talking with his rolypoly Parisian chef Armand, planning a private banquet for a group of wealthy electronic engineers who wanted a dining room all to themselves and their guests next Sunday evening, and had given him a most elaborate and profitable menu for the occasion. He left Armand in the middle of a sentence, came to Michele and kissed her hand, beaming: "Ma belle Michele, enchante de to voir encore! And how did you and my adored wife get along?"
"Like two sisters, Georges. I think I may come to be good friends with her, believe it or not. She didn't once make a pass at Paul all the time we were there. Of course, I saw to it she couldn't. And she said to tell you she has much information for you on the restaurant show and will be back in a few weeks. She loves San Francisco."
"Good, good! And how is our hero?" Michele made a wry face. "Wasting his vacation playing chess, mon ami. I'm not going to watch him yet it might inflate his ego too much. Instead, could I prevail on you, late as it is, to have Armand prepare me a mushroom omelet? I feel exactly in the mood for that."
"Tout de suite! And a half bottle of Corton Cjar-lemagne to go with it, bien sur. And for dessert, one of Armand's special cherry tarts. Now don't shake your head, I insist. Come, let us go out to the dining room and I will seat you and serve you myself. Tuesday luncheons are never busy, somehow. And I will have a dish of shrimp and a glass of Armagnac and we will chat about Monique, hein?" The man with the Vandyke beard had entered the restaurant a few minutes after Michele and the headwaiter had ushered him to a table. In fluent French, he ordered a salade Nicoise and a glass of Moselle, then lit a Havana panatela as he watched Georges Pretre lead from the kitchen a beautiful honey-haired young woman in a turban and suit coat-skirt ensemble that delineated her piquant charms most fetchingly. A moment later, catching Georges' eye, he beckoned to him, and the amiable owner of the New Delphi hastened to his table. "Bon jour, M'sieu Rigaud. comment ca va?"
"Bien, merci. A question who is that enchanting creature whom you have just left?"
"Alas, M'sieu Rigaud, it devastates me to have to tell you that there is no hope there at all. That is Madame Raymond, wife of the advertising man, the very one who prevented those sales gueles from bombing restaurants like mine because we would not buy our meat at their unreasonable prices."
"I see. A very lovely type, that. But, as you say, there is no hope if she is married."
"Since you are French as I am, M'sieu Rigaud, let me qualify that by adding that it is not only that she is married which in itself would not prevent your trying your little games but that she happens also to love her husband."
"In that case, I am truly desolated. And where do the Raymonds reside?"
"At the Marina Towers, just across the river as you know."
"I am in your debt."
"De rien, M'sieu Rigaud. Enjoy your luncheon."
The man with the Vandyke beard did precisely that. Putting on a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses and opening up an afternoon paper which he had purchased at a newsstand just after getting out of his cab, he concealed himself from Michele, who finished her own modest but delicious lunch and, after going back to the kitchen to compliment Armand on his omelet, left the New Delphi by the kitchen door to walk back to the Marina Towers.
Michele decided to take a long, leisurely nap, then perhaps go back to the New Delphi for dinner with Paul, if he got back in time. And then her loup sauvage was going to devote the rest of the evening to her and catch up on his marital duties. He hadn't, come to think of it, shown her too much attention in San Francisco. Of course, she couldn't be angry with him for that, because she knew he hadn't been with any other woman especially not Monique. And he wasn't going to be able to use chess as an excuse for not joining her in bed tonight; he was playing it every day. Yes, and also come to think of it, in the company of that young sexpot who'd gone back with him on the plane. That Mona Semmring. She had been reading in the papers about Mona. That sort of spoiled young girl was a real menace to a properly married mature man like her Paul. She would be glad when the tourney was over and Mona took her slinky self back to San Francisco.
The bearded man whom Georges Pretre had addressed as M'sieu Rigaud made tactful inquiries at the lobby desk of the Marina Towers. He had, it appeared, found a letter which a charming young woman had dropped out of her purse, a Madame Raymond. Would it be possible to know where Madame Raymond stayed here?
Ah, on the 48th floor? No, he would telephone her and arrange to bring over the letter; he wished to meet her. He was the head of a new modeling agency and was struck by her beauty; perhaps she would be kind enough to pose for his pupils and show them what grace and balance really meant. With suave, polished thanks, he left the dowdy, middle-aged woman clerk in charge of the Marina Towers desk wishing a miracle would turn her into a young, big-tittied, warm-pussied female who could attract a magnetic man like that one. But before he left, he nonchalantly wandered over to the grilled door which locked off the bank of elevators, studying the lock, watching as one tenant brushed by with a glare to put his key in the lock and open the door. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. A skeleton key could fit that, he was sure. Bud Tolby and Kenny Hammond would pay a visit to this Madame Raymond, once he had made sure the lady's husband wouldn't be around to hamper their interrogation. He wanted to know how it happened that the wife of a man who had once been involved putting down the syndicate's activities had found out the password at the Sphinx. And he had a feeling she would tell Bud and Kenny, even if she didn't want to. The young men were crude but effective. You had to make use of the tools you had to work with in this business, more was the pity. And speaking of tools, he would really have liked to be there with the boys to put his tool into Madame Raymond's soft little con. But, of course, that was out of the question. If he wanted to keep on being known as Pierre Rigaud, owner of an import shop on South Wabash Avenue which had opened in Chicago about eighteen months ago, he had to stay in the background. However, with his connections, he could readily find out about Madame Raymond's husband. All he had to do was determine what the schedule of the tournament was to be. The rest would be easy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MICHELE WAS VERY PUT OUT WITH HER LOUP sauvage. He had telephoned her from the hotel, wakened her from a perfectly wonderful dream in which she had been wearing her new negligee and he had been taking it off very slowly licking every inch of bare skin as it retreated from her body. And what had he had to tell her? Nothing except that he was going to stay there most of the evening to play another game, because the tournament director had changed the schedule. Zut alors! He hoped to be back at midnight; the game would start at seven-thirty, and he would try to make a quick draw, whatever that meant. So she had made a grimace at the phone after hanging up, hid away the new negligee he wouldn't see it tonight and decided to have a lonely dinner down in the restaurant on the main floor of the building. There was no reason to dress and go out, even to the New Delphi.
Paul Raymond wasn't too happy about two rounds of play in one day either. Michele had sounded very cross on the phone, and he could foresee a lengthy argument ahead when he got home. But he had to go on with the tourney, if only as a point of honor. He was paired against a bushy-haired young expert from Milwaukee, and had the black pieces. Mona, he noted, was to play Greta Golding.
He forced himself to concentrate, and by nine o'clock, had a slightly better position. Mona had agreed to a quick draw with the titleholder, a handsome gray-haired woman in her early forties from New York City. That gave Mona three and a half points, lagging still half a point behind her older rival. Mona packed up her board and set and vanished from the room. He shrugged and turned back to his game. An hour later, he had won a pawn with a neat little combination and was headed for a win that would take another hour if he was lucky. Sometimes, dogged players like his opponent would stretch out a game and wait for an adjournment, after four full hours of play. That meant you would have to finish the game a day or so later, after you'd played a regular round, and you'd have to analyze the heldover game and worry about how to play it. If he wanted to get back home to Michele before she went to sleep, he'd better do his best to make his man resign.
At about ten-thirty, two men got out of a black limousine and walked slowly towards the State Street entrance of the Marina Towers. One of them was tall, with a pockmarked face, sparse light brown hair, shifty, watery blue eyes and angular jaws; the other was black-haired, sallow-faced, short and squat. The latter peered into the big glass window that looked into the lobby, nodded to his companion, who delved into his trousers pocket and took out a keyring with three keys on it.
"We're in luck. Nobody's at the desk right now, Kenny," the squat man muttered, glancing up and down the deserted street.
"Great! I'll go ahead, open the door, then you join me fast. We'll go up together."
"What if the desk clerk shows?"
"Look, the big boss said this place is one of them exclusive dumps, see? If a guy's got a key, he gets in. Otherwise, he don't. Are you gonna stand here arguin' all night?"
The two men moved forward, through the main door, past the mail desk and on to the grilled door. The taller man inserted one of the keys, glancing around; it didn't work, he swiftly tried the second. The tumblers lifted, the door swung slowly open. "Toldja! Let's go 48th floor."
"Yeah, but which apartment?"
"The boss found out there's a sign on every floor with the people's names on it and their apartment numbers, stupid. Get in fast, the joker that runs the desk's coming back!" The two men slipped into the first elevator; the squat man pressed the button for the 48th floor, the door slid silently into place, and a whirring sound was heard.
Michele had decided not to wait up for her chessplaying husband. She had talked to Renee long-distance a little while ago. Monique was getting bored that figured. There hadn't been anything really good on TV, and it wouldn't hurt to get a good night's sleep. She put on shortie pajamas, without sleeves and legs down to the knee. It was a warm, sultry night. She'd leave the balcony doors open so the air would come in. There, that was better. It was nearly eleven o'clock. She hoped Paul would be quiet when he got home. And he'd just better not try waking her up for Vamour; she wasn't in the mood at all.
She went into the bedroom, drew off the cover. She almost wanted to sleep naked, it was so unseasonably humid out. But if she did, her loup sauvage would certainly take advantage of her. She grimaced with annoyance. What a way to spend a vacation! Here she'd cut her stay with Renee purposely short to be alone with her love, and all he could do was play chess. Mor-dieu, it was more than a healthy girl could stand, especially a girl who had once been a poule in Paris.
She turned out the bedroom light and with a sigh, clambered onto the big wide bed. Just then, the buzzer sounded. Oh no he'd forgotten his key. Now that was the very last straw!
Petulantly thinking what she'd say when she opened the door, something that would really wither him, she shoved her dainty feet into sandals and walked to the living-room door, turned the lock and opened the door. "So you " she began. She never finished. A tall, pockmarked man pushed the door open, making her stumble back; and before she could so much as scream, a squat black-haired man had clapped one hand over her mouth and was showing her a switchblade in the other. "One peep, sister, and I'll cut you down to your shorthairs I mean it. Now back up and let's go into the bedroom for a nice quiet little chat, see?"
Michele Raymond was pale and trembling. She'd never seen the men before, she didn't know how they could have possibly got in without a key. All she could think was, Mon Dieu, it's like the way it was in Paris, when those awful Arabs pushed their way into our place and then Paul Raymond crushed out his cigarette, studied the board, glanced impatiently at the big electric wall clock, and decided. Taking hold of a rock, he moved it to the seventh row, said softly "Check!" and touched the button of his half of the double clock. His opponent squinted, glanced at his own clock, then reached out his hand towards his threatened king. Then he looked up with a furtive little smile: "That does it, I'm afraid. Nice game. A pleasure to lose like that I learned something. Say would you like to analyze? I think maybe where I went wrong was my 20th move you remember, where I ex-exchanged rook's pawn instead of moving my bishop?"
Ordinarily Paul Raymond could have sat there all night speculating on what could have happened if thus and so had been played. But tonight, he didn't want any postmortems at all. He wanted to get back to Michele and make his peace with her. He knew the tone of her voice only too well after all these years. It was just a few minutes after ten-thirty. And if he got a cab and they made good time, he could be home by eleven. So he rose, shook hands, then said, "Sorry. I'd sure like to, but my wife's not feeling too well and I better get home to her. Maybe we can look it over again tomorrow evening, after the round."
So now he had an even score after seven rounds, three and a half points, equal with Mona Semmring's score, and she was ranked as a master, well above him. That was enough to make him feel pretty good. But, he didn't know why, something kept nagging at him to get home quickly. He scribbled his name on the score-sheet, got his opponent to sign it, then looked around for Koltranoff. The official moves had to be turned in to the tournament director at once, that was the rule. His friend was standing at the back of the room, in whispered conversation with Greta Golding. He walked over to them, and Koltranoff caught sight of him and smiled: "Well, how'd it go?"
"A win, George. That's three and a half."
"Congratulations! Who knows, you might even be paired against Mona tomorrow. I'll have to get to work right away on the pairings for the eighth round. See you tomorrow, Miss Golding. 'Night, Paul."
He waved his hand and strode out towards the hotel lobby. Now to get a cab and get home fast.
"Hey, Kenny, we got ourselves a cute chick here," the squat sallow-faced man chuckled lewdly as he made a playful jab with his switchblade at Michele's contorted, terrified face, keeping his other fat hairy hand tightly clamped over her mouth so she couldn't scream. "Looks like findin' out what she's gotta say's gonna be fun. Hey, wouldja git a gander at them sexy pajamas the bitch's wearin'! "
"Yeah," the tall pockmarked man breathed, licking his thin lips, "and I'll just bet she looks a helluva lot better with 'em off, hey, Bud? Let's take her into the bedroom!"
"You heard Kenny, sister. Now you just move nice and easy, and remember, this pigsticker's right close by if you try to yell, see? "the squat man moved agilely, for all his bulk, directly behind Michele, keeping his left hand pressed over her mouth, the knife in his right hand held at the back of her neck; he let her feel the touch of the sharp point to punctuate his words: "Now start movin'! "
Michele was perspiring in her nauseating fear, which cramped the pit of her stomach. Her gray-green eyes were huge and humid with the physical repugnance and terror which she felt. The tall man moved alongside of her, staring at her magnificent titties, which had begun to rise and fall with an accelerated tempo. Tentatively, he put out a hand and brushed the peak of one of them, and she moaned.
"C'mon, bitch, move, I said," the man with the knife growled. Then to his companion, "Wait till we git her in the bedroom, then you can feel her up all you want, and so can I."
Once inside the bedroom, the tall man groped for the light switch and found it. "There, that's better. Okay, Bud, let her talk. Now listen, sister, one yap outta you and Bud'll carve his initial on your ass and titties, and that'll just be for a starter, get me?"
"Y yes." Michele's voice was a trembling whisper. She glanced nervously behind her to see the gleaming switchblade in Bud's hand, and shuddered.
"That's bein' real smart. Okay, doll, s'pose you start by tellin' Bud and me what you wuz doin' in the Sphinx."
"The the Sp hinx?" Michele quavered, not comprehending, dazed as she was.
The pockmarked man calmly backhanded her across the cheek, making her stumble backwards and utter a stifled cry of mingled pain and indignation. "Don't stall, bitch! The drug store, where you gotcher cigarettes."
"B but I just happened to go in there for them, that's all. I I was in the little pastry shop next door and and found I was out of cigarettes, so I went there to buy some. Why are you doing this? How did you get in here without a key?"
"We'll ask the questions, bitch, and you'll do the answerin', see? So you just happened to be by, huh? Yeah, well, I ain't buyin' that, bitch, and neither will the boss."
"B boss? Who are you, what do you want of me?"
"The right answer, and you sure as shit better come up with it, less'n you want Bud to work you over with his knife. I once seen him carve up a redhead real nice and nifty. Peeled the skin right off her tits without cuttin' the nipples off, he did. Taught her a good lesson not to cheat the boss. So you better start rememberin' why you happened to be by the Sphinx, givin' the password, then pretendin' you didn't know what you wuz buyin', see?" The man called Kenny came closer, drawing back his right fist, his lips curled back to bare jagged, nicotine-stained teeth.
" P-Password? But I don't understand what you mean. I know nothing about any password."
"You stupid bitch you!" Again Kenny lashed out with his hand, but, as before, struck her with the back and with the hand open rather than a fist. "That can of tobacco goes just to them customers what gives the password, that's the boss's orders, bitch. And you said it, only the boss figgers you ain't no customer. So what's your game?"
"Oh I understand." Michele tried to utter a nervous little laugh, but it stuck in her throat."
"But I swear I didn't know what it was all about. I I dropped my pruse and I I said something, I don't know what it was, and then the man behind the counter wanted to give me that tobacco instead of the cigarettes I'd asked for. That's all I know."
"Mebbe you kin con a dope inta buyin' that yarn, bitch, but not the boss," Kenny snarled. "Bud, I think you'n me better work this bitch over a little. Start by takin' off them pajamas, baby! Quick!"
"Oh pi please you, you're making a dreadful mistake! I told you all I know, and it's the truth! Please get out of here my my husband's going to be home and " Michele stammered, her voice tremblingly unsteady.
"We know where your hubby is, bitch and he ain't gonna help you none either. Now git them pajamas off, or do we hafta take 'em off fer ya?" Kenny snarled.
"It'd be more fun that way for sure, Kenny," the squat man with the knife sniggered.
"Yeah," Kenny breathed licking his thin lips and staring avidly at Michele's heaving titties, "it sure would, Bud." With his left hand, he suddenly gripped the back of Michele's slim neck, then with his right caught the tops of the garment at the throat and ripped it viciously off her body, leaving her naked to the waist. With a cry of fright and shame, Paul Raymond's beautiful, honey-haired wife crossed both arms over her titties, but not till both men had seen the luscious naked, exuberant, pear-shaped globes, milky-skinned and satiny, so exquisitely tinted by the narrow dark coral circles of the aureoles and the dainty little pink buds perched so teasingly in the centers.
"Crissake, lookit that sweet bitch," Kenny's voice was raspy with lust, "is she ever stacked! I bet she's got a cunt just my prick's size let's find out, huh, Bud?"
"No, no don't stop it oh please, you're making a terrible mistake, I don't know anything about a password and OHHH!" Michele's voice rose to a shrill cry as Kenny gripped the waistband of her pa jama pants with both hands and brutally tore them down to festoon her slim ankles. As Michele recoiled she felt the prick of the deadly sharp swithblade touch her chink-bone, just above the sinuous ambery groove's beginning as it fissured the resilient hillocks of her voluptuous bare bottom, and she whimpered in terror.
"Yeah! I just know a twat like hers is built to take on cock all night long!" Kenny hoarsely declared. "Git over onto that bed on yer back, bitch. Me'n Bud's gonna fuck you first, just to show you we mean business. An if you don't come un with the right answer by then, he's gonna use that knife. Maybe he'll start by shavin' off your twat hair, baby. Then he'll open up your ass-cheeks 'n see if you got any hairs sprouting outa that cute li'l bumhole. An' then-" he smacked his lips to suggest indescribable delights. "G'wan," his face hardened, "git over on the bed!"
There was no help for it. Again she felt the point of the switchblade graze her chinkbone. Michele fought to retain her sanity,; a scream wouldn't be heard, and they'd cut her, maybe even kill her, if she tried it. No, she had to do what they wanted. But what about Paul? Oh God, if he were to come home right now and walk in and not be warned that one of them had that awful knife they'd kill him sure. Oh, what could she do? If if they did it to her quickly, maybe maybe they'd see she wasn't trying to lie to them, and maybe they'd leave. Yes. She had to surrender herself, just as she'd done with those three dreadful Arabs back in Paris.
"All all right," she whispered, her legs unsteady as she moved slowly towards the huge double bed. "J just d don't hurt me, please. I swear I don't know a thing about your password. I I won't re resist I-I'll let you do what you want, if you'll just believe me and go away, please."
"Hey, d'ja hear that, Bud?" the pockmarked man was fumbling with the zipper of his pants, "the bitch don't mind layin' fer us. Mebbe her old man don't give that cute fluffly little snatch'a hers what it needs, huh?"
"Yeah, mebbe. Only I'm first in her twat, Kenny, I been with the organization longer'n you see? 'N I got the knife, don't fergit that, buddy."
Kenny glared at his partner, then shrugged. "Okay, okay, Bud, don't git sore. There's plenty left for my cock when you git done fuckin' that sweet bitch's little cunt. You go ahead. Gimme the knife'n lemme watch. I'll see she don't try to git outa spreadin' her legs fer ya."
The squat man sniggered, nodded, handed Kenny his switchblade. Swaggering over to the bed, on whose edge Michele had hesitantly seated herself, a hand over her pussy, the other arm crooked over panting titties, he put the flat of his right hand against the valley of her luscious bubbies and pushed hard, toppling her onto her back on the bed. "That's the way I like to see a dame. Now open them legs up good, or I'll have Kenny cut his initials on the insides of them sweet legs, way high up near that cute little twat I'm gonna poke right now, hear?" he huskily avowed.
Opening his zipper he bared a violently stiff prick with a broadly oblong head set off from the bulging shaft by a wide, shallow circumcisional groove; then, kicking off his shoes, got onto the bed and flung himself upon Michele's unresisting, naked body. In her aversion, the honey-haired wife of Paul Raymond turned her face to one side and closed her eyes, her fists clenched on either side of her. His trousers were of some scratchy material, like corduroy, and rasped against her bare thighs and belly, making her wince. She felt the hot rigidity of his cock jab against her inner thigh, just at its juncture with the satiny-soft tender groin, and held her breath. If only Paul were here instead, being masterful and forceful and spreading her legs and fucking her, how thrilling it would be! Sometimes a woman liked to be dominated, to be taken by force, to be fiercely fucked by the man she loved!
"C'mon, Bud," Kenny whined," don't take all night feelin' her up. Fuck her so's I kin git my innings in her twat!
"Shaddup, ya jerkoff!" Bud growled, his face flushed and contorted with rut, "she ain't goin' nowhere, an' we got lotsa time. The boss said them dopes play that stinkin' chess till midnight, and the Belmont's way on the North Side, take him half an hour at least ta make it by cab after that. Relax 'n enjoy it you too, sister, 'cai se I'm gonna meltcher ice'n have you beggin' for more fuckin'! "
Plunging one hand into Michele's honeygold hair and twisting his fingers to tilt back her head and gasp with pain at the twinging of her scalp, he slid his right hand under her velvety bare bottom and squeezed one of the cheeks luxuriously, while he squirmed himself till the broad, naked, obscenely pink head of his sizable prick was prodding against the dark golden fleece that shielded Michele's soft cunthole. "You feel what I got to work with, bitch? God, yer dry as a well in Arizona in the summer! I sure bet your old mans been passin' up pussy for that silly game, huh?"
Michele winced and squirmed uneasily; her ravisher's remark was, alas, all too true. If only Paul hadn't put that silly tournament ahead of her, he'd be home right now, doing to her what this smelly, fat, greasy brute was going to do. Ugh ohh, she could feel his cockhead pry open the lips of her little con. She ground her teeth and tried to twist her face away, tried to force out of her mind the loathing she felt, the nausea and shame. The muscles of her satiny pale milky thighs flexed and jerked with instinctive revolt as Bud shoved his cockhead well inside the soft dainty pink lips of her cunthole, and entered the inner sanctorum of her vaginal sheath. At the side of the bed, Kenny leaned forward, eyes bulging with lustful excitement at what he saw, gripping the switchblade in his right hand, his own stiff prick thrust straight out of his open fly. It was leaner, seemed longer than his crony's; the head wasn't so broad, but the shaft was long, broadening near the scrotum.
"Goddam, she's got a sweet, tight twat, jist the kind I wanna fuck all night," Bud panted as he crammed himself into Michele's warm lovechasm to the very balls. She was passive under him, face still averted, eyes tightly shut, lips compressed, her fists digging into the sheets. "Cold as ice, huh? Lessee what makes ya tick, bitch!" he sniggered. His left hand shifted under the bottom-cheeks, his forefinger slipped into the sinuous warmly humid shadowy cleft that separated them, found the dainty crinkly rosette of her ass-hole and shoved between the puckering rosy-pink lips. Michele uttered a choking: Non! Pas ca you filthy beast get it over with!"
"I thought she'd wake up when I honeyholed her with my finger, Kenny," the squat man sniggered. "She's a randy little whore, this one is, when you git to findin' out how to work her up. Yeah, baby, I'm gonna cuke your twat till you gush down all your hot cream!"
"Goddamit it, Bud, quit braggin' and hose her off so's I kin git inside there," Kenny peevishly complained, "my dong's fit to burst!"
"Jack off, if you can't wait," Bud lewdly rejoined as he grinned at his naked, tensing victim, then gouged his foregfinger in up to the knuckle; convulsively, Michele's voluptuous milky satiny body jerked and a stifled groan broke from her. "Me'n cutie here got fuckin' to 'tend to, Kenny. Jist watch how it's done, you'll learn something. These sassiety dames are all alike peel 'em down, goose 'em 'n fuck 'em right, they'll shake their imagine asses like any two-dollar whore on Clark Street!" With this, twisting the fingers of his left hand in Michele's rumpled, honey-gold hair, he forced her to turn her face back to his and chuckled, "I wanna have you look at the guy that's cukin' you, bitch! You feel my prick stuffed up your tight little cooze, huh? Gittin' hot'n bothered some by now, ain'tcha, baby? Okay, hold on tight, I'm gonna fuck the sweet shit outta yer twat, yeah, then mebbe fuck it back through yer cunt outa yer little brownie!"
With this hoarse-voiced boast, the squat man drew himself back, then lunged, his thick-headed cock foraging vigorously down to the finite depths of Michele Raymond's pulsing cunny, and the naked blonde captive winced at the crude vigor of his furrowing; the muscles of her bottom-cheeks spasmodically clenched and flexed, trying to repel his imbedded finger, which he now began to wriggle to and fro, sadistically peering into her flushed, tensed, lovely face to calculate the erotic effect he was achieving over her. But the very beauty of her body and features, the thrill of feeling her warm tight cunt grip his impaling harpoon, the feel of her assmuscles closing and nipping against his dug-in finger, undid Bud's boastful plans for demonstrating his full prick-prowess. Suddenly he uttered a groan, raising his head, and then, with a violent oath, dug himself in her to the balls and writhed upon her as the earthquake of hot spunking come overtook him.
"Goddam, I only jist started in her and she took it away, Kenny," he disappointedly gasped. "Hold yer horses, I'm gonna try'n make her come, too."
"No, you ain't, Bud. I'm gonna cuke her don't fergit, I got the knife!" Kenny warned and put it to the back of his colleague's fat neck.
"Awright, awright," Bud snarled disconsolately, tugging his deflated, viscuously slimed cock out of Michele's quivering cunny sheath. Don't git upset about it. You fuck her, then I got a swell idea we'll double hole the sweet bitch, huh?"
"Now there you gotta brainstorm, guy," Kenny delightedly approved as he got onto the bed and, touching the tip of the knife to one of Michele's rosebud-tittiebuds, added warningly, "Just relax, bitch, it's my turn now. You hear what Bud jist said? We're gonna make your two holes one when I get through cukin' you, sister. Now, if you wanna be smart 'n 'fess up whatca know about that password at the Sphinx, we'll give it to you nice'n easy, till you gush down your kittycream. Otherwise, we're gonna work you over till yer hubby won't recognize ya any more, hear?"
"I I swear I'm telling the truth," Michele gasped through tightened lips, as she turned her crimsoned, tearstained face away from her brutal ravishers.
Kenny shrugged. "Suits me fine, bitch. Jist as soon give you the works as not. Now, hand me a towel er somepin, Bud. Think I want to fuck in a buttered bun? You musta spunked her with a quart'a gism betcha you won't have none left when you try twoholin' her, haw haw haw!" The squat man took out a dirty handkerchief, mopped his dangling greasy prick, then tossed it to Kenny, who was lying on his side towards Michele, the knife still aimed at one of her nipples. The pockmarked assailant caught it deftly in his other hand, then mopped Michele's moist pink cunt lips, sniggering as he crammed it just inside the soft twitching cunnypetals. "There, bitch, see what good care we're takin'a yer itchy li'l twat? Even yer own hubby couldn't do it any better. Now," he flung the sodden handkerchief to the floor, "Let's you'n me fuck!"
He tossed the swichblade to the foot of the bed, adding, "Grab it, Bud, and see she don't try nuttin'! Boy, am I gonna fuck this uppity li'l piece 'a cuke meat!"
With a lewd chuckle, he knead apart Michele's unresisting naked thighs, his hands greedily clutching both her panting pearfirm titties, and his mouth came down hard on hers and she closed her eyes and stiffened with repugnance at the lecherous fury of his glittering eyes, the lust-flushed tint of his evil, saturine pockmarked face. She felt his prick rub along the tender inside of her left thigh, then prod at the chafed pink of her ravaged cunthole, and again she clenched her fists, digging her nails into her sweating palms, resolved to give her ravishers no sign of sexual response that would heighten their own ruthless lust.
Paul Raymond got out of the cab, flung the driver a five-dollar bill. "Keep it!" he called back over his shoulder as he strode towards the main entrance door of the Marina Towers. The nightclerk waved a hand in greeting to him. "Hi there, George. Last chess tournament I ever play it keeps you up practically all night," he said as he unlocked the grilled door, walked into the first elevator and pressed the button for his floor.
The door slid open and Paul Raymond walked towards the door of his apartment, key readied in his right hand. He'd better be as quiet as a mouse, in case Michele had gone to sleep. He didn't feel like a lengthy argument. The two rounds of chess, the physical energy expended together with the puzzling, nagging little questions about Mona's curious conduct had exhausted him. Right now, he didn't even want to think about the game tomorrow, which as Koltranoff had suggested, might be against Mona Semmring herself.
The door opened silently and Paul Raymond tiptoed in, then froze as he heard the unexpected sounds of a man's voice, hoarse and thick: "C'mon, bitch, wriggle that sexy ass'a yers. Bud workedcha up, now lemme see some real pussy action.! "
And then he heard the smack of flesh on flesh, and a stifled gasp which he recognized as Michele's. He didn't have a gun, but there on the little hallway table, was a hammer and a box of tacks; he'd put them there this morning to remind himself to tack up some advertising posters on the big bulletin board that stood against the wall in his screened-off section of the combination living room-dining room. Holding his breath, he grabbed hold of the hammer, wishing it was five times its size, and tiptoed towards the bedroom, just as the hoarse, thick voice exclaimed, "Goddam, Bud, she's got the goosiest ass I ever fingered I got dibs on her brownie when we start doubleholin' this sexy little piece'a twat!"
He came through the doorway, hammer drawn back in his right hand, and, for an instant, goggled at what he saw. The squat man who'd fucked Michele first was leaning over the head of the bed, his stiff cock sticking out of his open fly, licking his lips, one hand twisted in Michele's honeygold curls. A tall man was lying over her, bare milky legs spread on either side of his wiry body, and his sinewy buttocks were jerking as he shoved himself back and forth into her cuntsheath. His hands were kneading her titties, his mouth slavered at her panting throat. Michele's face was screwed up into a rictus of utter loathing, and her fists dug into the rumpled sheets.
It was the man called Bud who saw him first. "Hey, Kenny, her hubby jist walked in let's nail him!" and he made a lunge for the foot of the bed where the switchblade knife lay open and menacing, its sinister sharp long blade glittering under the ceiling light. But just as his hand closed over the weapon, Paul Raymond slashed down with the little hammer, and Bud screamed, clutched his wrist in his other hand and stumbled back.
With an oath, Kenny flung himself off Michele's sprawled nakedness and came at Paul Raymond. Dodging the hammer swipe, he kicked up, and the hammer dropped from Paul's numbed fingers. Then Kenny was grappling with him. Bud, screaming in pain, was leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes revulsing with the agony of a shattered wrist. "Get that knife, Michele, for God's sake," Paul Raymond called to his wife, as he rolled over and over on the floor with Kenny. The pockmarked assailant knead him in the belly, stumbled to his feet and ran into the combination room as Paul stumbled to his feet and went after him. He grabbed Kenny by the shoulder, whirled him round and crashed a right hook to his jaw. Kenny swore and caught him with a left uppercut that snapped Paul's head back; again they grappled, and, having a momentary advantage of attack, the taller man tried to force Paul back towards the open balcony with its chest-high rail that looked out on the Chicago River below and the twinkling lights of the Loop beyond. Bud, still whimpering with pain, had edged out of the bedroom and now, seeing his chance as Michele, still dazed from her fuckings, was clambering out of bed and staggering towards the fallen knife on the floor, scurried for the front door and slammed it in his wake as he mouthed curses of agony and fumbled for the elevator button with his good hand.
Once again Kenny tried to knee him, but Paul Raymond had anticipated it; swerving to one side, he caught the man off balance, bent and, tucking an arm under his crotch and the other round his waist, lifted him up, staggered forward and with all his might, hurled Kenny over the rail. A wild, hideous scream was heard, dying away. Paul Raymond, panting, aching, trembling with reaction, stumbled forward, gripped the rail and looked down.
Kenny hadn't fallen into the river. The trajectory hadn't been far enough; instead, his smashed-to-a-pulp body, or what was left of it, made a dark ominous stain on the stone pilings a few feet from the murky, silent river.
Paul Raymond closed his eyes and drew a long shuddering breath. Then he went to the front door and locked it. Michele, a robe round her nakedness, stood leaning against the wall near the front door, her eyes huge and shadowed.
He came to her, took her in his arms and kissed her gently, holding her tight, feeling her svelte naked body shudder and tremble against him.
"My poor, sweet," he soothed, "I wish to hell I'd never thought of chess. How did it happen?"
Briefly, she told him; told him of the men's curious insistence about the password. The presentiment he'd had ever since he'd boarded that plane in San Francisco with pampered young Mona Semmring began to crystallize now, but there were still a few pieces of the puzzle missing. He told her what he was thinking, and then kissed her and said tenderly, "Want me to phone a doctor, darling? Those bastards worked you over and I'll call the police. I think I smashed the other guy's wrist. They'll pick him up and then we'll find out who's behind all this."
But Michele was smiling wanly now as her arms linked round his neck. She nuzzled at his cheek, and her robe was gaping so that her naked, lovely body was bare to him. "Before you do anything at all, ma'amour," she was whispering, "I want you to finish what they started. And it's only right you should, you vaurien! If you'd been home tonight the way you ought to have been, all this wouldn't have happened."
"You mean "
"I mean," she purred, her gray-green eyes narrowed and luminous as a cat's in heat, her titties rubbing their dark, turgified tips against his panting chest, "je veux que tu me baises vite et forciblement, jusqu'a ce que je finis!"
He stared at her, his cock hardening as he comprehended. Michele had just asked him to fuck her hard and fast till she spent. And before he could say a word, her slim hand had tugged down his zipper, was working his rigid ramrod out of his shorts.
"Mon Dieu," she hissed exasperatedly, "you're supposed to be a clever advertising man. Don't you know what's meant by consumer demand? Take care of it, mon vieux, if you ever expect to play chess again!"
He knew he ought to call the police first. But there wasn't time for that. Not with Michele's slim fingers wrapped round his aching cock, pulling it towards her moist, twitching pink cunt-lips, not with her tongue tip flicking the edges of his quivering mouth, not with her hard-as-flint tittiebuds rasping against his still heaving chest.
He did what he had to do; he thrust home, impaling her to his balls, forcing her back against the wall. His hands grabbed for her bare bottom-cheeks and held on tight so she couldn't fall. He felt her cuntwalls tense and tremor against his immobilized, hilted prick, and knew again the marvelous rhythmic urgency that made her, of all women he had ever fucked, the most coveted, the most beloved. It wasn't the mechanics of fucking alone that made voluptuous Michele so priceless to his well-being as a man; it was the unanimity of their thoughts and hopes and fears and joys, expressed by flesh as by the spirit. His mouth crushed hers, and her tongue eagerly slithered to meet his as he began the timeless synchronization of prick to willing, rapacious, soft ardent cunt, feeling her juices rise to be ready for his own expulsive tribute.
The spasm that shook them both was savage, primal, thoroughly appeasing. She didn't have to brood about his lack of zest for what she had to offer, Michele Raymond knew. All that piqued her now was that he didn't do this sort of thing nearly enough. And, Ventre St. Gris, it was too much wear and tear on a girl to have to be fucked and buggered by strangers before her own husband accommodated her itching, squirmy bedtime needs!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE EIGHTH BOUND OF THE U. S. NATIONAL OPEN Chess Championship at the Belmont Hotel was due to start at two o'clock. Paul Raymond had managed to get a fair night's sleep in spite of the unscheduled activity in his apartment the night before. Directly after he had shown Michele that a flesh and blood queen still held considerably more temptation for him than a wooden one, he'd phoned the police, and then a man from the Federal Bureau of Narcotics whose confidential name and phone number Dan Vanderberg of the Post Office customs division had given him last Monday. And then he had put in another call to San Francisco to chat with Jack Munson, who, it appeared, had found out a good deal in a single day. A report was being mailed airmail special registered in the morning, Munson told him.
Michele, grumbling at the waste of time, had gone off to visit old Dr. Ascher Jacobson, the Raymond's family doctor since their marriage, at Paul's insistence that he didn't want to worry whether the two thugs who'd fucked her had given her a dose or hurt her internally. She didn't want him to play chess any more, but he persuaded her that now, more than ever, he had to; now that his suspicions had been validated by what he'd just found out, it was essential to go through with the affair till its finite end. The police had let him know that Bud Tolby and Kenny Hammond were well known in the Windy City. Tolby had been picked up at his .apartment on the West Side when a doctor he'd called in to splint his broken wrist remembered hearing a police bulletin on the newscast; Kenny Hammond's pulped corpse had been identified by a wallet in his pants. Both men had been arrested on narcotics charges which had never stuck, but each had minor prison records for criminal assault and battery. They apparently had been working as troubleshooters for the ring of dope pushers that had been reported operating in the area.
So, promptly at two that Wednesday afternoon, Paul Raymond seated himself at a table in the main salon. Mona Semmring, delicious in a green silk blouse with short sleeves and white shirred and pleated skirt descending just to her rounded knees, looked up and smiled delightedly. "How very nice!" she purred. "We meet again, Paul darling!"
"I've been hoping we'd meet this way, Mona baby," he told her as he adjusted the ivory chess pieces, glanced at his blank score sheet and carefully wrote down her name as the player with the white pieces and his own as that of the black forces. "I'm going to try to beat the pants off you."
"Silly darling," she giggled huskily as she wrote on her own score sheet, "you know you don't have to do that. I'll take them off of my own free will whenever you want. Maybe after the game?"
"Could be. Well, any time you're ready, I'm at your disposal."
She glanced round to make sure nobody could overhear, then pertly whispered: "For chess or fucking, Paul lover?"
"For both. Do your worst!" Her dark blue eyes fixed on his blandly emotional face. Then she reached out, picked up the king's pawn and moved it two squares forward, wrote the move down on her score sheet, and punched her clock. Instantly he replied with the same move. She took no longer to move her king's knight to its bishop's third square, and he responded with the identical move. Mona sat back now, frowned delicately, her lovely eyebrows arching. "A Petroff, hm?" she mused softly. "The old U. S. champion Frank Marshall, and Harry Pills-bury too, used to play that a lot for Black. But it's really inferior."
"That has to be proved over the board, baby." She flashed him an angry glance as she reached for her knight, took off his king's pawn with it, then punched her clock. "I told you never to call me that, Paul," she hissed.
"You've told me a lot of things, Mona. I wonder how many of them are really true. But this game will help me find out." He pushed his queen's pawn up one square, and Mona promptly retreated her knight to the square on which it had been before her capture of the pawn. Then Paul Raymond's knight took her king's pawn, and the game pursued the standard course known to books on opening theory for the past thirty years.
He played slowly and carefully. Usually, even in a tourney, he liked to play his moves quickly and then do his thinking while his opponent's clock was running. But this afternoon, as never before, he wanted to draw out the game, maybe even to an adjournment at six, because he had a plan in mind. A plan that would solve once and for all the juxtaposition of so many little pieces of this gigantic puzzle in which he instinctively felt Mona Semmring was critically and focally involved.
By five o'clock, each of them had played thirty moves. Queens had been exchanged a dozen moves before, and now it was a long and grueling endgame in prospect for them both. Drawing on all his skill, all his remembrance of games of the masters which he'd played over to while away an evening, Paul Raymond found always the best move each time it was his turn to play. Great Golding, sitting at the table to their left, was winning her game from a Oregon master in his middle fifties, a stolid but methodically sound player, who, this once, had overreached himself by thinking that a woman couldn't have the brains to see through a mediocre little trap; Greta had, and was certain, two pawns ahead, to win her game and increase her lead over Mona Semmring for the title.
Half an hour later, Mona rose, her face drawn and perspiring. She hadn't whispered or ogled or flirted with him since their tenth move. She had begun to realize that he wasn't seeing her as a fuckable piece of cunt, but as an opponent who had to be beaten, and so she had sat there all afternoon, brows knitted, lips tight in grim concentration. From time to time, as he continued to play better than she had believed he could, she had sent him a hostile glance that spoke in no way of the episode on the couch in her hotel suite.
It was his move now. She'd gone off to the powder room. Now, free of her distracting, delicious presence, he could concentrate. Each of them had a bishop of the same color that is, a bishop which moved in a white diagonal, not a black and five pawns and a king. Let's see. If he pushed his queen's bishop's pawn, she'd have to move her king up to prevent a key move from his bishop. But if he drew his bishop back one square, she'd have to make a weakening pawn move. Later on, his king could move over to that side and snatch the weakened pawns. Yes, that was what he'd do. He drew back the bishop slowly. Somewhere, a flashbulb exploded a newspaper cameraman was taking a shot of Gregorevich playing Robert Corey; the noise had made Paul Raymond start and the bishop fell from his hand onto the stone floor. He leaned down to pick it up, and felt the bottom move. That was funny. They were supposedly handcarved in a single piece. Still leaning down beneath the table, he examined the ivory figurine. The green felt-padded bottom had apparently come off, and inside the hollow of the piece itself, he could see a tiny pliofilm packet. He took a pencil from his lapel pocket and worked it out, then screwed the base back onto the figurine, pocketing the little packet. Then he punched his clock, wrote down his move, B-Q3. He heard a murmur of whispers beyond, just past the rope that kept the absorbed spectators from the playing arena. Glancing up, he saw two teenagers pointing to his board and one of them nodding vigorously; the other, catching Paul's eye, made a circle with thumb and forefinger to indicate that he found Paul's move a dandy.
But the most important move of the game had already been made; it was working out that little pliofilm packet. Because, in the brief glance he'd given it, he could see it was full of a scratchy white crystal-like substance, something like Old Dutch Cleanser. And he knew that it was heroin, probably pure and unadulterated. The chess set, made to order in Hong Kong yes, and filled with packets like this one, smuggled through customs because Mona's father was so highly reputable that no one would have suspected his young, socialite, chess-playing daughter.
Mona reappeared, standing beside him and staring down at her own position from his vantage point. She glanced at him, a little, uneasy smile curving her red lips. "Very good. Too good, in fact. You've given me a harder time than anybody else so far, except maybe Alicante."
"I'm going to give you an even harder time, baby," he said airily as he lit a cigarette. Mona caught her breath, was about to reply, then, with a furious look, walked back to her chair, sat down and, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and cupping her cheeks with her soft white hands, studied the position. It was nearly six o'clock, time to adjourn. The procedure was that the player with the move wrote it on a piece of paper, sealed it in an envelope first listing the position of each player and handed the envelope to the tournament director. Then, when the schedule called for playoff of adjourned games, the same player would retrieve the envelope, open it and show it to his opponent as he made the move on the chessboard. At last, with three minutes to go, Mona made her reply; a king move, and exhaled a long tremulous sigh as she rose, a hand to her forehead.
Now he had to make his move and seal it. Her king move made his intended pawn push questionable. But another bishop move, threatened a pawn exposed on the other wing, would cause her to lose a valuable tempo. That was the move to make. Satisfied, he wrote it down, put it in the envelope, and rose to stretch and take a couple of long breaths, then stopped both clocks.
He walked over to George Koltranoff, who smiled, clapped him on the back and took the envelope, put into a drawer. "You're giving my favorite pupil a very hard time, boy," the Belgian master told him, glancing up at one of the wall demonstration boards. Here, so the spectators could see what was going on in the most important games, young volunteers stood around the tables, noted the moves made, then went to the boards on the wall and shifted the pieces to bring everybody up to date. "A very difficult game. You might even have winning chances depending n what move you just sealed. Mona can't afford another loss, not after Miss Golding's win just now."
"No, she can't. Especially the kind of loss I'm going to give her," Paul Raymond said grimly and walked away, leaving Koltranoff to gaze at him with widened eyes.
As he reached the exit, Mona came up to him, put a hand on his arm and whispered, "Darling, I have to see you. Can you come up to my room right now?"
"I think so. Fact is, I've been hoping you'd ask me. Let's go, baby."
She pinched his arm viciously. "Damn you! I told you how I hate that."
"So you have. I see you've got your black Moroccan case along."
"Are you trying to exasperate me, darling?" she forced herself to make her voice sweet and cool. "You know I don't go anywhere without my lucky set."
"That, too, you've told me repeatedly, Mona. Only right now, I've a feeling it's not going to be quite so lucky as you hoped. Here we are. Are you all alone in your room, baby?"
They'd stopped before her door. She slapped his face with her free hand, eyes blazing. "What a filthy thing to say! Of course there's no one there. Do you think I'd invite you up if there was?"
"You just might. Let's find out. Open it up."
Almost savagely, she turned the key in the lock, flung open the door. "See for yourself, Paul!" she snapped. "And now, lock it behind you. I want to talk to you."
"Just talk?" He sauntered over to the couch, lounged back against it, lit a cigarette.
"You're hateful today. I suppose because you think you've played very well, it gives you the right to treat me like this, darling." She put down the case on the chest of drawers against the opposite wall, walked slowly over towards him, stood facing him. "I can be very, very nice to you, dear. I think you know that too."
"Yes, I'll admit it. But I'm curious to know what's on youringenious mind, baby. Spill it!"
"If you'll stop calling me that, I will."
"All right, truce. Now give."
"Paul you, you know I I just have to win the championship. I know I can, if I beat you. Greta Golding tires in the stretch, and at Saranac, if I hadn't been thinking about something else well, about a fellow who wanted me, if you must know I'd have beaten her hollow."
"That's very interesting. Only I don't think you can win our game, Mona. You'll be lucky to draw. I sealed the move of bishop to my queen's knight's fifth. You'll lose a pawn one way or another, unless I miss my guess."
She sat down beside him now, linking her arms round his neck. "Darling, it doesn't mean anything to you. You've done very well so far, but you're really an amateur. But for me, I have to be champion. What's a silly game of chess, after all ? Nothing, for you. But I'm a master and it's my reputation at stake."
"Mine too. Are you suggesting I make a blunder and let you win?"
Her dark eyes fixed his for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Uh huh. I'll make it very much worth your while, sweetheart. Not only me, but cash let's say, in place of the price you might win. But of course you won't. Even if you'd beat me now, you can't possibly stand up to masters like Corey or Braslend or Gregoreich. You don't have the training and practice, but I do."
"So you're bribing me to lose our game, is that it?"
Her lips pressed to his, she tightened her arms round his neck, she arched her superb peartitties to him, whispering huskily, "Isn't it worth it? I'll let you fuck me all you want you can even put it in my little bumhole if you want. Anything. I go for you in a big way, Paul lover. And and the first prize in this tourney is only twenty-five hundred, which you'd never in the world win. I'll give you three thousand besides. How's that for one silly little old game, darling?"
"Not half enough."
"Then, dammit, what do you want?"
He reached into his pocket and held up the packet he'd found in the bottom of his bishop the bishop that was going to win the game for him in more ways than one. "This, and half of the little packets of white powder in the thirty-two pieces of your ivory set from Hong Kong, baby."
"Goddam you to hell, you son of a bitching bastard, I'll kill you!" Vitriolic, eyes blazing, Mona Semmring slid her hand under one of the heavy cushions of the couch, and brought it out with a stiletto. But before she could plunge it into his chest, Paul Raymond caught her wrist and twisted it, then brought up his other fist to the point of her dainty jaw. The stiletto dropped into his lap, and Mona went sprawling onto the floor on her bottom with a scream of pain and rage. The language she poured out at him would have put a Market Street wino to shame. She got to her feet and lunged at him. He caught her by the wrist, twisted it again to bring her to her knees, then flung her down on her back on the floor. Tugging down his zipper, he bared his stiff, bulging prick, and, pinning her with his weight, managed to grip both her wrists in his left hand, he tore at her skirt and petticoat, then wrenched off a pair of dainty white nylon pantiebriefs, to bare her dark-brown-furred cunthole.
"NOOO!" she shrieked, twisting and writhing like an eel.
"Yes, baby," he snapped, "this is for Michele, baby, not for me. See what it's like."
He thrust himself at her; frenziedly, Mona tried to weave her hips away, but she was pinioned; he felt his cockhead pry past the soft lips of her cunthole, and dig forward; then, with a mighty shove, he burrowed to his balls inside her warm tight pussy cavern.
"You'll die for doing this, you filthy son of a bitch," she hoarsely panted. He had gripped her wrists now with both hands and forced her arms beyond her head. Now, mounted, saddled, Mona Semmring could do nothing except grin and bear it.
"Who's going to do the job for you, baby? Pierre Renaud? Alias Pierre Rigaud, the harmless import shop owner on Wabash Avenue is he your boy, baby?"
She spat full into his face, baring her teeth, like a cornered tigress. "Yes, if you want to know, you four-eyed jerk! And you don't get a cut of half a million bucks, you don't even get three grand, you get shit, you bastard you!"
"Why, Mona, baby, what a thing to say," he tauntingly chided her as he lay there with his prick up to the balls inside her cunthole, feeling her try to struggle under him, jerking at her captive wrists. "I thought you loved me. And what was all that softsoap about your friend wanting to have my ad agency do his work, hm?"
"You stupid son of a bitch, a code. The ads would have a word or catch phrase, and the pushers in certain towns where we operate would know when and where the stuff would come in for them to sell," she panted. "How the hell did you find out?"
"You made a couple of slips, baby. You talked about ounces too much. And the Sphinx is a drug store in town where, when you give the password, a customer buys the heroin you and your Pierre have watered down with pablum. A neat racket ... let's see an ounce of pure heroin sells for about $250 in Hong Kong, the boys at the Narcotics Bureau tell me. You cut it, and you wind up with about twenty-five grand. A very juicy profit. Thirty-two times twenty-five grand an ounce at the bottom of every chess piece, Mona, baby, of course adds up to eight hundred grand. Yes, I think I might be tempted for half that take. But it would have to be at least half before I'd even consider it."
like a chameleon, she changed; she arched up her titties under his chest, she raised her face, her lips red and moist and proffered, as she huskily murmured, "All right. I know when I'm beaten, lover. I'll talk to Pierre. He'll cut you in. I know we can make a deal. We can be bigger than ever with you to help, darling. Your advertising will be our code, nobody will find out. Of course, I'll have to make sure my chess pieces don't fall apart that was a very lucky accident. You ought to be grateful for it, or you wouldn't have me and all that money, lover."
"I see. Trouble is, Dorothy Sayers once wrote a book, 'Murder Must Advertise.' It had practically your whole idea in it, and that was thirty years ago, if I recall. Somebody else smarter than I am, baby, will stumble onto your little project."
"Pierre and you, darling, can work it out, I'm sure you can."
She wasn't struggling any more. Her hips were beginning to weave a little, and the walls of her hot tight cunt were clipping and nipping his prick deliciously.
Her eyes were humid pools of dark blue excitement, and her nostrils were opening and closing like the gills of a fish out of water. Mona Semmring was getting hot as a whore alone on a desert island with a hundred marooned French soldiers. "Sure," he said, as he drew back his prick an inch, feeling her shudder under him in exquisite response, "but what about my wife? She needs some compensation, too. I mean, I'm not the sort of husband who lets a future business partner send around two goons to fuck hell out of her cunt."
"Sweetheart, I'm truly sorry. But Pierre didn't know how could he? You only just now said you'd work with us. I I'll have him send her to Rio, all expenses paid how's that." She gave him a passionate kiss, worked her tongue into his mouth. "Then you and I, sweetheart, can be alone together and fuck all we want. In fact, I think Pierre has a kind of yen for your sexy blonde wife. Maybe you wouldn't care if he went to Rio with her, hm? We could run the operation ourselves till they got back."
"Sounds very promising, I'll say that much. Let me think about it."
"For how long, lover?"
"Till I finish fucking you, Mona, baby," he chuckled, and began to do just that. With long viscious thrusts of his aching prick, he stabbed home to the roots inside Mona's quivering love-channel. Moaning, face twisted and flushed, trying to jerk her hands loose, she writhed and gasped. "Oh ohh darling please n not so hard y you're hurting me oh, darling, it's good but but I'm tired from that game please take it easy then it'll be so much nicer for us both, you know ohh, ouch you're tearing me ohh Paul stop it, it hurts now why are owwwww!"
He had dug home with a savage thrust and spattered her quaking cuntwalls with his jet. He pulled out, leaving her sprawled, clothes torn, her stickied cunt-hairs showing, her eyes wide and darkened with pain.
"Now, baby, I think Michele is a little compensated. And to your proposal, the answer is no. I don't want that kind of money. It's dirty, murder money. The worst kind, because if your boy friend Pierre your fianc', isn't he, for all your fine newspaper interviews that you'd broken it off with him if your boy friend, as I said, ran a chain of whorehouses, I'd almost be inclined to take the offer. That at least is honest dough. But not the kind that comes from making sick people sicker, turning a decent guy or dame into a jibbering idiot, so dependent on the stuff they'd kill to get a shot."
"Wh what are you g going to do?" she stammered.
"I'm not going to do anything except make a phone call, baby. The Bureau will do the rest. I found out plenty about you from a private eye friend of mine back in San Francisco. You met Pierre on a cruise, didn't you ? First it was fucking that got you interested in him. Then when you found out he came from Marseilles and was a chemist you got ideas. He had them too, so you two pooled your talents. For all I know, you might even be married to him. The boys at the Bureau are picking him up right now for questioning. I'll tell George Koltranoff you resigned your game, baby. See you in Leavenworth."
"Paul, no, no, darling you, you can have all the money yes, all of it! Turn Pierre over, but they don't suspect me or you! We can be tog-ether, and be rich!" She began to crawl towards him. As she came, she tore at her clothes with her own hands, till she was all naked but for hose, garter belt and pumps. "Look you know you want me darling, I'll be your bitch, anything--. "
"And some dark night I'll wake up with a knife in my guts. I'm keeping this stiletto as a memory, baby. So long. Better get dressed the boys from the Bureau are waiting to hear from me. I'm taking this case with me. It wasn't as lucky as you thought, baby."
He slammed the door behind him just as Mona Semmring uttered the wild shriek of a frenzied, thwarted animal. As he strode to the elevator, her hysterical sobs grew fainter and fainter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS THE DAY AFTER THE CHESS TOURNAMENT. Paul Raymond and Michele were in bed together, naked, her arms wound round his neck, her legs clamped over his backside, exchanging French kisses.
They had just enjoyed a passionate climax, and Paul was lingering in that warm quaking heaven to fortify himself for a second love joust. There wasn't going to be any doubt left in Michele's mind that her loup sauvage was tired of her.
"I'm very proud of you, ma'amour," Michele murmured as she bit his earlobe gently, then slid one hand down to goose him playfully, wriggling so as to fit their pubic hairs together into an inseparable mesh. "Mmmmm, it feels so good and hard. You're still very much a man, even at forty. And to think you broke up that big dope ring all by yourself."
"You helped, darling. You were a decoy I hadn't planned it that way, though, believe me."
"Of course, ma'amour. This time, it wasn't like the Arabs and Paris, hm? But tell me, this wicked Mona, did you fuck her at all? I want the truth, ma'amour."
One thing about bedtime talk, when you were fucking your wife, you somehow were forced to tell the truth. Your cock acted as a kind of lie detector ; and if he got soft now from guilt, Michele would know what had really happened. But a half-truth is better than a lie, so he plunged: "Yes. That evening after our game. But I raped her there's a difference. And I did it to pay her back for what her boy friend's thugs did to you."
"They say she's trying to turn state's evidence to keep from going to jail."
"Yes, she turned Pierre in, all right, told them even more than they knew about him. But it won't help her. She'll get at least twenty years, maybe more."
"Well, then, I forgive you for raping her. Because you won't get to fuck her again. By the time she's out on parole, you won't be man enough, I rather think."
"Now that's a fine thing to say, after what I just did to your sweet pussy Michele!"
"Well, twenty years will make you sixty, ma'amour. Anyway, you'll be busy with other things by then. Such as being a father."
"Well, yes, but that's a long way off. We don't have any kids now, you know, and--. "
Michele Raymond giggled softly, nipped his ear again with her sharp white teeth. "I think we're going to, ma'amour. I didn't take my pills today. On purpose. If Monique can have a baby, so can I. I'm pretty sure that last fuck you gave me did the trick. But if it didn't, we can keep trying tonight. I feel very passionate, you know."
"You you sweet poule you!"
"Mas oui. Oh yes, one other thing. I asked the manager of the building to save us the apartment on the 50fh floor the one the Grantheims are moving out of the first of August. It's bigger. We're going to need it for the family we're starting tonight, you know."
"I've got nothing to say about it, hm?"
"Not really. And for your information, ma'amour, the only kind of pushing you're going to get mixed up with from now on is going to be the kind of pushing I like best your big stiff cock way down deep in my tiny little con. Oooh. Please go on with what you were doing."
"Gladly. like this?"
"Mmmmmmm. More!"
"Well, one thing, I proved I'm a pretty fair chess player. You know, I scored seven and a half points out of fifteen that's a damn good rating for a lowly expert.
"Ma'amour," she said sternly as she dug her fingernails into his behind, "you're going to score zero if you don't start pushing again with everything you've got."
He groaned in mock dismay as he slid himself back in her to his balls. "I can see what you mean about Mona, my angel. Twenty years more of this kind of pushing, and I won't have anything left. You know, .somehow, I don't seem to mind the prospect. Now, then, you sexy little French poule, shake that sweet bottom and let's try for that baby you want. Let's do a really good job. It might be twins!"
