Tuesday was the editor of Playgirl, a naughty magazine for swinging career girls. When she discovered that many of her most avid readers were suburban housewives, she decided that some research was in order. And her suburban hostess decided to show the chic city girl the ins and outs of down-home mate-swapping. Edna, Greg and their friends not only showed Tuesday the ropes, but they tied her up with them, and proceeded to open her eyes to a world of sensuality she would never forget. In the words of Benjamin Morse, M.D., in The Sexual Revolution: "Because of the form of wife-swapping, the organized nature of it, the equation with fun and modernity and liberalism, the wife-swappers have succeeded in transforming a vice into something that seems to be positively virtuous."
I
Tuesday Valerie sighed. Sometimes Edna was almost a bore, and today was one of those times. Probably the wonder was not that such days occurred, but that they only came sometimes. Being a suburban housewife had to be one of the worst exiles a sophisticated woman could suffer. And in this, her first real exposure to suburbia, Tuesday knew that she was not sounding the depths of humdrum that many of her readers experienced. But she was far enough into their culture to be certain she'd go no farther.
An editor-even the editor of Playgirl, which surveys showed had its greatest reader strength among suburban housewives-could only go so far toward sharing the lives and drives of her readers. After all, thought Tuesday, she'd built Playgirl into the magazine that it was without thinking at all about housewives. With its format and content devoted to the problems and amusements the metropolitan career woman encountered, Playgirl's appeal to the suburban housewife had come as a complete surprise to its editor ... and to the publisher.
New York being what it is in the summer, Tuesday had adroitly maneuvered Mr. Quackenbush into approving a first-hand look at this unexpected readership. Then she'd bluntly asked for an invitation from her old schoolmate, and here she was in San Diego, houseguest of the Whortons for a month.
"Don't you agree?" Edna was asking.
"I ... I'm sorry, Edna. I forgot where I was." Tuesday smiled in embarrassment. "I was wondering how Gwen was making out. Today's the deadline for layout approval."
Edna laughed. "Forget it. The cost of living comes in two different languages."
"How?"
"To the career girl, it's her hairdresser and her hose, and the imagine wines she stocks in her apartment kitchen. To me, it's the price of eggs and butter and milk and bread."
"That's not so different."
"Maybe not, but I was talking about something that is. I was asking if you didn't agree that the cleaners and dairies and the gas and electric company ought to give more consideration to personality when they hire their door-to-door people. But it hit me that the career girl doesn't see much of that side of life."
Tuesday felt blank, and from Edna's amused expression she must have looked it.
"There are days when I don't leave the house," Edna explained.
Tuesday was painfully aware of that.
"Some days, the only people I see are delivery men. They could do us housewives a world of good by picking the right kind." Edna sighed. "My last milkman was a jewel, but his kind doesn't show up often."
"Oh! He's the one that ... "
Edna grinned. "He was a goddamn stud, once I got to where I trusted him."
Tuesday winced. She'd remembered Edna's taste in books, clothes and music-and food-but she'd forgotten just how earthy she was. In fact, Edna's sophistication was a sort of mixed-up quality. The fact that she was comfortable in the best company and could hold her own in almost any conversation made one forget that she had grown up in construction camps.
"Anyhow, the rest of your stay should be less boring." Edna glanced at Tuesday with a sudden look of apprehension. "You still like ... I mean ... Well, the parties we used to have in college, and the way we looked at sex ... The philosophy you write into Playgirl is the same. Are you?"
Tuesday hesitated. Was she? She did remember those parties. Couples strewn all over the floor, copulating with an abandon that must have given the impetus of desperation to the scientists who finally perfected "The Pill." Sure! She was being honest when she wrote her "Anything goes" editorials, and picked material to publish that fitted that concept. But she hadn't participated in an honest-to-God orgy since leaving college. She didn't know just how she'd react to one today.
There were men in her life, of course. There were a half-dozen whom she slept with fairly frequently, and every now and then she liked a new one well enough to try him out. Such arrangements were different from the parties, though. There, you took what came, and you had fun, forgetting about whether the guy had anything besides a usable peter. But you did that, when you were young and still experimenting. She wondered if twenty-eight wasn't a little old for that kind of experimentation.
Edna was watching her now, her expression one of frank concern. "You ... you haven't gone and changed, have you?"
Tuesday shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I haven't been to a sex party since we graduated. I guess I've gotten a little shy. I like it better in a quiet apartment . . .just a twosome."
"But you haven't gone all moralistic about it." Edna sounded relieved. "You aren't down on sex."
Tuesday laughed, and it was a good laugh-one that was like unloading. "Of course not! My editorials are honest."
"Good." Edna smiled. "Why don't you take a nap this afternoon? You ought to feel your best tonight."
"You mean you're ... The party's going to be ... Oh, Edna!" Tuesday stared at her friend.
"Well, you came out here to learn how suburbia gets along. How does the poor housewife get her kicks? What makes her want to read your magazine? How come she takes the vows and still spends her money to read about the single girl, and the hunt, and the one-night stands? I figured I ought to give you as much of the picture as I could."
"But, sex orgies?"
'They're part of the scene, Tuesday. Not every suburban couple goes for them, but many do. And some that don't, talk about it." Edna poured herself another cup of coffee. She stirred in her sugar and cream, and shivered. "Besides, they're fun! We've planned a special treat for you."
Tuesday caught Edna's measuring glance, and she couldn't repress an answering shiver. "I ... I don't know what to say. I didn't mean to have you planning extra things."
"We didn't. This was our week, anyhow. With anyone else staying here, we'd have traded turns with someone else in the club, but-"
"Club?" Tuesday's voice sounded weak, and she hated herself for it.
Edna's eyes widened and she gave Tuesday an incredulous grin. "God, honey, it's still not too late to make a trade. I could get the Millers to take it for tonight. You and Greg and I could go out to Shelter Island for dinner, and maybe go to the Fine Arts Theater."
"It's a club?"
Edna nodded. "About eight couples, and a half-dozen stags-five men and three girls. We never have the whole crowd at once, of course, but it makes for variety. But look, Tuesday, maybe I overstepped myself in counting you in. Why don't I call Erline Miller and...? "
"No!" Tuesday wasn't going to look provincial here! Any time a bunch of suburban fraus thought they were more worldly than the editor of Playgirl...!
And yet she was still making it sound like a big deal. She forced herself to sound casual and easy. "No. Don't change your plans. I'd hate to miss it. After all, it's part of the picture."
"Well, if you're sure..." Edna hesitated. "Maybe I'd better call off the special part we'd planned for you, though. Not being used to parties, you might ... "
"You ll do no such thing," Tuesday said firmly. "You're not dealing with a schoolgirl."
"No, no! I didn't mean that! It's just that it might not be fair to put you in the spotlight when it's your first experience at one of these things."
"Please, Edna. I've been around. I'm not afraid of the spotlight. Just go ahead with whatever you've arranged. I can take anything you're-likely to subject me to. Hell, it's only sex."
Edna still looked dubious. "I don't know," she said. "I just don't know."
Tuesday felt herself once again in command of the situation. "I do." She was pleased at the steady, authoritative ring to her voice. "It's all setded. Go ahead with things the way you had them worked out. Is there anything I can do to help? You must have a world of getting ready to do."
"Well ... " Edna appeared to reach a decision. She brightened and finished her coffee. "No. Nothing, hon. Just get lots of rest. . . and do whatever you think best about getting yourself ready." She grinned again, leaning forward as she added, "I usually try not to wear anything that's going to be awkward getting out of. Except my panty-hose. They seem to add something to the excitement."
Tuesday shivered in spite of herself. She had a momentary vision of herself standing in front of Edna's crowd clad only in sheer panty-hose. Well, why not? They'd have to go a long way to find a better body than hers!
"Perhaps I ought to go through my wardrobe," she mused. "I'm not sure what I have that would do."
Edna smiled. "It won't be terribly formal. We don't really wear house dresses, of course; the crowd looks about the way it would if we were going out to a night club. But we sure don't wear formals or anything like that."
Tuesday stood. "I'm going to take a look right now. Then I'll catch a nap. Call me if I can help."
She went to the guest room and began sorting through her clothes. Underwear would be easy. She had that strapless bra with the catch in front, between the cups. And she'd take Edna's hint about the panty-hose. A slip would just get in the way, so she'd forget about that.
The dress presented a bit more of a problem. She had two lovely suits that were dressy enough, and men had a weakness for suits on women. Perhaps. . . but no. Either suit would put too much emphasis on her place in the career world; might make people uncomfortable around her. There was the beautiful jersey with the high, rolled neck and no back. It ought to prove exciting. Of course, she'd leave off the bra if she decided on it. But it was terribly sophisticated. She had a fleeting mental picture of some goddamn accountant fumbling under it for her breasts, and promptly vetoed it. .
Her glance fell on the white strapless knit. It was deceptively simple. Its lines were almost as severe as those of the suits, but it hugged her. She always had a sense of triumph when she wore it. There were few women-damned few, she thought-whose bellies were flat enough to get away with a knit like that without a good foundation garment. She'd be a quiet sensation in it; and she was well aware of the excitement it generated in men when they thought about its coming off. The fact that its weave was loose enough to make it semi-transparent would be a distinct asset, too.
She smiled and held the dress up to the light. Yes, it was precisely what the occasion demanded. She hung it back on the rack and undressed. She'd lie down and let herself float in the half-sleep that gave her the vital energy to keep going under the relentless pressure of publication schedules.
The Whortons hadn't stinted when they'd bought their guest furniture, she reflected. The bed was almost perfect. For her taste, it could be the tiniest trifle firmer, but she certainly wasn't going to criticize it on that account. The room was quite small, but Edna had done a fine job of decoration. In fact, she'd done well with the entire house. And the house and its neighborhood were key elements in the suburban psychology Tuesday was trying to analyze.
The lots were probably large for a tract, as Greg insisted. This one, being on a corner, was a few feet wider than the rest in the subdivision. But there was distressingly little space between the house and the one next door. Greg had all the growth in the yard that the land would support, and the structure sat on the edge of the legal setback, but even that didn't provide much of a yard. Between the back of the house and the back wall, the yard measured thirty feet, according to Greg. It was seventy feet long, of which thirty feet were gobbled up by the pool. Greg and Edna had probably done about as much with the space as anyone could have, though. The pool looked like a volcanic sink-hole, and was surrounded by lush tropical growth. At night, with the concealed lighting on, it was hard to remember that the setting was Southern California rather than a South Sea island.
The house itself was most-likely typical. It had an apartment-sized kitchen where Greg liked to help Edna with the dishes-apparently he'd formed the habit before last year's acquisition of a dishwasher-and the two of them continually got in each other's way. Between the kitchen and the dining area there was a waist-high counter; Greg and Edna referred to it as "the breakfast bar," although it was plain that they didn't eat breakfast there. Tuesday rather thought she liked its design. It had a generous top, with almost enough knee room below to make it comfortable to use on the dining area side. At the outer corners, lathe-turned posts ran from counter to ceiling, and where the bar butted against the wall, similar posts were placed some four or five inches out from the wall.
The dining area was really little more than an extension of the living room. There was no pretense at the space division, except for the placement of furniture ... and the kitchen wall, of course, the other side of which faced on the entry hall. There was a slumpstone fireplace in the living room, set into the back wall of the house. The contractor or the architect or someone had evidently designed the house around that living room, for there was plenty of space for two of the low-backed couches that were so popular now, and two matching, simulated-leather easy chairs. In addition, Edna had three occasional chairs with slender wooden arms that flared out in front and were supported by extension of the front legs. And there were the two graceful coffee tables, one in front of each couch.
A hallway extended off the end of the living room-a narrow, poorly lighted passage. The bedrooms-three of them-and Greg's den opened off this hall, ranged on either side of it. The two on the back of the house opened onto the pool area through sliding glass doors, as did the living room. The two on the front looked out on the sky through high, shallow windows. And, that, thought Tuesday, turning her head to enjoy the exotic scene around the pool, is that. Except that what the builders used for the living room, they had to take away from the bedrooms and den.
She couldn't recall seeing even a cheap apartment with such tiny rooms for sleeping.
She dozed off. When she awoke, it was dusk, and she heard Greg's and Edna's voices outside. Looking out through the glass door, she saw that they were having their pre-supper pick-ups by the pool. She rolled off the far side of the bed in a panic, knowing that Greg could easily see in. It did little to soothe her nerves to remind herself that she had no idea how long he'd been out there before she awoke. Nor was it a quieting thought to remember that he might well be seeing her in still more compromising circumstances in the next few hours.
She closed the drapes, hoping she could do it slowly and quietly enough so Greg and Edna wouldn't notice. Then she showered and dressed for the evening. She fussed with her hair, undecided as to whether she ought to affect studied casualness-to fit what she thought of as the suburban air-or display the tight chicness that would feel more like home. In the end, she refused to compromise, and her hair style was the same picture of sleek care that it would have been for a New York cocktail party. For jewelry, she limited herself to a simple choker of gold links, and earrings that matched.
She never was able, afterward, to remember quite what they had for supper. It was light, and there was little mess to be cleaned up, and they drank sauterne with it, but all that stayed in her memory was her apprehension and speculation over what Edna had planned for the evening.
Minutes before eight o'clock, the Millers arrived. Tuesday had met Erline, and it was hard to believe that this was the same woman. Tonight she wore a high-necked, emerald-green sheath that was split up each side almost to mid-hip. Her platinum hair was piled high and sleek, and her dark brows and lashes gave her eyes a startled expression. She was tall-nearly six feet, Tuesday thought-and almost thin, but her figure was forcefully feminine.
Ron Miller was something else. He was tall enough to make Erline look medium, and his bulk made Tuesday think of steel mills. Light brown, wavy hair and a ruddy complexion suited his boyish exuberance, which was belied only by the cold blue of his eyes.
"Playgirl," Ron grinned and peered at Tuesday. "Damn magazine's scattered all over the house. Different issues, of course. Wondered what the editor'd be like." He extended his hand.
Tuesday grasped it firmly. His last statement must surely be intended to convey a double meaning. She flinched inwardly. God, what a brute! He'd crush a woman! She hoped she'd have some choice in her partners when the party got underway.
"Editors are just like anyone else," she murmured, lying automatically. "It's a job."
"Sure." Ron grinned again.
"There aren't many who could do what you're doing with that magazine," Erline interjected.
Tuesday shrugged. "Luck," she said. Then she smiled. "Mr. . . The publisher says it's goddamn brass and an inverted conscience."
Both Erline and Edna chortled. There was a sort of hungry wickedness in their smirks, as if it was that brass and inverted conscience that drove them to Tuesday's pages.
The doorbell rang again, and Edna admitted a couple whom she introduced as Carl and Lucy Blair. Lucy was tiny-a Dresden doll-and Carl appeared to be about average-dwarfed next to Ron, of course, but not really small. He showed no awe when Edna introduced Tuesday; although Lucy knew the magazine and its regular authors, and commented with a smile on Tuesday's editorial philosophy, it was obvious that Carl hadn't glanced at it. Still, he appraised her soberly, and she sensed a directness that promised action.
Midge and Tony Perone were the last couple to arrive. Tony ran a bit to weight, but not enough to be repulsive. Midge's hair was short, and had a masculine appearance that contradicted her giggle and her all-woman movement. Tony gave Tuesday a quick, warm handshake. "You're a gutty woman," he said. "Damn few females have brains enough to see things the way you do. And most of the ones who do, wouldn't have the guts to say so."
"Oh, Playgirl isn't that far out," protested Tuesday.
"Not the whole magazine," Tony agreed, "but every editorial has a few sentences tossed in that would tear the roof off if the 'establishment' understand what they were reading."
Tuesday's pulse leaped. She closed her eyes for a moment and blanked out her thoughts. She did hide a kernel of herself in each issue of the magazine. She did it with care, though, and with all her editorial skill, and she counted on its being well enough masked by the general tone of the editorial to escape the attention of Alan Emerson and Mr. Quackenbush. But if this clod had spotted it, how could she hope that the almost sophisticated powers around Emerson Publications had really missed it? The fact that she hadn't been called to task suggested that someone meant to hold off until she was too deeply committed to wriggde free.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she murmured. "I suppose everyone sees his own version of what I'm trying to say.
Tony stared at her. He smiled gently and dropped the subject.
II
At first, they drank and talked and listened to music. They didn't really do much music listening, Tuesday decided, and their talk was a shade too fast. The women appeared to be drinking more than the men. Normally, there would have been a mild conspiracy among the men to load up the women's drinks and keep their glasses full. The women would have been aware of the game, of course, and whatever potted plants there were in the room would have gotten even more potted. But those tactics were part of another game. Tonight's game was starting under different ground rules, with the outcome already conceded. The women weren't running; they were trying to loosen their inhibitions.
Tuesday found herself in and out of the conversation. In the periods when she was out of it, she watched the patterns among the others. Edna and big Ron Miller appeared to have a thing going. Their talk was fragmentary, and Tuesday had the feeling that they were saying as much by their silences as with their words. Edna's growing excitement was almost too obvious, and it didn't look like she needed the alcohol she continued to gulp.
Erline was getting giddy too, and perhaps it was just as well. Greg and Tony were competing for Lucy Blair's attention, and the diminutive creature seemed to be able to distribute it without difficulty. Midge Perone nestled against Carl Blair, her generous figure in sharp contrast to his more refined structure. But neither gave any sign of being aware of the disparity, and Carl's hand was frankly wandering. None of the men devoted full time to Erline, but none ignored her entirely. From the level, waiting glint in Erline's eyes, Tuesday guessed that" the willowy woman might take on all comers before the night was over.
Through the first two or three rounds of drinks, people sat pretty well in one place. After that, there was more mobility, and even Tuesday found herself circulating. From time to time she felt someone's hand slide over her anatomy, and after the first few instances she accepted it with a measure of enjoyment. She laughed when two of the men stroked simultaneously and their hands touched. Both drew back with a jerk.
"I feel as if I were in an octopus tank," she remarked.
Greg chuckled. "It's a thought. That'd be some kind of experience!"
Erline looked up, suddenly alert. "I never thought of that! I wonder what it'd be like!"
"Pretty dull, I imagine," commented Tony. "The beasts'd probably hide in the corners."
"At first, maybe," Erline conceded. "But they're pretty curious about their surroundings. I'd guess they'd begin feeling around before long."
"Ugh!" Lucy shuddered. "Imagine those tentacles writhing all over you!"
"I am!" Erline laughed.
"But that would be awful!" protested Lucy. "They have suckers or something on the underside of each arm, don't they?"
Ron nodded, joining the conversation. "They sure do. Think what they'd be like if they latched onto your tits!"
"Erline stiffened. "Your language, Ron!"
"Hell with the language!" he replied. "Think of it! Suckers all over both tits, and an arm up your pussy! Wow!"
Gray looked thoughtful. "Wonder if we could rent an aquarium for a night-the one down at Scripps, maybe."
Carl objected. "You've gotta be kidding! Those bastards have beaks, too! I sure as hell don't want to see one of them nip off one of Lucy's tits!"
"Or something else," added Edna with feeling. "They sort of go for raw meat, don't they?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Greg admitted.
"Well, it was an idea, anyway," said Erline. "I wonder if anyone ever tried to train an octopus."
"I saw one they said was trained, once," Tony said. "It was in one of those carnivals. Big sonovabitch! Guy climbed right into the tank with it, and it wrapped itself around him as if they really had something going."
"Did he get nipped?" asked Edna.
"Naw. He fed it little chunks of fish or crab or something."
"There!" Erline was triumphant. "All a girl'd have to do would be take some raw fish into the tank with her. She could get herself all felt up without getting nipped."
"You're welcome to your octopus." Lucy's voice sounded quite positive.
"And your dogs and goats and all the rest of the animal kingdom," Midge put in.
"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Erline said in an airy manner. She flipped her head, turning toward Tuesday. "I haven't seen anything in Playgirl about that," she said.
Tuesday smiled. "It hadn't occurred to me to say anything about it. Besides, the owner's would go to pieces if I put something like that in!"
She thought of Jason Quackenbush and Alan Emerson. Their expressions of discomfort when she'd laid out the ground rules for Playgirl's slant in the first place had been bad enough. God! What they'd look like if they'd heard the past few minutes' discussion! Jason would have a stroke on the spot. And Emerson? She wasn't sure, now that she thought about it. She'd sensed occasionally that his piety was a veneer-that inside, he might be frisky as hell. At least he wasn't so old that he was petrified, like Jason. And she'd heard a little about the machinations that had built Emerson Enterprises and the publishing business. In fact, there were those who whispered that Mnerose Press. ("The best of modern erotics for discriminating tastes") was a quiet venture of Emerson's.
Tuesday's revery shattered on the point of Edna's next remark.
"It's after nine," said the hostess. "Everyone loosened up?" There were nods. "Good. How about you, Tuesday? Ready for your spotlight?"
Tuesday's mouth was suddenly dry. She nodded silently, hoping she wasn't making herself look like a damn fool.
"You're sure, now?" Edna persisted.
"I ... I'm sure." Tuesday swallowed. "Of course I am."
"Fine. You're going to be pirate booty tonight." Edna looked around and apologized. "I know it doesn't look much like pirates. Well, maybe just sex pirates."
Tuesday shivered at the change in terminology. Edna peered into her face.
"You're ready, then?"
Tuesday nodded. "Of course! For God's sake get one with it!"
Edna clapped her hands. Suddenly Ron picked Tuesday up in his arms, and she lay quietly, waiting. He carried her to the bar, where he set her on her feet again, on the floor, facing the dining area and the living room beyond. Now Greg and Tony each grasped one of her arms, and raised them from her sides until her fingertips encountered the uprights at either end of the bar. She gasped as she felt soft cords go around each wrist. Glancing up quickly, she saw that her wrists were being lashed to the turned posts, the cords laid into grooved depressions so that they could not slip up or down. She repressed the urge to cry out and pull away. And in a moment, pulling was futile.
"No!" she whispered. She looked at Edna with wide eyes. "What are you going to do?"
"You're our booty," Edna repeated. "This is your initiation into the group." She grinned. "Each of us went through it. It's fun, actually."
Tugging experimentally, Tuesday verified that the cords were snug and the knots secure. She was helpless.
With solemn ceremony, Ron now turned down the top of her dress to expose her bra.
"There's a zipper in back," she commented acidly. The damn fool was going to ruin the shape of the dress this way.
"Oh, of course!" He felt for the tab, found it. and unzipped her.
The dress fell away in his hands, and he lowered it over her legs. She stepped out of it without further comment, cringing under their stares. She glanced down at herself, a tingle of horror seeping over her as she saw the jut of her bra, her bare midriff and the sheer panty-hose.
They had tied her arms so they were outstretched at something of an angle, the lashings several inches higher than her head, even though there was enough slack to permit her to bend her elbows. She felt more exposed than ever before in her life, and she realized that she'd be far more exposed than this before they finished with her.
Suddenly she wanted out of the whole silly business.
"I ... Edna, I don't want to go through with it," she said, not liking the shaky quality in her voice.
"There, there." Edna's tone was gentle and soothing. "We all felt like that at first. It passes."
"Please!"
"You ll be all right. You're going to have fun." "Oh, Edna! Don't let them...! " Tuesday stopped abruptly.
The men had closed in on her. Their hands were all over her, and in spite of herself her body began to twitch as they touched sensitive centers. Her indignation and embarrassment gave way to a strange elation as the sensation of four pairs of male hands caressing her body enveloped her in an unexpected warmth. She wondered if she'd secretly harbored a longing for such attention. If so, it had taken the bonds to release it-to bring it to the surface. That seemed reasonable, she discovered in her increasingly chaotic thought. Reasonable because she felt no need to censure herself for what was happening. She hadn't asked to be tied this way. Now that she was, she could do nothing to defend herself, and no matter what they did, she could not hold herself accountable. She could only react, and even the things she'd have resisted could be enjoyed. She writhed, and made herself savor every shade of the stimulation.
Someone found the catch at the front of her bra. She felt the cups part and fall away from her breasts, and she looked down at their trembling fullness. But then Greg and Carl bent their heads to them, and the nipples disappeared into their mouths.
Tuesday gasped, then uttered a low moan of delight. "Oh, God!" she whispered. "Oh, I've never felt it like that before!"
Hands were tugging at her panty-hose, and she wriggled her hips to help as the nylon was drawn off. It crackled with static as it went down her legs, and she pulled her feet out, to stand utterly naked in their midst. She could catch glimpses, between the two busy heads, of the hair-covered mound that punctuated the base of her abdomen. For an instant a vision of her office came between her and the pulsing scene; she saw her neatly tailored suit and nylon-encased legs in the frame of her executive swivel chair, and through that prim image glowed the primitive lust of the present.
Hands tugged at her ankles, and she felt her feet drawn far apart. She struggled half-heartedly as her ankles were lashed. She had no idea what they were being secured to, but the slack in her arm bonds disappeared, and she was abruptly in a taut spread-eagle.
Now, for the first time, fingers sought out the inflamed tissues of her crotch, massaging and probing. She gave way to guttural grunts, and her body discovered a swivel in the small of her back. Her hips snapped forward and back, then rotated as she'd often seen hula dancers gyrate.
Her bottom pounded into the emptiness that was knee space beneath the bar top, and there was no escape from the insistence of the groping hands. Her throat ached with the screams of pleasure that she refused to utter. She felt her hairdo coming loose, and knew she must look as wild as they were making her feel.
Without warning, the men backed away from her. She sagged against her bonds, her head hanging, and stared out at them through her lashes. She knew that she was panting, but nothing she did could make her seem any less dignified than did her position. She felt a fleeting regret at her loss of the poise she'd cultivated for so long.
"Bravo!" It was Edna's voice, low and sincere. "Darling, you're an inspiration!"
"God! I'm a wreak!" Tuesday replied with a gasp.
"Not at all! You still look almost as fresh as if you'd just started."
"You must need glasses." Tuesday twisted to ease the strain in her shoulders. "That was quite an initiation."
"It was a fine start," Edna agreed. "You're going to be just fine. Having fun?"
Tuesday considered the question. "Everything taken into account, yes. Surprisingly enough."
"I'd be surprised if you weren't," Edna observed. "Remember the trick you pulled on me on our sorority anniversary?"
Recollection flooded Tuesday, and she wondered how much that escapade had swayed Edna in planning tonight's activities. They'd gotten together-the girls-and stripped and tied Edna. When the frat guys got there, it was a wild business for a while. To everyone's surprise, Edna had taken the gang assault with the best of nature. Tuesday had always believed that every one of them could have worn himself to exhaustion without wearing Edna out.
'I remember."
"That sort of introduced me to this kind of thing," Edna confided. "I've been partial to it ever since."
Greg laughed. "She sure as hell has! Drove me wild at first. I wondered what I'd married."
"Still wonder?" asked Tony.
"Hell, no! An animated pussy with handles for ropes!"
Edna made a face. "I haven't noticed any great reluctance on your part." She wriggled suggestively. "You practically carry rope in your pocket."
"Why not?" Greg shrugged. "Goddamn few guys have as much freedom in picking out how they're going to fuck as I do. The only thing I have to worry about is running out of imagination!"
Tuesday gasped, finding it difficult to feature such candor in mixed company. Then she smiled at herself, enjoying the irony of such a thought when she was in her present state. It occurred to her that no one else had yet removed any clothing. In fact, she noted, no one else even looked the least bit disarranged. They'd all refilled their glasses, and, to an observer, the party would now look as it had an hour earlier, unless the observer happened to glance toward the breakfast bar. The spread-eagled, naked woman there provided a weird, pagan contrast to the otherwise conventional setting.
She waited for the men to return to her. As they sipped their drinks and let their hands stray to the other women, she became more and more self-conscious. She felt wetness at her crotch, and imagined that glistening drops must hang down to broadcast her loss of control.
Erline caught her attention now. The tall girl's head was thrown back, and her legs were parted; she clutched her glass in both hands, and her breasts heaved. The front of her sheath was pulled up to her hips, and Tony's hand was lost in the shadow at the juncture of her thighs. His wrist betrayed the movement of his fingers.
Tuesday looked away. God! she thought. Good God! The most incredible feature of the scene was that Tony wasn't even looking at the panting woman. He faced Lucy, and their conversation had nothing to do with the digital manipulation he was giving Erline.
"We tried them," Lucy was saying. "I liked the food, but they had atrocious service!"
"That's why we stopped going there. We like Anthony's, though." Tony touched his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Mmmmm! Yes! Their lobster! I order it every time we go there." Lucy's smile lit up her face.
"Midge sort of-likes the seafood platter." Tony grinned. "I either have lobster or a shark filet."
"Shark?"
"Yeah. They don't like it when you call it that, but they know what you're asking for. And they sure as hell know how to cook it."
Erline's hips rotated as she ground herself down on Tony's hand. And now Lucy nodded toward the absorbed
"I think she's about ready to be had," she remarked. "Huh?" Tony looked puzzled. "Oh! Erline?" "Of course! Who did you think you were feeling up?" Lucy giggled.
Erline's eyes were closed, and her mouth worked. A bead of saliva clung to a corner of her lips.
Tuesday's eyes had become accustomed to the gloom around Tony's hand, and she realized that Erline had no pants on. The thatch of hair that framed the intruding hand appeared to be almost as blonde as that on her head. Tuesday was surprised, too, at the driving vigor of the girl's thrusts.
Lucy reached out to take Erline's glass, which was surrendered without any sign of awareness. Then the tall girl rose and began to arch herself into a backbend. Soon her palms rested on the floor, and she braced herself there while Tony unzipped his trousers and extracted his rigid penis. Silently, he inched it into the gaping maw of Erline's sex.
Tuesday expected him to begin pumping, but instead he stood perfectly still, and the arched figure before him started quivering, then oscillated violentiy. As it beat against the sturdy body that had impaled it, Erline's upswept hair tumbled loose, cascading over down to her wrists.
Suddenly Tony seized the girl's hips and jerked her savagely against him, clinging to her with trembling hands. His hips worked, now, and Tuesday could almost feel the force of his eruption.
When Erline stopped quivering, Tony drew her erect. She hung on his softening penis and stared about with glazed eyes.
"Jesus!" she said. "Jesus Christ! What happened?"
She found fasteners with her fingers, then peeled her sheath off over her head. She hadn't even worn a bra, Tuesday realized. Those breasts were just naturally uptilted!
Slowly, Tony and Erline disengaged, and the blonde looked around for her glass. "Wow!" she said. "I thought it would never happen! Thanks, Tony."
Tony grinned. "Always happy to be first."
III
Somehow, Tuesday felt relieved to see another woman in the room without clothes. The uneasy suspicion that had begun to form-that Edna's talk of a swap orgy had been only a ruse to lull Tuesday into letting herself be put in this position as the sole entertainment for the evening-receded. She was still suffering from acute unease, however. Her stomach knotted, and now that her physical passion had subsided she cringed inwardly at her helplessness and exposure. Even with Erline naked, Tuesday felt herself set apart by the fact that the others were milling about together, glancing at her often but not approaching her, while she was trapped in her vulnerable posture.
Ron passed her as he went to the kitchen for a refill. In a moment he was back, a capped bottle of vodka in his hand, eyeing her with a look of speculation. There appeared to be little more than an ounce or two of liquor left of the quart, and he glanced at it and then back at her. He returned to the kitchen, and Tuesday strained to see what he was going to do. Innocently enough, he poured the remaining vodka into two glasses-his own and the one she'd been drinking from earlier-and added orange juice and ice. After taking a deep drink of his, he picked up hers and came back.
"Dry, baby?" he asked.
She grunted. "Mm-hmm!" Ron held the glass to her lips, and she drank eagerly. He had re-capped the empty bottle, and now he held it in his right hand. For the moment, Tuesday ignored it. She drew her mouth away from the glass and took a deep breath, licking her lips.
"More," she said.
Ron held the glass up again. As she sucked in the fluid, something touched the flesh at her crotch. She jerked her hips backward. Her head bobbed with the motion, and the drink spilled, running off her chin and down onto her breasts.
Ron laughed. "Oops!" he exclaimed. "That did it!"
He reached past her to set the glass on the counter, then bent forward to lick the spilled liquid off her, his tongue lapping at her breasts.
Tuesday held her breath, a feeling of giddiness assailing her. There was still pressure at her crotch, and she peered down past Ron's head to discover the bulk of the empty vodka bottle pointed toward the contact, its thick neck disappearing beneath her pubic mound. Ron's left hand moved to the same region, and she felt his fingers parting the lips of her vulva.
"Ron, what are you doing?" she asked.
"Licking off what's left of your drink," he replied. "Never thought I'd get liquor from a tit."
"No! You know what I mean! What are you ... Unh! ... doing to my ... Unh! Unh! ... pussy?"
"Oh, that!" He drew his head back and grinned at her.
She felt her folds widely parted, now, and something-she knew it was the top of the bottle-pushed hard at the mouth of her vagina. She grunted as the pressure increased, and there was a sudden sliding sensation as the neck plunged upward inside her.
"Ah-h-h!" She exhaled. "Ron, that's awful!" "Feels awful, you mean?"
"No! It ... I mean it's an awful thing to do! Stop it!" "To hell with that!"
He slid the bottle up in until the shoulders bottomed against her, then worried her clitoris with the fingers of his free hand. Her hips rotated rapidly, and she gasped at the abrupt flood of heat that washed over her.
"My God!" she moaned. "Ron, please don't! You're making an animal out of me!"
"Don't let Erline hear that! Shell be all over you in a minute!"
"Oh, Ron, don't say things like that. This is bad enough; I couldn't stand having a woman..."
"Oh, sure you could. But she won't bother you while I'm playing with you."
At the insistent urging of her passion, Tuesday flung herself to and fro. Nothing seemed to have any chance of dislodging the hard mass that penetrated her, and Ron's fingers continued to grind against her clitoris. She rose on her tiptoes, straining to escape the irresistible stimulus. Rocking from side to side, she only intensified the sensations. With a groan, she settled back, then let herself sag until she hung by her wrists, thrusting herself down onto the bottle and Ron's hand.
She had a vague awareness of gathering faces. Her noise and motion must have attracted the others, for now she realized that they were clustered around, enjoying her abandoned response to Ron's manipulations. But she couldn't focus on them, they drifted in and out of her consciousness as wave after wave of excitement swept through her. Her world became a confusion of swirling faces, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and deepening mists. She knew with sudden horror that she would soon reach a climax, and the thought of convulsing in orgasmic spasms this way-spread out before them like a specimen in a biology class-filled her with despair.
"Please, please, please!" she cried. "Don't make me do it! Don't make me come this way!"
But Ron continued, and her excitement kept rising. She couldn't fight the reflexes of her body. She arched herself, and buried her face at her shoulder as every fiber in her body seemed to race toward ultimate tension.
"Oh, God!" she groaned between set teeth. "Oh, push! Push hard! I'm going to ... Oh, I'm going to come!" Contractions hit her, low in her belly, and her muscles jerked taut. She felt herself buck rhydimically, snapping like a jointed shellfish as great balls of heat exploded within her.
She thought the violence of her passion would never subside. But it broke, finally, and she collapsed in her bonds, her chin resting quietly on her chest. She wept softly, imagining the spectacle she must have presented, and comparing it to the chic, poised image she'd spent a lifetime developing.
Ron withdrew the bottle, taking it into the kitchen, where Tuesday heard a sudden rush of water from the faucet.
"You're juicy as hell! "he said from behind her. "Oh, shut up!" she muttered.
"Juicy as all that?" Tony asked. Tuesday opened her eyes and saw him reach down to feel her raw tissues.
"Damned if you aren't!" he said as she tried to jerk away from his touch.
He pulled his hand out and wiped her juice off on her belly. "For Christ's sake!" she protested.
Tony laughed. "I'll have to get a mouthful of that tonight. I'll wait until you're in a better position, though. I'd get a stiff neck, going after you this way."
She felt a momentary flush of relief. She didn't think she could tolerate much more of this position. Her shoulders screamed at her, and her inner thigh muscles burned. But then the relief gave way to fear. Tony's implication was that they meant to move her from this posture into another, where she'd probably have no more freedom or control over what was done to her than she now had. Worse, he was hinting at actions that chilled and shocked her. If anything, she appeared to be in for indignities far worse than the bottle business.
She tugged at her bonds. "I'm about to dislocate my shoulders," she said, pain shooting through her. "I don't think I can stand it here much longer."
"Of course not!" There was sympathy and a touch of contrition in Edna's quick response. "A woman can only stand so much of that kind of strain. Come on, fellows, move her!"
"Sure," said Greg. "Just hold on for a minute or two longer, Tuesday. We'll get you out of there." He hurried past her into the kitchen.
She heard the door to the garage and workshop open, then close. In a moment it opened and closed again, and Greg reappeared, with two six-foot two-by-two poles in his hands.
"Give me a hand here, guys," he said, going to the dining room table.
Tuesday watched with foreboding as they lashed the poles to the legs at one end of the table so that they extended up past the table top, at a nearly vertical angle. Greg shook them vigorously, nodding with an expression of satisfaction when they held steady. Then he turned to stare at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"Okay, Tuesday, we ought to be able to get you out of that stretch now."
"Good," she mumbled. She didn't know whether it was good or not, but she did know she couldn't hang on her arms much longer without shrieking.
They untied her, and she collapsed. There were almost too many hands there to support her, but she felt herself picked up and carried. They laid her on the table, face up. She had no strength in either her legs or arms, and she lay where they put her. Now Ron and Tony raised her body while Greg and Carl slid cushions under her.
Then they gave her a few minutes to relax. But when she began to stir, they recaptured her arms and slid her toward the end of the table, so that her buttocks rested on the edge, her legs totally unsupported.
This would never do, she thought. Her back would break. But they had other plans.
"Relax, baby," crooned Ron. He straightened her left leg, raising the foot high above her and pulling it out to the left until it touched one of the upright poles. He lashed it there, passing a loop over the notched end of the pole so that she couldn't pull her leg down. With Tony's help, he repeated the process on the right. Then, almost as an afterthought, they stretched her arms up and back, and tied them, making her position as exposed as the first, and equally impossible to escape from.
She felt no excitement. The situation produced tension that she was unable to dispel, though there was no sense of physical stimulation. But the utter exhaustion of her post-climactic relaxation was gone, too.
The club members stood back and studied her now. They must be deep in their own thoughts, she told herself, each thinking what he would do to her next.
She couldn't see Erline. Once more, she seemed to be the only person in the room who wasn't fully dressed. She found it impossible to sort out her reactions; she couldn't tell whether she was disgusted or embarrassed, frightened or simply impatient for the action to begin again. She saw no indication in any of the men that she was to be approached immediately. Instead, they seemed content to contemplate her topography, and she writhed under their continued scrutiny.
"I hope you're getting a goddamn eyeful!" she exclaimed at last.
Tony grinned. "You look a little different from every angle," he observed. "It's hard to decide which view is best." He cocked his head to one side. "I'll bet we'll be able to see your tonsils by looking up your twat when we get you worked up next time."
"That's about as crude as you can get," snapped Tuesday.
"Oh, no! Not at all! You've no idea how crude I could get, with you upended like that. You're sure as hell at the right height, anyhow. My dick's going to slide in without my having to bend my knees at all."
Greg chuckled. "Yeah. Walk up to her with it sticking out, and it'll be in before you realize you're there."
Tuesday was sick of the conversation. "For-Christ's sake!" she cried. "Stop talking about it and do something, or let me out of this goddamn stretch!"
Tony stepped toward her, framed in the vee of her legs, and reached out. He plunged his thumb into her, clutching at her buttocks with his fingers. Grasping her thus, he shook her hips from side to side.
She gasped and tried to jerk back, but there was no escape. "Oh, Tony! Please don't!"
"Does it hurt?"
"No, but it makes me feel so damned helpless! And embarrassed!"
"Don't feel that way. You'll see the others in a hell of a lot more awkward situations before you go back to New York. It's all part of the game. The question is, do you get any kick out of it?"
"God, yes! It kills me to admit it, but I do!"
"Good. The old office hasn't killed all the imagination, eh?"
"Tony, don't think badly of the office."
"I don't, I guess. I figured you'd be good for this, from the tone of your editorials."
"I didn't say anything about this! I haven't ever thought of such a tiling!"
Tony shook his head. "Of course not. But if you felt the way your editorials made you sound, you couldn't help liking this."
"But-I ... I don't!"
"Not even this?" He mauled her clit with his thumb, and she felt herself beginning to respond.
"All right. All right! Dammit, I like it!"
"I thought so. I'm glad. Well keep you supplied."
"Oh-h-h!" Tuesday felt put down, as if she were a child that Tony was humoring. But she uttered a wry chuckle at that thought. There was nothing child-like about this!
Tony looked around at the others. "Look, lady editor. I'd guess things are going to get active around here before very long. I can see hungry looks everywhere I turn."
"So?" Her reply sounded petulant to her. "I mean, what's going to happen?"
He chuckled. "You're going to feel like a pincushion, from all the pricks that get dunked in you. I'm going to taste you before that gets started, though."
"Taste?"
"Yeah. You smell good Female and hot. Mind?" "I ... I don't know. What do you mean to do?" But she was afraid she did know. "Does it matter whether I mind?" "Not a hell of a lot."
Tony appeared either to kneel or squat, for all of him disappeared but his head and hands. He laid the hands on the inner sides of her thighs, close to her crotch, and thrust his face up to the hair that was going to block her vision. She felt a touch in the crevice between her folds.
"Oooh!" She tightened.
There was another touch, then a gentle friction that explored the moist surfaces.
"Good God, Tony! Is that your tongue?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"It is, doll. You like?"
"I . . .I ... Oh, yes, Tony! Hike!"
He said nothing more; his tongue was back at her. She moaned deep in her throat and thrust herself into the contact. She saw his hands moving, and his fingers caught her folds and pried them wide apart. She gasped at the feel of evaporation that chilled her, and then cried out at the exquisite sensation of Tony's tongue technique on the lip of her opening.
She rolled from side to side as the gentle tip probed into her. Her hips lashed up in eagerness when he lapped upward to caress the slopes of her clitoris, and she hung by her ankles, tilted sharply.
"Tony! Oh, Tony, be gentle!" she whispered.
Tony was gentle. He drew his tongue repeatedly up the inner surfaces of her tingling lips, and ran it around and around the edge of her now gaping hole. Each time he let it wander to her clit, she jerked, thrusting herself into his face. After a long time, when she was panting and moaning continuously, he closed his lips over the inflamed little mound and flesh and began to suck it as his tongue massaged.
Tuesday closed her eyes and watched the explosions of colored light behind her eyelids. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, and her thighs quivered in an ecstasy of desire. At that moment, she forgot the slight sense of modesty that had troubled her at her exposure, and yielded to wanton lust. She opened her eyes, feeling the pressure mounting, and stared at the chandelier with its crystalline flashes.
"Ah-h-h!" she cried. "Darling Tony! You're driving me mad!"
Erline's voice came out of the mist that seemed to shroud the room. It sounded husky and forced. 'Tom, go home and get Genghis! She'll be ready for him!"
"Genghis?" Ron questioned. "Do you think. ... ? "
"Please, Ron! Now! I want to see someone else under that tongue of his! Please!"
"Okay, okay! I'm going! But I hate to miss the rest of this. Tony's hitting all the right keys."
It was like a foreign language to Tuesday-all but the part about the right keys. That was it! Tony had found her keys, and as if she were an organ, he was playing an entire symphonic movement on her. At the moment, the clitoral teasing was a passage of violins and cellos, and each time the tip of his tongue lingered on the end of the little roll of flesh, she felt a high, breathy arpeggio from the flutes. When he sucked and the sides of her clit were pressed inward by his teeth, French horns and trumpets rang out, and tympanums rolled in the background. When he released her clit and slid his tongue down the trembling sides of her inner vulva lips, she imagined that she heard violas and a lone trombone in a wailing, haunting glissando, which gave way to frenzied scales on the bass viols as he reached the outer rim of her vagina. He probed into her once more, and there were cymbal clashes and staccato accents from the brass. But beneath the whole, vibrant and compelling, was the throb of the organ itself, its reverberation controls on maximum, its chords swelling to fill her universe.
She struggled for air, but hardly cared whether she breathed. Her throat ached as if she were screaming, and her body arched itself in a grotesque ballet.
His face drove against her. She felt a savage suction, and her tissues were drawn into his mouth and crushed and mauled, and his tongue drove into her vaginal mouth. She swallowed and cried out at the same time-a strangled cry of surrender. A spasm seized her, and another, and contractions wrung her body.
When she had begun to fear that the violence of her orgasm was going to rob her of consciousness, she felt a sudden ache of emptiness. Tony's face withdrew, and she collapsed in the anticlimax. She felt herself plummet down a long, dark slope with aloneness waiting at the bottom. She sighed, expecting a wave of self-recrimination.
But Tony's face was back, suddenly. He arrested her in her slide, taking her clitoris very tenderly into his mouth and again working it with his tongue.
She pleaded, "No, Tony! Not now! Not again so soon! Oh, please don't!"
He ignored her begging, and thrills shot through her as her passion began again to mount.
"Oh, my God, won't someone stop him?" she cried. Then, twisting on herself, "No! Don't make him stop! Oh, God, I'm going up again!"
Tony backed away, then, and grinned down at her through the vee of her thighs.
"That's right, baby," he murmured. "Mustn't let you hit bottom."
She panted. Her body glowed with eagerness, and she let herself rest in a sea of anticipation. She was content to wait, knowing that there would be another wild ascent, and willing to let it come in its time. In a strange paradox of emotion, her bonds were suddenly not symbols of degradation but of submission to the loving, protective attention of concerned guardians.
"I love you!" she gasped. "I love you all!"
IV
There was an interlude of relaxation with light banter and frequent bursts of laughter. Lucy Blair snuggled against Greg, and his hands roved over her curves with easy familiarity as Tuesday watched, wondering how long it would be before they disappeared into one of the bedrooms. She looked for Edna, and found her standing with the naked Erline, laughing with obvious delight at something Erline was saying. Midge was staring into Carl Blair's eyes, her own eyes smoky with desire, her hand pressing his as he cupped his palm over her breast and kneaded slowly.
Now, at last, everyone was being drawn into the web of sex play that they had appeared only to watch before. Tuesday missed Ron, and the unreal snatch of conversation she had heard earlier returned to mind. Who was Genghis? she asked herself. What was it that Erline was planning? But she kept slipping off into a revery on the symphonic theme, knowing she ought to concentrate on the significance of Ron's absence, but obsessed by the rich possibilities that crowded in upon her when she remembered the inner music she had experienced.
Someone was going to have to do a mood piece for Playgirl. She'd have to commission it, of course. She'd have to describe what it was that she wanted, and perhaps work with the author until both were satisfied that they had precisely the right tone. Who would she ask to do it? Joan Endicott, maybe? She had a touch that was wistful and always hovering on the fringes of fantasy. She handled her words well, too. No; she wouldn't really be able to do it. She leaned on adjectives too much. She wasn't quite strong enough, either. What she wrote never developed real drive. It was often beautiful-haunting and sweet, making one's throat tighten-but light as a sunbeam, and subtle as a moth's flight. For this piece there had to be wistfulness and lightness and subtlety all right, but there must be strength, too, and drive.
Myerson-hard little Nadine Myerson-wrote with strength and drive. Still, she hadn't exactly the touch, either. She wrote with slashing vigor; there was physical impact in her sentences, and in her lean phrases were hidden deadly cutting edges. But when you read them, you came away gasping, raw where they'd carved out hunks of sensitivity.
Cliff Arnoldson had it! His work, under the Tess Wilkinson name that he used for Playgirl's audience, had both the power and the delicacy that this piece demanded. It had the rushing sweep, too. The only problem with him was that he was a man, and the piece had to be the essence of femaleness. Perhaps ... perhaps if they worked very closely together ... if Cliff could come to New York for a couple of weeks while he worked on it ... he just might be able to capture her own core and put it into the words she wanted.
It had to be right-absolutely, uncompromisingly right-or it would be nothing. It had to play out the ultimate orgasm in terms of symphonic composition. It had to describe the sweeping, melodic runs, the crescendos and furious percussion as a woman rose from first awakening of desire to the final agony of climax. It had to weave together the passages of a musical composition that had never been written, building a word picture so clear that a composer could turn from the print to his scoring pad and set out the notes and chords of the movement.
She listened, hearing again the tonal shadings that had filled her during Tony's play. If the piece was done right, there would be a satisfying segment of her readership that would go experience orgasm as they read. And yet there would be no word, anywhere in all the passages, explicitly drawn from the vocabulary of sex. If a composer did follow the pattern described, whole audiences would listen with swelling passion, awakening after the last note had died to find that they had been led through the deepest kind of sexual experience and pushed through an intense orgasm.
She smiled at the mental picture of rows of sweating, panting symphony-goers writhing in the grasp of an unexpected, irresistible climax. The thought of the reactions that prim, repressed members of the audience would have to their own violent emotions broke her up, and she laughed to herself.
She glanced about, hoping that no one had noticed her momentary mirth.
Greg had Lucy's blouse unbuttoned almost to the bottom. He had worked one of her breasts out of its cup and had the nipple in his mouth. She lay back over his arm, arched up to his face, and clutched at his shoulders with her fingers. Every line in the tiny body trembled, and Tuesday knew intuitively that Lucy was passing through miniature orgasms, one after another, as she responded to Greg's suckling.
Midge and Carl looked as if they had fallen onto one of the armchairs in their excitement. Midge lay across it, her full buttocks resting on one arm and her shoulders on the other. Her skirt was up around her hips, and her thighs bulged with effort as they clamped on one of Carl's, which was driven hard into her crotch. She fumbled with the buttons on his shirt while he pushed aside her low-necked dress to bare her breasts.
Erline's voice rose in a plaintive query. "Where the hell's Ron? He ought to be back by now!"
Edna chuckled. "It hasn't been long, honey," she soothed. "Hell be here any minute now."
"Well, it sure seems like a long time." Erline subsided.
Tuesday shivered. Something about Ron's absence ought to have her worried. She should be running that quick exchange through her mind, and gnawing at it to extract its significance. But the glow Tony had left her with refused to disperse, and now she lost herself in watching again as Tony approached Erline and Edna.
Without preamble, he reached down to touch each of them on the thigh. He stroked them, his hands sweeping down and up rapidly, and both women grunted and parted their legs, standing with feet planted wide, appearing to be paralyzed. He grasped the flesh of their crotches, and his hands worked powerfully. Edna closed her eyes, and her mouth opened. She reached behind her back to unzip her dress, letting it slide down over her curves. Tony withdrew his hand long enough to let the material pass, then thrust down inside the front of Edna's panty-hose, seizing her without obstruction.
Tuesday watched her friend. Edna still had no rolls of fat. She was classically built, and her hips were almost as generous as Midge's, but they knotted with tight bulges of muscle, rather than jiggling with layers of blubber. With her eyes still closed, she was struggling with the fastenings of her bra. When it gave way, the straps flew apart, suggesting the tension of imprisoning her jutting breasts. Edna flung the garment away and Tuesday smiled at the proud thrust of her hostess's twin mounds, their puckered tips dark and stiff.
This quartet of suburban couples had a sense of timing that her New York friends could learn much from, Tuesday reflected. She focused on the mantle clock. It was eleven. The first guests had come in at eight, and except for Erline's abrupt acrobatics, there had been no mating yet. To be sure, they had watched two of Tuesday's orgasms, and they were now moving rapidly into abandoned action, but Erline was still the only one totally naked.
Three hours of preliminaries ought to set some sort of record! In any crowd that Tuesday had run with, the first overt acts would have triggered a frenzy of orgiastic contortions. Surely everyone in the place would have reached at least one climax within the first hour and a half. That die situation was so different here she attributed tentatively to the fact that these were not new experiences; there was an atmosphere of confidence and mutual faith here that would have been lacking in any of the groups Tuesday knew. These Western, middle-class people knew what was coming and meant to make the most of it at their leisure. They approached multiple sex as they might a rich banquet, savoring each course to the fullest before beginning the next. They obviously knew that nothing would happen to rob them of later delicacies, and they were in no great hurry to reach the dessert.
Erline, her hips now thrashing in response to Tony's caresses, seemed lost in her determination to strip him. His clothes came away, and Tuesday gave him a silent apology for her earlier assessment of his build. What she had interpreted as the beginnings of an Italian belly was instead the deep-muscled bulge of an athlete. Where she had expected to see rolls of fat, she saw only the smooth ripple of hard sinews. Naked, his entire structure emphasized the power behind his erect penis. She stared at it, fascinated by its ridges and bulbous head, half covered by foreskin, and ground her teeth when Erline's hands closed around it to hide it from view.
She looked back at Midge and Cad. Midge's dress was bunched about her waist, the top folded down and the skirt thrust up. Her bra was gone, and her breasts spread outward over her heaving chest. Her panties, if she'd worn any, were nowhere to be seen. Her thighs angled downward from the hip, widely separated, and her heels rested far apart on the floor. Carl had thrown off his clothes while Tuesday was watching something else, or daydreaming, and his finely molded figure lay in the cradle of Midge's legs. From the rhythmic pumping of his taut buttocks and Midge's low cries, it was obvious that he had penetrated her. As Tuesday watched, he raised his feet from the floor, extending them out to the rear, tight together, and rocking his weight on Midge's pubic arch. Midge cried out in pleasure and thrust upward with her hips. She broke into a continuous undulating moan, letting her head hang floor-ward and tossing it from side to side.
"Oh-oh-oh! Hard, Carl, hard!" Midge demanded.
And suddenly the big woman's legs came-up to lock around Carl's body. She crossed her ankles and squeezed, and the chair bucked with her thrashing.
Tuesday gasped, shaken by the violence of Midge's struggles. She saw fingernails dig into Carl's back, and glistening droplets of blood appeared as the nails were dragged outward toward his sides. There was an abrupt rigidity in Carl's frame, and it bounced to Midge's contortions as she was swept into the grip of orgasm. Then her heaving quieted, and her legs gave a series of convulsive shakes before they relaxed to mold themselves to Carl, her knees pressed tenderly in at his waistline.
Tuesday trembled, wondering what there was about the scene that moved her so. The chair-borne position wasn't unusual; it was almost classic, except that the arms of the chair had given Midge's hips and shoulders firmer support than any bed would have, while her back had been free of interference, allowing her the greatest possible latitude for motion. It must have been the sheer lack of convention, Tuesday decided, and perhaps the disparity in size and contour of the two bodies. There was a hint in this mating of the delicate male needle fly mounting his bulkier, powerful mate.
Tuesday sighed and readjusted herself. Sex was sex, she had often insisted editorially. It was fun, and it ought to be enjoyed without overtones of guilt. It was an experience that should be relived whenever-and with whomever-imagine dictated. But she'd considered it pretty much a repetitive thing. Men's urge to experiment with positions ought to be tolerated, because it made them happy. In the long run, though, for the woman, position meant little-if one ignored an occasional twinge of offended modesty. The sensation of orgasm was an inner thing that was independent of outer detail. It was heightened by affection, so that coming with a man you liked very much was far more satisfying than the climax of a romp with one for whom you felt no real attachment, but what was happening physically made no detectable difference.
She smiled at herself. She'd been the worst sort of prig as an editor. Without benefit of research, she had theorized. Sure, she'd twisted herself into all sorts of awkward shapes to please various lovers, but she realized now that her games had drawn very little from their surroundings. The more unusual the environment in which she'd given herself to men, the greater effort she-and the man-had made to adapt their setting to conventional habits. Here, she was learning a new dimension of excitement. For the first time since that first youthful surrender, she was feeling the impact of novelty on her erotic responses. There would be a new flavor in the next editorial she wrote. There was going to be a depth which expressed itself in the tone of her paragraphs rather than in the specific words-which would come across as a feeling rather than an explicit message. She wondered if old Mr. Quackenbush would sense the change. Or the younger Emerson.
She abandoned her musing, then. Lucy had straightened and drawn back from Greg. She stood before him now, her hands on his shoulders, her body quaking, her eyes fixed as if in hypnosis while Greg's fingers sought out the fasteners of her clothes. He peeled her blouse off her arms and slid her skirt down her slender legs. She looked childish for a moment in her plain bra and snug briefs, but when Greg pulled the bra away, her breasts swelled into curved cones, small but full. The left one was reddened, eloquent of the insistence of Greg's mouth. It would be a mounded bruise by morning, Tuesday suspected.
Now Greg removed Lucy's briefs-slowly, almost ceremoniously. Tuesday understood why, as she watched, and she gained a new affection for Edna's husband out of this show of dramatic awareness.
Lucy's hips swelled provocatively below a tiny waist. Her thighs were tapered alluringly, and the curvature of her abdomen dipped under a miniature thatch with what Tuesday could only have described as demureness. The girl was a cameo of all that was most feminine and appealing. She looked as if the intrusion of a normal man must rupture her, and Tuesday shivered at the thought that there must be times when she accepted the massive Ron Miller into herself. Even with Greg, medium in height and stockily built, the prospect made Tuesday visualize the mating of a small Arabian mare to a draft horse.
Lucy's next action startled Tuesday. The fingers that had rested on Greg's shoulders clutched tighter, and she swayed toward him. Her arms slipped up around his neck, and she lifted herself, her feet well off the floor. Now she swung her legs up and around his waist, and her mouth was on his in a sudden, greedy kiss. He cupped his hands under her buttocks, and she ground herself against his belly. His penis jutted up, its tip a scant fraction of an inch from the tiny folds that hid Lucy's opening. And then she began to let herself settle onto it.
Greg's fingers parted her vulva, and she rested solidly on the head of his shaft. As she loosened her grip on his neck, the purple head disappeared, and her taut tissues began to absorb the first thickness of the thrusting pole. Her breath came out in a gust, and Tuesday grunted in a sympathetic reaction. When the last of the ridges vanished and Lucy hung against Greg, impaled and riveted to him, Tuesday felt a sudden gush of warmth in her own loins. She twitched, surprised and a little dismayed at her response to this visual stimulus.
In the back of her mind, she wondered, for she'd been exposed to films designed to stimulate, and none had moved her. It was difficult for her to understand what there was in this tableau that should make it different. But in the foreground of her thought, there was only awareness of the increasing heat of Greg and Lucy's fusion.
Lucy's waist swiveled, and her hips lashed in and out, driving her vulva back and forth along the length of Greg's penis. He matched her motion with his own, his thrusts timed to meet hers, and there was a steady, rhythmic pounding of wet impacts. Tuesday could anticipate the result, and she breathed with quick, shallow inhalations as she waited for Lucy's ultimate surge.
She gasped when the tiny woman suddenly flung herself backward. But Greg must have been expecting the move. His hands caught Lucy's waist, and the nimble blonde seized his arms with her hands and lay horizontal in his grasp, letting him sweep her to and fro.
"Oh! Oh, Greg! Now-now-now! For God's sake, make it now!" cried Lucy.
Greg groaned, and sweat dripped off his chin to splash on Lucy's belly. His legs shook, and he crushed her crotch against himself, gulping as if to the urge of an inner pump.
"Ah-h-h! God, that's hot!" Lucy exclaimed. She quivered, and the cords stood out in her neck. "Greg! Your prick! It gets bigger every time! I feel like I'm nothing but prick inside!"
"Something's there milking it, baby," Greg responded with obvious effort. "You've got the most talkative cunt I've ever felt!"
Lucy laughed-a shaky, panting laugh. "Unh!" she yelled. "Unh! It's ... just. . . training!" She shuddered and began to go limp.
Then, when the rigidity had drained out of both of them, Greg pulled her back to him and began to kiss her neck. Lucy put her arms around him, and they clung together in the afterglow of climax.
Tuesday's muscles writhed. She flexed her legs, feeling the mouth of her vagina gape like a fish at the surface of a pond, and she thrust her chest up, her breasts rising to tremble in their tautness. She felt more vibrant and alive than she could remember. She crooned softly, not quite knowing the self that she had discovered, but exultant in her new eagerness. At that moment, she didn't care if she spent the remainder of her California visit bound and spread. For the first time in her life, she was giving and receiving at someone's else's direction. Her crisp, authoritative control was a thing of memory-a quality that must belong to another person-someone she'd known, not been. For tonight, and perhaps for longer, if her new friends chose, she was but a ready receptacle, an instrument on whom they would try their experimental chords. She tingled, and she longed for the next experience in excitement. But she longed without irritation. The longing itself was a form of stimulus; it kept fingers of tension coursing through her system, and made her acutely conscious of every fiber.
Hearing an exclamation from Edna, she turned her head. Then she stiffened, a tremor of apprehension tightening her belly. Edna and Erline were struggling, grappling with each other while Tony watched with a quiet grin. Erline appeared to be getting the best of Edna, for as Tuesday tried to sort out the action, she saw that one of Edna's wrists was forced up between her shoulder blades. The sheath that the hostess had worn lay crumpled at her feet, and her bra had come off. Now Erline had Edna's other arm twisted, and it was being edged up to join the first. Sweat stood out on Edna's face, and she bent slowly from the hips to ease the agony in her shoulders.
"No fair!" Edna protested. But there was a note of laughter in her voice that belied the apparent deadliness of the match.
"Sure it is," responded Erline. She chuckled. "It's just what you did to me last time!"
Edna groaned, and Erline forced her head down, sidling around until her abdomen pressed against her captive's flawless coiffure. Tuesday winced as she saw the meticulous waves of hair torn free of their restraints, but as Edna continued to bend, the twisting head disappeared between Erline's thighs. Now Erline straightened Edna's arms, maintaining the precise degree of twist on them that would prevent Edna's bending them at the elbows. Held helpless in Erline's grasp, Edna planted her feet and subsided. She stood with buttocks elevated and thighs spread, open to Tony's purposeful approach.
"Excellent, girls," he said. "Splendid! Edna, that's perfect!"
His penis drove into her on the last word. She flinched, rising on her toes, then sagged back onto him with a sigh.
"Oooh!" she sighed. "Oh, that's great!"
Tony pumped, holding Edna's hips with his hands and buffeting her with his hard belly. She seemed to be oblivious of her discomfort, quivering and humping at his thrusts.
Now Tony leaned his weight on his hands, lifted his feet from the floor and hooked his toes behind Edna's knees. He rode her, dropping his weight again and again onto the prod that stabbed into her.
Tuesday strained at the lashings on her wrists and ankles, the bite of the cords satisfying her hunger for some external sensation to augment the visual stimulus. She gulped air as the pair surged into orgasm, feeling again the gush of warmth that was her own vaginal fluid.
Somewhere, a door opened. Tuesday felt a breath of cool air from outside, and she strained to see the door to the entry hall. Then Ron was there, his glance taking in the changes that had come about in his absence, an expression of anticipation on his features.
But after her first quick look, Tuesday forgot Ron's expression, for a heavy leather band circled his hand, and a thick lead ran ten inches to a chain around the neck of a lunging, yelping white brute. A giant Samoyed sled dog, far larger than any she'd seen in Eastern shows, leaned against the leash, his hair standing out in a shaggy ruff, his amber eyes sparkling, his teeth bared in what seemed an evil leer.
She saw his gaze settle on her, and he reared against the restraint of his chain.
"Ron!" she screamed. "No, Ron!"
Ron dropped the lead, and Genghis lunged toward her.
V
The dog bounded straight to the table and rested his chin on it, staring into Tuesday's panic-stricken eyes. Rearing up, he placed his front paws on the tabletop and leaned over to touch her cheek with his tongue.
The laughing dog, her Samoyed-owning friends called the breed. Watching Genghis, she understood. His wide-set eyes crinkled at the corners, and his mouth turned up in a genial grin. His nose pad and lips were charcoal-black, in startling contrast to the white of his long hair. She gazed at his ruff, suspecting that it must be charged with static electricity to stand out as it did. And the dog's expression, seen close up, was so kind and friendly that it dispelled her fears. She turned her face and made kissing sounds with her mouth.
Genghis barked, an excited yelp of response, and his head and shoulders shook with pleasure.
"You've made a hit," Erline observed, releasing Edna's arms and stepping back from her head. "He loves that sound."
"Really?' Tuesday tried it again, and the dog whined and tossed his head.
"Really. You'd think he never got any kind of attention, the way he turns inside out when someone notices him."
"He's gorgeous," Tuesday said. "Just gorgeous!"
"He knows it, too." Erline chuckled. "He's as vain as a teen-ager."
"Full of gratitude, too," Ron remarked dryly. "Oh?"
Erline came closer and nodded, an expectant gleam in her eye. "He sure is! Hell do anything, now, to show you his affection."
The tone of Erline's voice made Tuesday tense. The slender blonde was telling her something, and she was missing it. She tried to remember the remark that had sent Ron home for Genghis, but it wouldn't come back to her.
"Good boy," she crooned to the dog. "Good boy. You know when someone-likes you, don't you?"
Genghis'' head bobbed. He dropped to all fours and bounced around the room. His tongue hung out at the side of his mouth, a droll slab of pink against the white. His tail curled over his back, a magnificent plume. Now he heaved himself up again, lapping at Tuesday's face with happy whimpers. Drawing his head back, he sniffed at her arm, touched the armpit with the tip of his tongue, then leaned forward to touch the velvet pad of his nose to her breast. She squirmed as his tongue came out to caress the quivering mound.
"Erline!" she exclaimed. "Where'd he learn that! Dogs don't lick breasts!"
"This one does." Erline smiled. "It isn't hard to train them, if a person wants to."
"And ... and you wanted to." Tuesday pulled away from the slow-lapping tongue, but Genghis followed her movement without losing his easy stroke.
"I ... Yes. I wanted to." Erline smiled again.
Genghis abandoned Tuesday's breast now, sniffed at her rib cage, then letting his nose trace a tingling path down her side. She squealed as it touched her waist, tickling. He dropped back to the floor, then, and padded around the table log. When his nose touched the tender flesh of her crotch, Tuesday jerked her hips and shrieked. "Eee! Get him away!" To her heated tissue, the contact felt cold and wet.
She heard the dog's breath quicken, and there was a hint of excitement in it. Even by straining to raise her head, she could see only the top of his head, and his eyes, but from his expression she knew he was extending his tongue. Now it dragged upward along the valley of her vulva in a short, forceful stroke, and her hips leaped.
There were a number of lighter strokes, tentative and searching, and then the stout tongue drove past the outer lips to lick at the inner ones.
She arched herself and mumbled incoherent pleas. Thrills shot inward. Heat rose in her belly and washed through her. like Tony, she thought. No; not like Tony. Tony knew ... he hunted for nerves ... watched me and listened to me. Genghis wants juice ... doesn't care what I do ...
She grinned momentarily. Not that she could do much. There was no way to protect herself or fend him off. She could only lie there, legs in the air and far apart, her vulva fully exposed, and with lips so swollen now that they gaped and pulled the mouth of her vagina open. She could only lie there and writhe under the seeking tongue. Whatever training he'd had must have been simple. It took little to make a dog lick up natural juices of the body. The only trick was being juicy for him when he started.
Even as this thought crossed her mind through the static of her mounting passion, Genghis shifted his attack; the tip of his tongue curled over the surface of her clitoris. She gasped as he caught the aching lump between the little teeth in the front of his mouth and nibbled gently, with a motion such as he would have used to crush a flea in his coat.
"OmigodV screamed Tuesday. "Hell bite it off!"
But it didn't hurt, and she gradually accepted the fact that he'd been trained far more extensively than she'd guessed.
Great pulses of excitement jolted her now, and she fought to keep from passing out. But Genghis seemed to feel he'd satisfied his obligation, and soon released her clitoris, his tongue squirming back to the rim of her vagina. It lapped the surface dry, then drove inward.
"Ahh-h-h-h!" Tuesday was unable to control the sounds from deep in her throat as the instrument explored and scoured the walls of her cavity. Heat exploded inside her, and her body snapped in a spasm that paralyzed her. She shrieked silently, feeling her eyes bulge and her neck swell. The awful convulsion went on and on, and she feared suddenly that she would die of orgasm.
But as abruptly as Genghis had driven his tongue into her, he drew it out. Her contractions slowed, and the knots in her muscles loosened. She fell back onto the cushions, sobbing for air.
"My God!" she whispered when she could speak. "I didn't know anything in the world could feel like that!"
Erline laughed softly, and her hand stroked Tuesday's still shaking body. "Too bad you're up on the table, honey," she said.
"Why?"
"Because Genghis has just started."
"Just started? Oh, no! He's not going to start on me again! Hell strip the skin off!"
"No-no!" Erline shook her head. "Not that. Watch."
Erline made kissing sounds at Genghis, and he approached her. Tuesday observed that suddenly he appeared humped, as if drawn up by a cramp. His mistress retreated to the coffee table, where she tossed a cushion on le surface and dropped onto it, face up. She flung her thighs apart, then kissed at the dog again.
Genghis sniffed at her crotch, lapped at its fluid quickly, then heaved himself up and planted his forepaws to either side of Erline's waist. He inched forward with his hind paws, while a long, red rod thrust out below his belly, sharp-pointed and jerking. When it bumped against Erline, she reached down to guide it.
With a lunge, Genghis buried his penis from sight. He pumped violently, and Erline grasped the sides of the coffee table, her knuckles white.
"Good boy! Good boy, Genghis!" The blonde swung her legs up, pressing her thighs against the dog's sides, and buried her hands in his ruff. "Oh, yes, Genghis! Hard!"
Her eyes glazed. Her mouth yawned wide, and her tongue protruded. Her body slammed against the table under the dog's pounding, and her skin flushed a deep, mottled red. Tuesday trembled, her plunge from her own orgasm arrested by the bizarre scene. Had anyone proposed seriously to her even a half-hour ago that she invite a dog to mount her, she'd have been revolted, she told herself. Yet now, watching as he laughed down into Erline's ecstatic face and drove into her, Tuesday bit her lip and wished it were she on the coffee table instead of Erline. But a quiet whisper in a corner of her mind insisted that she'd deny the longing in the morning.
When Genghis ejaculated, it was an awesome spectacle. He drew in upon himself, shriveling almost as if someone had deflated him. He clung to Erline's waist, buckling at every joint, before backing weakly away.
Erline unwrapped her legs from about him and helped him free. "Good boy ... good boy..." Her voice was weak, and the words came slowly. Genghis curled up on the floor and began to clean his shrinking penis, whimpering as if in pain.
Erline pushed herself erect. "Better get him out of here now," she said to Ron. "Why?" Tuesday asked.
Everyone in the room chuckled at the question, and she looked from one to another. "Why?" she repeated.
"He's a repeater," Ron explained. "Hell be ready in twenty minutes to go again. It'd take a half hour the next time. The rest periods get a little longer, but he keeps coming back as long as you'll let him."
Tuesday swallowed. "Good heavens! Do you ... That is, can he ... I mean, how long does...? "
Erline laughed. "How long can he keep coming back?"
"Y-yes."
"I don't know. I've never-" "You haven't let him?"
"Well ... You mean have I let him come back?" Tuesday nodded.
"I've let him come back." Erline grinned. "Sometimes I let him. And once in a while I wonder just how long he could last." She shrugged. "But I never have found out. He can stand it longer than I can."
"Br-r-r!" Tuesday shuddered. But then her editorial curiosity surged to the fore. "Have you ever ... Well ... this wasn't a natural position for a dog. I mean, your position wasn't natural for him."
"Oh! No; of course not."
"Have you let him ... I mean..."
"Say it, editor lady," Erline urged.
"All right! Have you ever let him mount you while you were on all fours?"
Erline sighed. "Yes. The first time was an accident, as a matter-of-fact. It just worked out that way. It's kind of fun, in a perverse sort of way. I like it-the way he wraps his front paws around me, I mean. But I thought it wouldn't be very dignified here."
"I suppose not," Tuesday said doubtfully.
It was difficult to make the distinction. That anyone was even giving token consideration to dignity tonight came as a surprise to her. It was particularly incongruous to imagine Erline being concerned. Still, Tuesday supposed there must be some sort of boundary in the girl's mind.
Ron led Genghis out through the glass door to the pool area. Then returned to the group, grinning down at Edna and Tony, who lay in a heap on the floor.
"I see you got to Edna while I had my back turned," he said to Tony.
Tony returned the grin. "I wouldn't say that, Ron. It was while you were out." "Hmph! Big difference."
"All the difference in the world. I didn't have to rush things."
Ron nudged Edna with his toe. "Was it good?" "Good? Real good! But I'll get some energy back pretty soon."
"Okay. I think I'll play with the dolly for a bit while I wait."
Edna looked toward Tuesday. "Have fun," she murmured.
Tuesday groaned inwardly. Hell, he'd already played with her! She hoped he wouldn't use the bottle again. It had seemed the height of indignity. Erline really should have objected to that.
Ron stood beside the table and undressed. "No use being the only one here who isn't naked," he remarked. He glanced over at Midge. "Or practically naked," he amended.
He drew up one of the chairs and sat at the side of the table. "It's like smorgasbord, kitten. Mind if I help myself?"
"What if I did?" Tuesday asked.
"Well, I don't know. From the way you've reacted tonight, I guess I wouldn't pay much attention." "Because I've liked everything?"
"Well, you've objected to everything until we got well along in it. Then you found out it was fun. Odds are, I'd think just about any protest grew out of ignorance."
"That's not a very kind way to look at it."
Ron stroked her abdomen while he considered her comment. At last he smiled at her and tweaked one of her nipples. "Look, honey. If I ever started to do one of the things to you again that've been done to you tonight-if I started and you objected-I'd stop. I'd figure you knew what you liked and what you didn't. But right now I don't think you've tried a hell of a lot."
"You win." Tuesday gave him an answering smile. "I can't fight you. And I'll admit that I don't want to, right now. But is there any rule against kissing?"
"You want me to kiss you?"
"Does it bother you-the idea of kissing me?"
"Lady editor, you're something out of this world! Something strange and wonderful!"
She turned her head to face him. "How do you mean that, Ron?"
He shook his head and met her gaze. "Well, look at us-at who we are and what we represent, I mean." "All right, let's," Tuesday replied.
"Right. You've Miss Tuesday Valerie. The Miss Valerie. Hell, you're the most successful, most talked-about lady editor in the country. Right?"
"So?"
"Not one month's gone by in the past two years without one of the big publications or one of the networks doing a special on you. 'The Real Miss Valerie "Our Tuesday "Miss Playgirl Boss!' 'Untouchable, iron-willed, iceberg Valerie,' they all say. 'Miss Dignity and Poise herself, with an editorial gimmick that's simply tailored to fit the readers' low mentalities and lower tastes.' "
Tuesday studied Ton. His eyes were fixed, staring at hers, and his face was as earnest as his tone. "All right," she said. "I've read them."
"And I'm Ron Miller. I manage one of the two biggest stock brokerages on the West Coast, Tuesday. I'm Mr. Civic Virtue. Me!" He looked as if the idea startled him.
"Edna pointed out your building to me the other day," I Tuesday murmured. "And I've noticed that there's hardly a day when the paper isn't quoting you on something."
He nodded. "Right. There you are. But take another look. Here I sit, stark naked, and I'm not even bothering to pull up close enough to the table to hide myself!"
"With your build, you don't really need to."
"That's not what I mean. How often does a man sit around naked with you in the room?"
Tuesday laughed, pleased at the implied compliment. "Never," she said. "Never before tonight."
"I'd guessed that," Ron muttered. "Never. Okay. So I do it tonight, and you talk to me as if we were fully clothed at a cocktail party."
"Mmmmm-hmm. So I do."
"So you do. And Miss Valerie..." He leaned back. His gaze left her face, going to her bound wrist, then slowly along the length of her arm, coming to rest on her up-thrust breast. She winced, almost unconsciously, as it lingered there, but it passed oh, taking in the dip of her waist and the gentle bulge of her lower abdomen, pausing again as it reached the glistening, black thatch of pubic hair, and finally climbing her outstretched legs to their lashings. Finally he turned to look into her eyes again, and she felt a flush darkening her face. It spread, and she knew that her neck and shoulders were as crimson as her cheeks. She had trouble breathing, and nothing seemed to want to come out of her throat when she tried to speak. She swallowed hard, and began to feel a little more normal.
"Yes?" It was still only a whisper.
"And Miss Valerie," Ron murmured, "you lie on a dining room table, your arms stretched out beyond your head, your legs pointing at the ceiling. You're as naked as
I-more naked, because you're spread open and can't move; can't get away, can't hide or make a gesture to cover yourself, can't scratch yourself if you itch, and can't resist if I want to touch you. It doesn't matter where I decided to touch you. It doesn't even matter what it occurs to me might be fun or exciting to do to you. You can't stop me. You can't even make it difficult!" "I know!" Tuesday whispered.
There was none of the quiet normalcy left in her. The picture that Ron described and the contrast that he drew etched themselves on her mind.
"I know," she repeated.
"But I said you were something strange and wonderful. How do I mean it? Simply that you can find yourself in the position you're in-with no chance to prepare yourself for it ahead of time-and adapt so fast. Tuesday, how many women do you imagine could adjust as fast as you have?"
"I ... I haven't thought about it."
"How many would you guess?"
"I ... Well, I just don't know! I doubt that any woman-well, any woman with average standards-would believe she could stand it or adjust to it."
"You're damn right! And there aren't-likely very many who could. Not even among confirmed swingers!" He glanced over his shoulder, then spoke in a lower tone. "There isn't a woman in this room who was able to take what you've already taken tonight, the first time she let us do this to her."
"But how could she stop you?"
"Cry. Just plain go to pieces. Hell, we're not monsters. The minute we realized that we'd laid on too much, this part of the game was over."
"Oh. Oh-h-h!"
Ron grinned. "They all came, back for seconds, though. This is the honor spot. It's the center of the stage. It's Queen for a Night! There isn't one of them who'd give up her turn now."
Tuesday chuckled. She admired Ron. He had a way of getting through to her. The awful sense of mortification that he'd induced was gone, and only a faintly acrid taste of it lingered.
"May I kiss you?" Ron asked. "I won't ask if I may do any of the other things that come to mind; I'll just go ahead and do them when I feel like it."
She shivered. "Please kiss me, Ron! I'd like that."
He bent over her, rising to do so, and his penis rested on the edge of the table. Tuesday felt his mouth on hers, and she drank the kiss in greedily, her lips rolling against his, their breath mingling. He had warm lips, that were full when he kissed, and she liked the rough feel of his chin against her cheek. She parted her own lips and touched his with the tip of her tongue. She was vaguely aware that his hand was stroking her breast, his fingers sliding up its slopes to close on the nipple and draw it out to full length. But it was his mouth that held her attention, and she sucked hard when his tongue came out to meet hers. She drew his tongue into her mouth, scrubbing it with her own.
Ron's breath quickened, and suddenly he drove his captured tongue over the warm surfaces of her mouth, exploring, probing to the threshold of her throat. His hand left her breast, and she felt it slide slowly over her belly. He fingered her thick pubic hair, then pressed into the gap between her vaginal lips. There was moisture there, and as his fingers moved they coated themselves. Still she gulped at his mouth, her breasts heaving with the emotion that swept her.
"Oh, Ron! Oh, darling!" she whispered when he drew back.
She stared up at him, and with wild perversity, his touch at her genitals seemed a personal and frightening thing.
VI
Ron toyed with her clitoris, but the movement of his fingers was almost random. He was studying her, and his eyes showed that his thoughts weren't on what his hand was doing.
"God, what a kiss!" he mumbled.
"Yes. Perhaps it was a mistake."
"Why?"
"I ... You're someone I know, now." "Now?"
"Well, before, there were two Rons. One was the one with the sense of humor, and ... well ... an analytical mind. The other was a sort of machine-not a person at all, really. He was a robot that knew what buttons to push to turn my body on and off. He was impersonal and unfeeling. He couldn't know me, and I didn't need to know him."
"And he's gone now?"
"He's gone. There's only one Ron. He's a guy who understand me-better than any other man does, anyhow-and a guy who kisses like he means it. What's worse, I know him! When he touches me where it's private..." She squirmed. "It does something to me! It does something emotional. And ... No. I'd better stop." "Go on, baby."
"Well ... all of a sudden I care what you think of me! Oh, Ron, what can you think of me when I lie here and let anyone do anything he damn well fancies?"
"Look, baby, how do you think Erline and I feel about each other?"
"You and Erline? I didn't think any couple who swapped could care very much about each other. But you and Erline ... Well, there's a look that goes between you. I'd say you share a depth of feeling that I don't often see."
Ron nodded. "Know what? I love her! I love the hell out of that broad! And you've had time to get an idea what kind of spectacle she can make of herself! You've even seen a little of her tastes."
"I guess so," Tuesday admitted.
"I love her. And it isn't that I love her anyway. It's that I love her more because! Does that make sense?" "A little bit."
"Let's make it a lot. She doesn't feel that she has to hide anything from me. She trusts me-really trusts! That's something you can't say for a lot of women. And she thinks enough of me to want to be honest; to want me to know what she's really like, deep inside. I love her for that."
"It makes sense; all of it." Tuesday looked into his face again, seeing a different Ron. He wasn't the automaton who knew exactly where to find the buttons that turned her on-whose fingers even now were making her hips jerk up and down to involuntary signals. But he wasn't the man whose kiss was deep and personal and hungry, either. He was a sensitive man with a thing: His thing was joy at female response. It was the thrill of being able to activate primitive reactions and drive them to their peak.
He nodded at her. "I think it does," he said. "I think you've made sense out of me."
"Ooooh!" She let her breath escape in along, whispered exclamation of pleasure. "Oooh!" she said again. "That feels good, Ron! I like!"
He looked down at his hand, a faintly surprised expression in his eyes. "I'll be damned!" he exclaimed
His fingers now settled on her clitoris, and he rolled it gently between them. Tuesday's excitement mounted, and once again her ankles took her weight.
Ron withdrew his hand. "You know me now," he murmured. "I'm going to stop. I'm going to mix another drink and sit in that easy chair over there and stare at you." He paused. His face lit up with a leer. "You know me, and it ll shock you when I use gutter language, right?"
"Yes."
"Right. Well, I'm going to sit there and stare at your tits and your cunt. I'm going to think about how much juice your cunt oozed while I played with it. I'm going to look down at my hard-on and think about how it's going to feel when I dunk my prick in your pussy. I'm even going to think about how it'd look-and how it'd feel-to have you tied to that footstool over there-lying over it on your belly, with each wrist tied to one of the legs and each of your knees tied to another-with Genghis mounted on you and his long, red, pointed cock rammed all the way up you and his hairy belly slapping your ass and his jism squirting into you. I'm going to daydream about all that while I watch you lying all spread out, waiting for me to make up my mind which I want to make real."
"Oh-h-h! " She whispered the exclamation, knowing that the Ron she now knew was speaking honestly and without reservation. "You will, Ron! You will, won't you!" What amazed her was the knowledge that she would watch his face as he sat there. She'd watch, knowing what he was thinking, her skin prickling and her nerves screeching at her, and wish that he'd say his dreams aloud.
God! she thought. Can this be Tuesday Valerie? Can I really tie here naked and helpless and want what I'm wanting? Yes, I can. I am. I do. God help me, I really do! And I'm not ashamed to admit it to myself! But there's a knot in my belly that I've never felt before, and there'll be miserable, sleepless nights when I'm back in New York, when I'm trying to convince myself that none of this happened! And there'll be times when I have to go back over my editorials to see how much of this new me has gotten into them.
Ron went to the kitchen, humming. He came back past her with a drink in his hand, and his glance caressed her. He lowered himself into the chair he'd pointed out, and proceeded to stare at her. He sipped his drink, and from time to time he glanced down at his erection and back up to smile at her.
The tissues of Tuesday's crotch twitched, and her breathing was irregular. She felt alternate chills and flashes of heat.
There was a bump at the patio door, and an imperative bark. Ron looked over his shoulder at the laughing face of the impatient dog, then deliberately back at Tuesday. He grinned and glanced at the footstool. She tensed, trying not to imagine herself crouched over the stool with Genghis s breath hot on her buttocks as he prepared to lunge up over her waiting form. But there was no way to shut out the vision; she could almost feel the silkiness of his belly hair spreading over her, and the hard length of his penis sliding into her until it pulsed against the end of her passage. There was a moment when she caught herself whimpering, and wasn't sure whether it was from shame or out of longing.
Carl had extricated himself from Midge's grasp, and Midge now pushed herself off the chair. She looked down at her crumpled dress with an exasperated grimace, then worked it off carefully. She glanced about at her companions, then went to the kitchen. When she came back, she paused beside Tuesday, setting her drink on the table.
"You've been a goddamn peach, honey," she told Tuesday.
"You mean that?"
"Hell yes! You've taken what they handed you without a lot of whining or begging. You've given us something fresh to play with. It's a better party because you're here."
"Well . . .thanks, Midge."
Midge smiled down at her and patted Tuesday's cheek. Then she bent down, taking Tuesday's face between her hands and staring into her eyes. "A goddamn peach," she repeated.
She bent closer, and Tuesday felt Midge's breast press on hers. It was a curious sensation, but she lost it in the feel of Midge's breath on her face. Their faces were so close together! She tried to turn hers, but Midge's hands held it still. Now Midge's lips crushed hers, and her tongue played over them. Tuesday gasped. She wrenched against the restraints and arched her body, but that only drove her breast up harder against Midge's, and she dropped back and accepted the kiss.
A woman's lips felt different from a man's, she discovered. This wasn't like the dry pecks at a party, where you kissed another woman to lay the seal of your contempt on her. This one was for real. Midge's lips were full, soft and warm. They were moist, too, and they worked caressingly against hers; they seemed almost to throb. Her tongue was the biggest problem, though. It wasn't as rough and hard as a man's. It felt more pliable, and it would have tickled if it hadn't aroused such intense tingles.
As helpless as she was-and aware of the fact that no one was objecting to Midge's action-Tuesday parted her lips and allowed the tongue to penetrate past them. It probed delicately, dancing over the inside of her mouth. It had a way of finding spots that Tuesday had no idea were sensitive. She trembled at the realization that she didn't want Midge to stop ... that she was pressing into the kiss and darting her own tongue past Midge's, imitating what Midge demonstrated.
Midge backed away suddenly, her eyes wide. "God, hon! I thought you'd fight me! I was teasing!"
Tuesday nodded. "I thought so when you started, Midge."
"Whew! I could tell you weren't used to that-didn't want me to do it-but you sure warmed up fast!"
"I'm a little on edge. I couldn't be anything else, laid out this way."
Midge chuckled, her calm returning by degrees. "I know the feeling. But it happened so fast!"
"I've sort of adapted. I made up my mind I wasn't going to fight anything you people decided to do to me-or to make me do. No one seems to want to hurt me, and you're teaching me things."
"I know, but ... well, you've taught me what they mean when they talk about a hair-triggered woman."
Tuesday chuckled. She felt comfortable with Midge. The woman was earthy, and God only knew what she might decide to do for a thrill, but she didn't make Tuesday feel mentally on the defensive.
"You're not Lesbian," Tuesday said.
"Hell, no! I like cock too well. I'm not even ambidextrous. I really don't like to touch other women. It was just a damn fool impulse, to see what you'd do."
Tuesday sighed. "I'm glad. I think I'd take anything tonight, but that's something I'd rather not."
Midge picked up her glass and gulped its contents. "Hey, hon, how about if I mix you one of these and stick a straw in it? I'll bet you could drink it that way. Okay?"
"Let's try. I'm thirsty as hell."
It worked, and Tuesday sank back contented. If she'd had any complaint about the way they were treating her, it would have been that they'd ignored her thirst. Now Midge had rectified that oversight.
Tuesday held the straw in the corner of her mouth, drawing on it when she felt like taking a sip, then savoring the taste. Midge was looking around the room.
"It's ... it's kind of spooky right now, isn't it," Midge commented.
"Spooky?"
"Well, not exactly spooky, but it's so quiet, and ... well. . . sort of dead."
It was quiet. There was music from the tape deck, of course, but it was hardly lively. And that was all. No one spoke.
Being careful not to lose the straw or upset her glass, Tuesday turned her head so that she could see. Her new friends sprawled about, exhausted-looking and sober. None appeared to be aware of the others. They were all nude, and every one but Ron had been through at least one orgasm. It was a. period for regenerating strength, she supposed; a time for reflecting on what had already happened and, for these people, reviewing past experiences to see if they wanted to relive them. In all-likelihood it was also a time for picturing their captive guest in unlikely situations and deciding whether to make them real.
For Tuesday, it was an opportunity to realize again the horror of her position. But she found it almost impossible to recapture that emotion. That might be one of the disadvantages of having achieved such facility for fitting into strange environments. The very quality that made it possible for her to explore controversial subject with people whose views opposed her own-even with people whom she found personally obnoxious-had tricked her into complete harmony with this fearful captivity. like a chameleon, she'd blended into her surroundings, and she would be unable to measure the full extent of her shock and revulsion until she was back in conventional society.
She sighed and drew in another sip. Midge glanced curiously down at her, as if reminded by the sigh that she was still there, then drifted away to find a place to relax.
Tuesday noticed that each of the others studied her from time to time. Their regard looked speculative, but it also appeared to be framed in lassitude, so that whatever they were translating the scene into was-likely to remain nothing more than imagination. All but Ron, she thought. He looked at her oftener and longer, and she felt that he would sooner or later hit upon an idea that would drive him to action. Lacking the orgasmic release the others had enjoyed, he was probably highly keyed up. Certainly his erection was a thing of impressive persistence. And his expression was alive. She watched smiles flit across his features, only to give way to faint frowns as he evidently abandoned titillating ideas. She felt a quick warmth in her skin, and knew that it was a flush of anticipation. She'd be ready when Ron was, and it didn't make a damn bit of difference what kind of game he finally settled on. She'd like it, and she'd put everything she had into it.
Genghis banged against the door again, and helped. Ron looked, then roused himself and let the dog in. Genghis seemed surprised. He came to the center of the living room, then stopped abruptly and turned to stare at each of the humans. He moved slowly toward the couch, where he sniffed at Erline and accepted her quick caress. Then one by one he went to each of the other women, but he paused longest before tiny Lucy.
Lucy leaned forward to put her arms around his massive neck and hung his head to her breast. When he pulled back, Lucy slid from the couch to her knees and clung to him. He shook himself, and she clung tighter. When he threw himself on his side, she crouched over him, mauling him. Cat-like, Genghis sprang to his feet and away, then pounched on her. As she lost his support, Lucy had dropped her hands to the floor to steady herself, and before she could move, the dog heaved himself up over her bottom. His front paws curved around her waist, and Tuesday could see the skin on Lucy's side drawn taut by his embrace.
Lucy squealed, then laughed aloud and dropped onto her elbows.
"All right, white dog," she said. "Go ahead! See if you can!
Genghis snuffled forward, covering her. For a moment, Tuesday could see his penis. It snaked out toward Lucy and touched her, and then his trip-hammer pumping drove it out of sight.
"Oh, my God!" Lucy cried. "The sonovabitch did!"
Genghis swept her back against his belly with his forepaws, again and again, in a dizzying rhythm, and his rump snapped in and out rapidly. Lucy's head jounced. Her body disappeared under the thick veil of the dog's hair, and all that Tuesday could see of her was the flailing head, her arms, and her widely planted legs. But the movement of those parts body told a revealing story, and it was easy to follow the progress of her rising excitement.
Tuesday held her breath and tensed her body when Genghis and Lucy approached climax. It appeared that Genghis preceded his human bitch by several seconds, but he continued to cling to her, lurching with her violent thrusts until she had finished. Even then, he stayed on her.
At last Lucy uttered a muffled laugh. "Are you going to cover me forever, your furry majesty? Afraid you're not going to be able to pull that long prick out of me?"
Erline chuckled. "Hell, he'd just as soon rest in you as any other way. It takes a while for his dick to shrink, and it probably doesn't hurt as much to pull it out after it's all shriveled up."
"Oh. Well, I hate to admit it, but if he doesn't get off pretty quick, I'm going to come again." "What?"
"Hell yes! The combination of thinking about what's happening to me, and his hair all over me, and that long thing all doubled up. in me ... Christ, it's making me get hot all over! Oooh! Jesus! Here I go! Oh, Erline! Get him off! No! Too late!"
There was a flurry of motion beneath Genghis, and he cocked his head to look down at Lucy. Tuesday was positive that? his expression was one of sheer amazement, mixed with a tinge of discomfort.
"Oh-h-h!" Lucy groaned, and from the way her voice quivered, it was obvious that she was in the throes of a new orgasm.
Afterward, Genghis appeared to recognize the wisdom of discretion. He backed off with a cautious air, and Lucy collapsed onto the floor.
"Jesus Christ, Erline, he's fantastic!" Lucy panted, pulling herself into a huddled mound.
"He's a lovable reprobate," Erline observed. "But hell, Lucy, that's not the first time he's mounted you!"
"No, but it's the first time I've gotten down like one of his bitches for him!"
"It does make a difference, doesn't it?" Erline grinned.
'It sure does! How do you keep him from jumping you every time you bend over? "
"That's where the training comes in."
"It is?"
"Sure! It's easy to get him to mount you. He can hardly wait. Hell, a dog's like a man; hell mount anything! The trick's in making him understand what the signals are."
"Signals? He has signals?"
"Of course. He won't try unless he gets the right kind of go-ahead."
"What's that?"
Erline laughed. "Mostly the lack of a loud rejection." "Oh." Lucy subsided. "Am I safe here?" "I guess so, for the time being. You're even safe if you want to move. But wait twenty minutes, and he won't let you get up. The minute you try, hell be covering you again."
"Jesus! I'm going to get up while I can!" Lucy struggled to her feet and tottered to the couch, where she sank into the cushions. "He's great, but I couldn't take another screwing like that for a while."
"For such a little girl, I thought you held up rather well," Tony remarked.
"You keep out of it," replied Lucy.
"Well, okay. For a while, there, it didn't look like there'd be room for me to get into it."
"Oh, Tony, how vulgar!" Lucy wrinkled her nose.
"Sorry, baby."
"Never mind. It's just your way."
Tuesday let her thought wander. The mating between the great, white dog and the diminutive Lucy had excited her. She'd felt hot fluid well from her cavity again, and now it was chilling her tissues. She'd enjoyed the action, and she'd caught herself hoping she'd be next. But now that it was over, she knew that she didn't really want to duplicate Lucy's feat.
If Ron insisted-if he did lash her over the footstool and turn Genghis loose on her-she was going to respond with wild lust. But she hoped fervently that he wouldn't.
VII
There were signs of renewed life in the room now. A stray remark was made; after further silence, there was a response. Someone thought about what had been said and added to it. Little ,by little, conversation got under way and liquor began to flow again. Tuesday listened, reluctant to enter into topics that seemed to be locally oriented, but aware that her understanding of the suburban syndrome was deepening.
Then she noticed that Ron and Tony had gotten together, and that their low-toned discussion concerned her. From time to time they glanced in her direction, and both appeared to be pleased with whatever they were thinking about. Greg joined them soon, and then Carl. She heard chuckles punctuating their comments. Soon, she reflected, I'll know what they're cooking up. Sure as hell, it's going to be something to turn me on again. She didn't resent the thought, but welcomed it as a break in what was getting to be a tiresome lull.
When they did come over to her, she was momentarily disappointed, for it appeared that they meant to release her from her bonds.
She was having an. exciting night, but she knew that if they set her free, she'd withdraw from the activity. No matter how violently she had responded to the stimuli they forced upon her, she hadn't reached the stage where she could, take the initiative. She hadn't even reached the stage where' she would submit freely to many of the acts that she suspected were going to be performed. Paradoxically, she wasn't nearly ready for the night to end, and when they untied her arms and legs, she had to clamp her teeth together to keep from protesting.
But it was quickly evident that the men had no intention of giving up their physical control. They helped her to a sitting position and rubbed circulation back into her legs and her arms, but when the pain had receded, they tied her wrists together in front of her.
"I imagine you'd like to visit the bathroom," Edna remarked quietly in Tuesday's ear. "I'll take you."
As if they had expected the move, the men gave Edna the end of the rope that secured Tuesday's wrists and let her lead her guest from the room. Tuesday entered the bathroom, and Edna pushed the sliding door closed, but the rope extended outside, so that Tuesday could neither latch nor lock the door. Giving up, she took advantage of the facilities, a feeling of vast relief flooding her. When she was finished and had freshened herself, she allowed herself to be led back to the party. There was a drink waiting for her, and she stood in the slowly milling group while she sipped it, no different from the others, except that she had to use both hands on her glass.
When she finished, Ron took the loose rope end and led her back to the table. She noted that they had removed the uprights during her absence, but Ron gave her little time for reflection. He helped her onto the table, where he made her sit. At his direction, she drew her knees up, placing her feet close together on the tabletop, heels touching her buttocks.
"Good," Ron said. "Very good."
He untied her wrists, and Tony and Greg came over to help. They made her wrap her arms around her thighs, tying loops of light rope to her wrists and joining the lines at the small of her back, so that she hugged her knees tightly to her breasts. Ron then pushed her knees apart, so that they bracketed her chest. The others tightened her bonds, and Tuesday found herself unable to produce the slightest movement of either arms or legs. With her arms wedged at the back of her knees, she could no longer keep her feet anywhere near each other, nor were they now close to her body. She was spraddle-legged, and the folds of her vulva gaped.
She gave a nervous laugh. "I thought I was spread out before!"
Ron smiled. "There's a hell of a lot of exposure this way," he conceded. "You're ... well, convenient."
"Br-r-r! That sounds awful!"
"I suppose. But I'll show you what I mean."
He pulled her toward him across the polished surface until her bottom teetered at the end of the table. With his hands, he balanced her. He inched forward, and she could look downward between her breasts and see the head of his penis resting against her. He eased forward more, and its ruddy head forced her open, slipping into her. She gasped.
Ron continued to push until his entire shaft had disappeared, and his belly met hers, blocking the view.
"Good God, Ron!" She began to perspire, and a tightness rose in her throat as if his penis had reached it. "God, that makes you go deep!"
"It's damn good for penetration, baby. Get's a guy right up into your guts."
He pumped gently, and Tuesday moaned with pleasure. "I like this!" she exclaimed.
"There's one way to make it even better," he told her.
"Want to try?"
"It's your choice," she replied. "I'm not taking any responsibility for what you people do to me tonight."
He grinned. "Fine. Well try."
He pulled out, and pushed her back on the table. Greg and Tony untied the wrist lines and let her take her arms from her thighs. But before she could clamp her knees together, Tony seized her shoulders and bent her down between them. It was a cramped position, but Tuesday yielded without protest as they drew each of her arms under the angle formed by the calf and thigh on its side of her body. To her amazement, they were able to extend her arms straight out to her sides. Slowly, so that she had time to adjust to the strain, they twisted her arms and bent her elbows, tying the lines from her wrists together at her back again. The backs of her hands rested in the hollow of her waist at her sides, and her feet now projected directly out at face level. She understood what Ron had meant.
She could not fill her lungs, but she tingled as Ron drew her toward the edge of the table again. Her view was unobstructed when he buried his penis in her this time. Instead of pumping with his hips, he now rocked her on the taut swell of her bottom. She groaned at the depth of his penetration, but excitement welled within her, and she trembled at the speed of her build-up.
Suddenly Ron withdrew, and Tuesday cried out in protest. He ignored her objection, taking her in his arms and carrying her to the coffee table, where he deposited her on her back on a pile of cushions. Taking another length of rope, he fastened it to her knees, passing it under the table first, so that it steadied her.
When Tuesday had adjusted to the new situation, she saw that Edna had brought a feather duster into the room. Edna seated herself on the floor next to the coffee table and began to caress her helpless friend with the tips of the feathers. At another time, Tuesday recognized, the strokes would have tickled. Now, they inflamed her. She found that even her present immobility failed to prevent her muscles from writhing, and she was soon in a frenzy of motion.
Edna handed the duster to Erline, who continued the searching contacts, and as Tuesday became increasingly sensitive, the feathers were wielded by each member of the party in turn.
It was a unique experience for her, and she knew that few positions could have exposed exactly the right surfaces as this one did. Taut, the backs of her thighs quivered at each touch, and her straining buttocks ached with awareness.
Tony came to her now. He straddled her uptilted bottom and aimed his rigid penis down with his hand, pushing its head into the pocket at the mouth of her vagina. As he lowered himself, driving the shaft into her, she drew a shaky, audible breath.
"God Almighty, Tony! "she exclaimed. "I can't get over how deep a man can go when I'm like this!"
"It's a pretty special kind of exposure," he said.
He made no attempt to pump, appearing content to press against her, his testicles lying heavy in the valley between her buttocks. But the fullness continued to stimulate her, and she moaned and gasped for air.
Tony chuckled. He squeezed her crowded breasts, and pulled out.
"Tony! No! Don't take it out! Goddamnit, isn't anyone going to come in me?"
"Easy, baby. Easy. Well get around to that. Be satisfied to compare pricks right now."
Greg lowered himself into the saddle Tony had vacated. He impaled Tuesday, and she felt his heavily ridged shaft scrubbing in and out.
"Yes, darling! Oh, yes! That's what I want!"
But even as her excitement rose, he too backed away.
She groaned. "AD right! All right, you bastards! Who's going to dunk his next?" "I will," Carl said.
He did, and Tuesday realized that she was able to distinguish between sizes. But his penis was capable of arousing her further, even though it lacked the size that the other men boasted.
He rode her until she was at the threshold of her orgasm. Only at the last moment did he rob her of the penetration that meant so much to her.
She tossed her head, furious. "Jesus Christ!" she yelled. "Get Genghis over here! He can finish what he starts! I saw him!"
"To hell with Genghis," muttered Ron, plunging his penis into her tormented cavity. "He can wait."
"But you're torturing me!"
"Haven't you enjoyed every second of it?"
"Well ... yes, so far. But I want to come!"
"If you'd come for Carl, you wouldn't be this excited right now, would you?"
"I guess not."
"And if I let you come, you'll want to rest." "I ... Yes; I suppose so."
"Suppose, hell! You know you will! But we don't want you to rest. Not for the next little while, anyway."
"Oh, shit!" Tuesday said it with disgust. "Then keep it up. But I'm going out of my mind."
"Well help get you back in it." Ron laughed, and she felt his testicles jiggle on her bottom when he did. She squealed with delight.
Ron chuckled and let his weight settle on her, pressing her into the cushions. She groaned, feeling herself flattened. She had a sense of intolerable fullness, as if there weren't room inside her for the club he'd inserted.
"I'm going to make it!" she whispered. "I'm going to!"
"The hell you are!" Ron kissed her, pumping his hips so that her bottom bounced.
He was right, of course. He'd pull back before she had time to come. And when he did, she was torn between her desire to sob, and an insane impulse to laugh. She gave in to the impulse.
Genghis eased over to her during the ensuing pause, nosing at her and lapping at the copious fluid. But before he could make up his mind to mount her, the men began their rounds again.
Her shoulders cramped, suddenly, and the growing pain drove through her excitement. "Oooh! I need help!" she cried.
"What's wrong?" Greg asked from his perch atop her.
"I'm cramped! Oh, Greg, my shoulders hurt so!"
"Okay, baby. This is a pretty tough position."
He and Tony quickly loosened her bonds, and she doubled up. Sweat popped out on her skin, and she felt clammy. But the pain subsided, and she felt her warmth return. Greg rubbed her shoulders for her, then tied her wrists together behind her back.
Now Lucy laid her hand on Tuesday's abdomen, feeling it as if she were examining a piece of furniture. She looked up into Tuesday's face with a gentle smile. "Greg, wouldn't it be about time for the hunchback special?" she asked.
Tuesday winced. The bizarre term sounded out of place. But Greg brightened and nodded.
"Of course!" He patted Tuesday's bottom. "She's done so well tonight, she ought to go through that like a veteran!"
Ron glanced up. "Did I hear someone mention the hunchback special?"
Greg laughed. "You did." "Great! Inverted or natural?" "Let's make it inverted."
"Okay!" Ron leaped to his feet. "Come on, Tony!" Greg and Tony picked Tuesday up between them, tilting her back, with her legs up. Ron backed up between her legs until her calves rested on his shoulders. He grasped her shins and straightened, and as he did, Tony and Greg lowered her until her buttocks rested against Ron's back, and she hung head down from his shoulders.
She strained her neck to look up along her body. Her breasts pointed down toward her shoulders, cone-shaped, and beyond them she saw that her belly caved in and her mound protruded.
Greg stepped close to her, putting his mouth to her crotch. With his fingers, he stripped the hood back from her clitoris, then pulled it forward into his lips.
"Oh! Oh, Greg!" Tuesday twisted, her back scraping over Ron's, her shoulders bumping his buttocks.
Greg's penis rested between her breasts, and a glistening drop of moisture that had trembled at its tip spread over her skin in a slippery layer.
She jerked her muscles and broke into heavy panting. "Christ! I'm not used to this! It'll make me come!"
"That's right, puss," Tony said. "That's the idea, this time."
"Oh, no!" She wailed. "Not again! When is someone going to fuck me for real!"
"All in good time, baby. All in good time," Ron said, chuckling. "In fact, we'll have at you after this one."
"Oh! Oh-h-h!" Tuesday gave up the conversation and lost herself in the sea of passion that engulfed her. There was no hope of resisting her rising excitement, and she had no desire to do so. Her thighs leaped, flogging her against Ron. She felt his thighs part behind her head, and managed to tip her head back to see that he'd planted his feet to brace himself against her thrusts.
There was nothing spectacular in Greg's technique, as there had been with Tony's; he made no effort to seek out the subtler erotic centers, or to vary his assault. He merely pulled her clitoris into his mouth and scrubbed it with his tongue. But the combination of suction and friction flung her up the slope of response without a pause, and she heard herself begging for relief.
"Greg! Greg! It makes me so excited I'm afraid it's going to start hurting! Oh, Jesus! Go slower! Greg, please!"
But he ignored her outcry; his jaws and tongue continued to work. Her hair, already sadly disarranged, escaped the last of its restraints and whipped to the tossing of her head. Her fingers groped for loose flesh on Ron's back in vain. She tried to kick, but Ron held her lower legs as if they were in a vise.
Blood rushed to her head, and she felt herself growing giddy. She lost her awareness of the others in the room, and of her own situation. There was nothing but the tide of her passion, and it was rushing toward climax. A hot shudder enveloped her, and spasms racked her body. She felt as if she were choking as the orgasm seized her.
"Ah-h-h!" she cried. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!"
Her cries faded from her hearing, although she still felt them in her throat. She trembled violently and went limp, beginning the slide back to quietness. Vaguely, she felt hands take her weight, and Ron was stooping. They stood her on her feet, where she hung her head with her eyes closed, waiting for her vertigo to pass.
"Now?" she whispered. "Is some going to fuck me now:
"Now, pussy," Ron promised.
Fingers worked at the knots that held her wrists, and her hands came free. Then she fell a male back against hers once more, and her arms were pulled back. Whoever it was behind her bent forward, forcing her to arch back on him. As her feet left the floor, quick hands forced them apart. Then Tony bellied up to her and let the head of his penis press against the mouth of her vagina. It buried itself, filling her, and he began to pump. Her vanishing excitement revived, and she flung her legs around him, using them to lever herself into a humping rhythm that let her meet his lunges.
Too soon, she felt a rapid series of contractions in the shaft that had speared her, and a pool of warmth grew in her belly. She strained, but her own climax was still far off.
Tony backed away, emptying her, and she felt another penis shove its hard way in. The pumping rhythm resumed, and she flailed against her new assailant.
Again she had to accept a rush of warm fluid without responding with the gulping response of her own orgasm, and again the softening penis withdrew, to be replaced by a fresh hard one. And at last, when the tremor of this shaft warned her that another eruption was due, her body went rigid, and she gasped in answering frenzy.
"Oh, God! Oh. . . oh, God! Gang-fucked!" she mumbled as Ron lowered her from his back and turned to embrace her. "I know what it's like, now. But you still haven't come, Ron!"
"Tuesday, I'm going to tell you a dark secret. I'm one of those guys who can't make it more than once a night. I've never been able to get the hang of holding part of it back."
"Oh? Once you come, that's all?"
"Right. And the moment that happens, I lose all the interest I've built up. So I wait."
"I ... I guess that's fair. But I hate to wait."
"It's getting pretty late. Maybe it's about time."
Tuesday shivered. "Have you decided how it's going to be?"
"Well, I guess so. It's got to be worth the waiting."
"Mmmmm!" The effect of her last orgasm evaporated as she yielded to her imagination. "H-h-how's it going to be?" Her vagina puckered.
Ron crushed her mouth with his, and she thrust her abdomen against his swollen penis. When he raised his head, she lay back in his arms and watched his face.
"How, Ron?" she whispered. "How?"
"How about the way you started?" "At the breakfast bar?" "Right."
"Well ... if you like."
He led her to the bar, and she raised her arms to be tied. In a moment she was spread-eagled as she had been at the beginning of her experience. Ron fingered her as he again drank in her greedy kiss, and when she was panting and crying out for him, he crouched and aligned his penis at her crotch.
"Ready for old George?" he asked. "Is ... is that his name?"
"That's his name. Old George, my party pecker." "I'm ready for him. Oh, Ron, jam him deep!" "Deep it is."
He guided his shaft in with his hand, straightening his knees gradually until he was fully inserted. She felt the hard bone at the base of his penis against her clitoris, and ground herself against it.
The pressure continued to increase, and she felt herself lifted off her feet. Ron bounced gently up and down, and she pounded on his hardness.
"Harder, Ron! Harder!" she whispered, hissing between her teeth.
"Hang on, baby."
He bounced harder, and needles of pain shot through her ankles. But the flames that licked at her crotch masked the hurt, and she thrashed her way into an orgasm that made all the others pale by comparison. She thrust downward against his bucking penis and let the buzzing heat swallow her. Sounds and lights and a sensation of spinning filled her mind. She drove her face into the hollow of Ron's neck, feeling his fingers digging into her buttocks, and shook with the violence of her climax.
At last Ron sagged away, and Tuesday collapsed, hanging by her wrists and ignoring the torture in her shoulders.
For a long time, she hung without opening her eyes. When she did look, everyone but Greg and Edna was dressed. Each guest now came to her and kissed her on the lips-except that Genghis came to lick some of the residue from her genitals.
And then they were gone, and she was alone with her host and hostess.
VIII
The sun awakened Tuesday. It had been bothering her for some time, she realized. It streamed in through her window and splashed across her bed.
She stretched, then gasped at the stabbing pain in her shoulders, and the memory of her bondage experience welled into her mind, and the sunlight was suddenly bleak.
Good God, no! she thought. What did I let them do!
Now that she was fully aware of herself, she discovered that her head felt stuffy. There'd been vodka-lots of vodka and orange juice-and cigarette smoke, and hours of cramped immobility.
She groaned. She was going to have to go out into the other part of the house and face Edna ... and Greg. She couldn't! She just couldn't look into his face and know that in his mind was a picture of her naked body writhing in bonds that she'd accepted of her own free well. No. She simply couldn't face him!
She pushed aside the blanket and sheet and looked at herself. It was the same fine body. It swelled in the right places, and fell away where it should. It had smooth, taut skin that was free of hair, except where hair was supposed to be. It looked as it had yesterday, and no one could have told by any amount of study what had happened to it during the long hours of darkness.
She held her arm up and studied her wrist. Well, maybe if they knew where to look, they might suspect something. There was discoloration. Her other wrist had it, too. She sat up, wincing at the soreness in her joints. Yes; her ankles were definitely marked.
She groaned as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. It was an effort to move. She ached, and it was hard to think. Something had to be done about that. Perhaps a shower would help.
But she'd had a shower, before bed. The scent of the after-bath spray was still clinging to her, and her skin had a scrubbed appearance.
She struggled to her feet. "God!" she muttered. "Ooh, that hurts!"
She bent and twisted and stretched, trying the loosening up exercises that Playgirl recommended for the busy career woman. And they were going to work, she realized. She picked up the tempo, and the soreness began to fade. As her circulation speeded, she felt more alive. Maybe she'd be able to go through the embarrassment of seeing Greg after all.
Putting on her make-up and doing her hair, she told herself that she really had no choice-she had to face him. But it wasn't going to be easy, and she might wind up by cutting her stay short. If she caught the eleven o'clock flight out, she'd be in her own apartment tonight. But nothing could save her the ordeal of subjecting herself to his knowing smile.
She dressed slowly. She'd make her bed and straighten the room before going to the kitchen. It would help if she could have a cup of coffee first, but guest rooms in private homes didn't offer that luxury. There wasn't any room service to ring, either.
There was a light rap on the door. "Yes?" Tuesday called. "It's me," came Edna's voice. "Come on in."
Edna entered. "I heard noises. Thought you'd be up. Figured maybe you could use a cup of coffee before you came out to breakfast." She set a saucer on Tuesday's dresser, and a cup of steaming coffee.
"God, Edna, you're an angel from heaven!"
Edna grinned. "I may be an angel," she replied, "but there'd be some disagreement about where I was from."
Tuesday sipped. It was an effort to look into Edna's face, but she forced herself. Her friend was studying her with wide, frank eyes. Tuesday winced.
"I ... Christ, Edna, what did I do last night?"
"You let your hair down, honey." Edna's voice was clear and even.
"It came down, anyway."
"That it did." Edna laughed. "That it damn well did." 'I feel terrible!"
An expression of concern clouded Edna's face. "Hurt, honey? I was afraid of that. You took a hell of a lot, for a first time. I was afraid that..."
"No-no! I don't mean that! I'm all right physically."
"Oh. The way we stretched you and bent you and worked you over, I thought maybe...."
"No. It isn't that at all. Oh, I was stiff as hell when I woke up, but I worked that out. It's just that I don't know how I'm going to face anyone who was here! God, what a spectacle I made of myself!"
Edna smiled and stretched. "Honey, you were something special. I felt the way a woman would the first time her kid performed on stage for the PTA. I was proud of you." She wrinkled her nose. "After all, you were my contribution. And you were splendid! "
"Oh, Edna, that's what makes me feel so terrible! I was a goddamn tramp! I was worse than any bitch in heat! I lapped it up and went back for more! How can I look anyone in the face?"
"Look em in the face? Hell, you can spit in their eyes! Honey, you were simply magnificent!"
"But, Edna! The things I did! The things I let them do to me! I'm not going to be able to face any of them!"
"You mean because of what they must think of you?"
"Of course!"
"Well ... " Edna paused and sat on the edge of the bed. She studied the pattern in the carpeting, then looked up and ran her glance over Tuesday. "Look, honey. You did an editorial on hippies a few months ago. It was damn good, I thought, even though it was a lot more sympathetic than I'd have been. You'd spent some time with those people, right?"
"Well, sure. I had to get to know them before I could say anything meaningful."
"It sounded to me as if you knew them better than you would have by a few interviews."
"I did."
"Did you hang around with them?" "Some."
"In your office suit? All pretty and chic like you are now:
Tuesday grinned. "You wouldn't have known me. I did have a couple of interviews-found out where they lived, and what they wore and said. And then I just went out and got some of the same kind of clothes, and let my hair down and joined them."
"Uh-huh. Smoke any weed? Seems to me you talked a little bit about that."
"Well ... yes; I did. A couple of times."
"Shared their pad? Took what came?"
"Well..." Tuesday felt herself flush at the memory.
The dirt and the smell and the language, the sense of disorientation ... it was all so real for a moment that she shuddered. "Edna, I did. I stayed in one of their pads. No, I hopped from pad to pad, to tell the truth. Christ, it was awful! But it was good, in a way. Those trips! I'd never do it again, but I learned a hell of a lot."
"Okay. You wouldn't want to publish a blow-by-blow description of that research, would you."
"Christ, no!"
"And I'll bet you wouldn't have wanted anyone in the 'establishment' to see you while you were going through it."
"I'D say not!"
"Okay. But what about the hippies?" "The people?"
"Right. Could you go back for another interview?" "Sure. We got along."
"If one of them saw you on the street, would it shame you that he'd seen you before while you were doing his thing?"
Tuesday shook her head. "Of course not. I didn't do anything bad by their standards. Oh, they might look down on me for doing it without being really committed, but not for the way I looked or acted while I was with them." She smiled. "I was just as good at it as the best of them!"
"Okay! By their standards, you did all right. You gained their respect-or whatever they substitute for that.
"I guess so."
"You know so. If they have any contempt for you at all, it's because you're not really one of them. It isn't for the fact that you joined them and lived as they do."
"All right. So?"
"So, last night you did our thing. We party like that pretty often, and we sort of judge the people who do it with us in terms of how well they can let go and swing." Hmm.
"The people who were here are-likely to be the only ones who ever know what you did. And to them, you turned out to be a nugget-a jewel."
"I ... I..."
"You were damn good, honey! Damn good! What they feel for you-what we all feel-is admiration, not contempt."
Tuesday laughed. "I think I feel better. I'm not sure you've convinced me, but you've made a good case."
Edna rose and squeezed Tuesday's hand. "Come on. Get some breakfast inside you. And don't be embarrassed. We hold you in a kind of awe."
"All right. I guess I am hungry."
Edna was right, Tuesday decided as she ate. Greg did look at her with a different expression, but it had none of the smutty quality she'd dreaded. He looked frankly impressed. But he didn't undress her with his glance, and he didn't make camouflaged dirty remarks.
She was acutely conscious of a light in his eyes that was new, though, and of a subtle difference in the timbre of his voice when he spoke to her.
While she ate, she took time to think about the new qualities. They weren't the kind she could define. They might not exist at all, except in her awareness. But when Greg looked at her or spoke to her, there was a warmth that she normally detected only in exchanges between happily married people. She was disturbed by the thought at first. It seemed to her that everyone would be able to sense the warmth, the tenderness in his tone. Knowing that she wasn't Greg's wife, diey would draw the only possible conclusion-that she slept with him.
But she had more than once rejected that thesis in stories for the Playgirl. It was a lot of bunk. Sure, it was a pleasant myth, and it probably livened up hen parties, but it wasn't part of the practical word. It fell in the same category as the old story that morons were fey-that they could charm the wildest animals.
She shrugged, and grinned across at Greg. "What about Carl Blair?" she asked.
"Carl? What about him?"
"I mean, he didn't seem to fit awfully well last night. He's a sort of...'Nothing' in my picture of the people I met."
Greg's eyes began to twinkle. "Tell me, Tuesday, would you consider a sense of humor an asset for people in a group like ours?"
"An absolute necessity," she replied.
"Well, Carl's is just about atrophied. Know what he does? He's a radio announcer. Has part of the newscast, and handles a four-hour disc spot; the 'Call us if you've got something to bitch about' type."
"And he hasn't a sense of humor?"
"Christ, no! You ought to listen to him. He's got pretty strong opinions, and if a caller takes the other point of view, things get hotter'n hell!"
"I can't imagine being in that kind of job if you can't see the funny side of things!"
Greg laughed. "I don't imagine it's easy on him. Anyhow, he's got about as much sense of humor as a bucket of sand. We wouldn't have the Blairs in the group if it weren't for Lucy."
Tuesday sighed. "She's a doll!"
"She sure is. And she's got enough of a sense of humor to make up for Carl's lack. She's hotter than the middle of August, too!"
"Speaking of hot," Edna remarked, "it's going to be hot today. Why not take our last cup of coffee out by the pool? We may as well take advantage of the weather."
"Good idea." Greg rose. "Want me to put it on a tray?"
"Would you?" Edna began to clear the table. "Tuesday and I will get this stuff into the dishwasher, and be right out."
When they joined Greg, he was sprawled on one of the lounges. His shirt was off, and the sun gleamed on his skin.
"The picture of ease," Edna commented. "Bully for you.
" I think I'll spend the whole day right here," Greg said. He smiled at Tuesday. "Any questions about anyone besides Carl?"
"Not really. I feel that I know the rest of them. It was just that Carl was like a hole in the puzzle." "A missing piece, huh?" In a way, yes.
"Well, if he weren't so damned serious, he'd be great." Greg stared at ripples on the pool. "He's done some amazing things at those parties of ours. There isn't a man we know who has Carl's endurance."
"I suppose I'm asking for trouble by asking what kind of endurance." Tuesday braced herself for the answer.
"Yeah." Greg's mouth twitched. "Edna brags about the way Genghis lasts forever. Well, Carl does that. I don't have any idea how, and he doesn't seem to, either. But by God, he can keep coming back as long as there's anything going on!
"He didn't look terribly active last night." Edna sighed. "He wasn't. I worried about that, Greg. He didn't seem himself."
Greg leered at his wife. "He didn't get to you?" "Well, yes ... once."
Tuesday interrupted her with an exclamation. "Edna! I didn't see that!"
"You were ... uh ... busy, honey. He cornered me when I was bending over."
"Bending over!" Tuesday gasped.
Greg and Edna both laughed.
Edna nodded. "That's right. I leaned over the back of the green armchair to say something to Midge, and all of a sudden I was pinned. He wouldn't even let me straighten
"But even so, he wasn't himself," Greg said. "He usually makes the rounds like a goddamn rabbit. He just doesn't seem to wear out."
"Whew!" Tuesday discovered that she was perspiring. "He sounds like a machine!"
Edna stirred restlessly. "That water sure looks good," she said, changing the subject.
"It does." Greg agreed. "It ll be a while before you ought to go in, though. Another ten minutes or so."
"Well, I'll get some sun while I'm waiting." She stood up and began to undress.
Tuesday gasped, and Greg heard, and glanced at her with amusement. "Shock you, Tuesday?"
Edna's panties came off and she was naked. She sank back onto the longue and shut her eyes, letting the sun bathe her.
"Not really," Tuesday replied. "It was just the way she did it."
Edna chuckled lazily. "I suppose I should have used a little more finesse. We could have gone through a rain dance about the benefits of nudism, and being friends and all that."
"No-no!" Tuesday protested. She felt as if she'd made a fool of herself. "Although I guess that's what threw me."
But Edna seemed not to take offense. "Greg and I don't use our bathing suits once a season," she said. "When we had the pool put in, we had the wall built to keep it private. Suntans go on evenly this way."
"I ... Of course they do." Tuesday still felt foolish. "It's the only way to go."
Well, now she had to extricate herself from this situation. She'd let herself sound positively provincial, and she was damned if she'd permit that impression to remain. For a worldly career woman, she wasn't coming off too well out here in the suburbs. If she kept letting herself appear immature and naive, they'd label her. And it wasn't the kind of label she wanted. What was worse, she'd undermine her own self-confidence. She'd maintained for years that a woman made her way in the business world on the basis of her own image of herself. If she went back to New York unsure of her judgment and ability to handle any situation, in the office politicos would shred her in no time.
She got to her feet and began to unzip her top.
"Hey! You don't have to do that!" Greg objected. He flushed. "Not that I mind, understand, but we don't demand that everyone who uses the pool go in raw."
Tuesday gigged. She'd made the right move. It was Greg, now, who had himself saying things he didn't mean. She could feel her self-esteem returning.
"I'm not making that mistake," she said. "I'm doing what I want to. I simply didn't know until now that you two did."
"Oh?" Greg eyed her, and his expression was doubtful.
She laid her top aside, then removed her bra and panties and kicked off her sandals. She stretched out on the lounge, attempting to appear as casual about it as Edna. She was glad she wasn't a man; if she were, there'd be a goddamn erection to give her away.
Now Greg stripped and returned to his lounge. Sure enough, Tuesday thought, there's the hard-on.
Her journalistic instinct asserted itself. "Does that happen every time you take a sunbath?" she asked Greg.
"Christ, woman! You're personal as hell!"
"Sorry. Professional curiosity."
"What profession?" Greg squinted at her.
"Not the one you're thinking about, you dirty-minded old man. The news media."
"Oh. Editorial analysis."
"If you want to call it that."
"Okay, I'm a specimen on a slide. I'll answer, ma'am." Tuesday tossed her head. If she'd been standing-and wearing shoes-she'd have stamped her foot.
"It's this way," Greg began. "This happens almost every time I take a sunbath. I'm not a qualified nudist, you understand."
"What's a qualified nudist?"
"Well ... to qualify as a nudist, you gotta think of nakedness the way you think of sitting-up exercises and fresh air. You're not supposed to think of it as sex."
"Oh? And you don't qualify?"
"Hell, no! Being naked means one of three things to me: taking a shower, sleeping, or screwing. And when I see a naked woman, the first two don't count."
"Br-r-r! Perhaps I shouldn't have..."
"Why not? I got the idea you wanted to absorb our sub-culture."
"Oh." Tuesday hesitated, then she shook herself in irritation. It was that damned hesitation that made her lose control of the situation and feel provincial. "Naturally! That's why I came."
"Okay. Anyhow, Edna and I wind up screwing about half of the times we use the pool. So today I'm getting a double treat."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself."
Greg grinned at her. "I don't mean I'm going to get a double ride. I just mean I get to look at two of you out here and have double-sized daydreams."
"Oh. All right." Tuesday watched Greg, and reflected on how much fun he'd be to have around. Edna was lucky. She probably deserved him, though. She had much the same straightforward attitude.
"Seriously, there's a lot to be said for dunking while you're dunking," Greg said, reopening the conversation.
"Oh, Greg, I've been there." Big deal! Men all seemed alike when it came to the joys to be had from copulating while swimming. She'd more than once suspected they ought to be amphibious.
"Yeah," he mused. "I guess anyone with access to a pool has, at one time or another. But for the discriminating, there are some great diversions."
"like what?"
"Tuesday, I'm not going to make that part of this interview. You can interview the hell out of me about my philosophy and prejudices, but when it comes to actions, I'm not going into long-winded descriptions. If you want to know, you ll have to settle for a demonstration."
"You and Edna, for instance?"
"Yeah. Or you and me. Or whoever's around at the right time and in the right mood."
Tuesday sighed, then laughed ruefully. "I think I've gotten well enough acquainted to know when you're driving at something. Do you have something on your mind you'd like to demonstrate?"
"By God, you're perceptive!"
"On me?"
"Right again!"
She sighed, heavily this time, and stirred. "When in Rome..." she murmured. She got up. "Show me, darling."
"Watch that 'darling' crap," Edna remarked without opening her eyes. But her tone was light and unconcerned.
Greg smiled and winked at Tuesday. "I'll show you, baby." He rose to his feet.
IX
The now-familiar flutter assailed Tuesday. She liked sex, she readily admitted to herself-or to anyone else-but in the years that had followed college she'd come to regard it as an emotional experience-as the ultimate expression of intimacy in a fixed series of increasingly intimate expressions. It was a blending of personalities in a rite that was as significant to her as religion was to her parents. The psychological atmosphere that had accompanied it for her was one of love stripped of its permanence.
With Greg and Edna and their "swinging" friends, it appeared to be something quite different. She sensed that there was more significance in it than she could see on the surface, and she would explore that fact, but it was clear that sex existed in another dimension for these people. The closest parallel that came to mind at the moment was the dedication she'd observed in billiards masters when she did research for an article on that subject. These people approached their sex with almost childish enthusiasm and wonder. They seemed to delight in experimentation. There was no pretense at linking sex and love as inseparable components, but there did appear to be an unusual closeness among the few practitioners she'd met. It most-likely grew out of their lack of reserve.
Greg climbed onto the diving board. Tuesday tensed. If he thought she was going to go off that thing with his prong sticking in her, he was sadly mistaken. But it did look as if he had something like that in mind. He reached the end and sat down, his feet dangling over the water.
"Come on out," he invited.
"Nothing doing," she said. "Not if you plan to tumble off there with us hooked together?"
"Oh, hell no, Tuesday! Not in this pool. Come on. We aren't going to do anydiing foolish."
"Well ... all right."
She stepped up onto the board and walked out cautiously, arms extended to steady her as the board jiggled up and down.
When she reached Greg, he reached up for her hands. "Turn around carefully," he said. "Easy, now, or we'll both get dunked."
She turned her back on him, feeling his hands at her waist.
"Good. Now, sit on my head."
"For God's sake, Greg, what kind of goddamn exhibition is this supposed to be?"
"It's okay, baby. It's just that the board's too narrow to get there any other way." He paused, and then added, "Well, almost any other way."
Grumbling, she leaned back, her hands grasping his shoulders, until she was half sitting on his head.
"So far, so good," he said. He got a firm grip on her waist. "Now I'm going to bring you forward so you're sitting astride my lap. Ready?"
"Oh-h-h-h, now I see! I'm ready."
She clutched his wrists and swung her legs apart so they'd clear his shoulders. As he lowered her, he let her bottom slide over his chest, and then his belly, and she realized that her legs were going to end up hooked over his arms. She clung to him, feeling the hardness of his penis against her lower abdomen. He'd be able to get it in this way, but not far. She'd never thought much of the straddle technique.
But Greg appeared to have other plans. He now withdrew his arms from under her knees, allowing her to lower them. Then he began to scoot back on the board. There was nothing Tuesday could do to help, and she continued to cling to him. In a moment he was far enough from the edge of the board that he could pull up his knees and rest his heels on its lip. Then he lay back, letting Tuesday lean against his uptilted thighs.
"There!" he exclaimed. "Hey, you look good from this angle!"
"Thanks," she replied in what she hoped was a dry tone. "What does this buy us?" "Let's find out."
Greg reached for her, and his hands began to caress her breasts. She held his wrists lightly, not trying to prevent the caresses or to guide them, but to keep her arms out of his way. Whatever he meant to do, she intended to cause no interference.
He manipulated her breasts for some time, squeezing them, rolling the nipples between his fingers. When she began to breathe more rapidly, he stroked his fingers down across her stomach to her crotch, and she squirmed as he concentrated on her clitoris. As freely as she generated fluid when she got excited, Greg was soon going to be well coated, she thought.
He grinned up at her. "Okay, baby. You're doing great."
"I'm not doing much but reacting," she objected.
"What the hell else should you do? That's all I want, this trip." He laughed with pleasure. "At least you're reacting."
His belly wriggled, and Tuesday slid a little on the thick juice she was depositing there. She felt a touch of embarrassment, but it was quickly submerged by waves of excitement.
"I think we're about right, baby," Greg remarked. "Come down here to me."
She leaned forward, and he pulled her down to his chest. She saw his lips reaching for hers, and pressed her mouth to his. His hands now grasped her hips, raising them until she felt the nudge of his penis at the opening to her vagina.
"Mmmmmp!" she exclaimed without breaking the kiss.
Greg pushed downward, and his shaft popped through the tight rim and into her. She settled back until she had absorbed his full length.
"Ahh-h-h!" he sighed. "Now you can sit up and have a ride baby."
Tuesday made no effort to sit up. She liked it where she was. But Greg seized her upper arms and pushed her erect, so that she sat straddling his hips, his penis buried in her, and all her weight keeping her on it.
She felt him thrust upward with his hips. "Mmmmm! This does feel good!" she admitted.
As he pumped his hips, the board began to bounce. It had a short, choppy rhythm that Tuesday's body could not duplicate, and she found herself coming down when the board was on its way up. At the top of each bounce, she hung in the air for an instant before starting down, and the result was that she was stroking nearly the entire length of Greg's shaft, and thumping his pelvic arch each time she reached bottom. She looked down at herself, to find her breasts leaping.
"It's tremendous!" she said. "But I look terrible! I'm flopping all over the place!"
"This is one activity where they don't look for ballet movements, baby. Jesus, you're great!"
Edna spoke up. "You're real good for that, Tuesday.
Lots better than I am."
"How could there be any difference?" Tuesday asked.
"It's your legs, honey." Edna said. "They're longer and slimmer than mine. They give you more flexibility when you bounce."
"It sounds awful," Tuesday gasped. She was already nearing her orgasm. "Greg! Take it easy! I'm getting there too fast!"
"Don't you want to get there?"
"Of course, but-"
"Then go ahead. That's what we're out here for."
"Wouldn't ... it ... have worked ... just as well with me ... on the bottom?" It was hard to form the words through her panting.
"It'd work okay, but it wouldn't be the same thing." Greg continued to bounce her harder.
"Okay!" She grabbed his hands and clamped her thighs hard against his body. "Nnh! Greg, it's ... it's ... unh!"
She abandoned herself to the intense tremors that seized her, and she felt herself contract hard around Greg's shaft.
"Gawd damn!" he exclaimed. "Baby, you're going to squeeze that tiling clear off!"
She collapsed slowly. "Oh, Greg, I like it this way!"
"I thought you would. So do I. Tell me, baby, have you found a way you don't like it?"
"No. Well, yes, Greg. I really don't like it when the man's sitting up and I'm straddling his lap. That isn't very satisfying." It took almost too much effort to talk. She felt as if she'd simply like to float. She said so to Greg.
"Go on in," he said.
"I'm ... I'm all messy."
"Not with any of my stuff," he told her. "I saved it for later."
"You bastard!" she exclaimed. "That's not fair!"
"Did you know the difference?"
"Not while I was coming," she admitted.
"Then what is the difference?" "Well, you didn't make it." "I didn't want to, dammit." "Why?"
He grinned. "Because I don't want to go limp yet." "Oh, you! You're impossible!" "No I'm not. I'm easy!"
"Ooh-h-h!" She rolled sideways off him and let herself fall into the water. It closed over her body, cooling her and taking her weight. She swam slowly, twisting until she surfaced, then lying without motion, feeling ripples wash against her.
She opened her eyes to see Edna climbing onto the board.
"My turn," Edna said to Greg.
"I'm all yours, chickadee," he said.
"You get the ride this time," Edna told him.
"Okay." Greg turned himself and rose to his hands and knees as Edna went out to him, where she lowered herself and sat astride the board.
Greg grinned. "It's been a while, hasn't it! I almost forgot what I was supposed to do!"
He now straddled the board too, his back to the end, and hunched himself toward Edna. She raised her knees and laid her legs over his, then lay back. Greg pulled her closer to him, lifting her bottom off the board, and began to toy with her tissues. She responded quickly, and they were soon bouncing vigorously.
When Edna was fully aroused, Greg thrust his legs out behind himself and slid into the saddle of her thighs. From the surface of the water, Tuesday could see nothing of the actual penetration, nor could she see Edna's face. Her hostess's legs hung out on each side of the board, her thighs down at an angle that suggested a significant arch to her back; the board leaped wildly, and there were thumps that made Tuesday expect the entwined couple to be thrown off. But both clung to it, their knuckles whitening, and Edna kept up a steady stream of incoherent cries.
Suddenly Greg's legs stiffened and his feet rose. His body became a rigid arch, balanced at the base of his penis, and the only voluntary motion was Edna's continued hip-pumping. When that stopped, Greg brought his legs back down and gave a deep sigh. "Damn, that was fine, sugar!" he said.
"Mmmmm-hm! But it always is, with you," Edna replied. "Wanta swim?"
"Why not?"
Together they rolled off the board. The water splashed high, and they sank. When they surfaced, they still appeared to be joined, but they backed away, from each other, laughing and sputtering.
"This promises to be a pretty good day!" Greg said with a chortle. "Looks like I've come up with the start of a damn good harem!"
"That's one way to look at it," Edna conceded. "Another way would be to say we've found ourselves a pretty fair stud."
"Pretty fair!" Greg yelped. "What the hell does that mean!" He made a grab for Edna, as if to duck her.
"Well, if you were Carl, you'd be ready to go again by now.
"How do you know I'm not?"
"Come on, hon! It'll be hours before you can get a hard-on again!"
"Are you in the mood for a little wager?"
"Look, if you can stiffen up enough to get into either one of us now. I'll ... I'll ... What I'll do, Tuesday?"
"It sounds like you'll get skewered again." Tuesday laughed merrily.
"Or you, honey," Edna retorted.
"It's your bet, sweet." Tuesday sensed that Greg had some good reason for being so willing to bet.
"Oh, come on, Tuesday. Be a sport." Edna pretended to pout.
Greg dived, then surfaced like a porpoise. "Tuesday's already learned better than to buck the master, pet." He leered. "She catches on quick. You need a lesson, however."
Edna threw water in his face. "I had all my lessons long ago."
"Still want to bet?"
"Sure I'll bet. If you can get it into Tuesday, I'll let you tie me up on the deck." "No kidding?" "No kidding."
Greg turned to Tuesday. "You're not taking sides?"
She shook her head, and carelessly swallowed a mouthful of water. When she could talk, she said, "Of course not. I think you've suckered her into a stacked deck."
"You're mixing metaphors, but you're right. You won't fight me, though?"
"No. I won't fight you." "Okay, come with me."
She swam with him to where the pool was shallow enough for him to stand on the bottom with his head clear of the water. There, he gathered her in his arms and pulled her belly against his. The wet friction made her skin tingle, and when he flattened her breasts against his chest, she cried out with pleasure.
"Wrap your legs around me, baby," he said.
As she did, she felt the hard pressure of his knob against her crotch.
"Oh!" she gasped. "You're going to!"
"Hell yes!" Greg shoved down hard on her hips, and she felt herself impaled.
"God! He's in!" she told Edna.
Edna stared at her, then dived beneath the surface.
Reaching them, she explored with her hand to verify the statement.
"Boy!" she sputtered when she reached the surface. "You not only held off with Tuesday, you held out on me, too!"
"I did, doll. You didn't hear me claim anything else, did you.
"No..." But Edna sounded unsure. "I guess I didn't, hell, you could last forever, that way!"
"I could if I didn't get quite so worked up. Sooner or later, though, I can't hold back any longer. Then, Pow!"
Edna laughed, and her voice was shaky. "Pow! It's going to be Pow for me, now!"
"It sure is, pet!"
"You really sort of cheated, Greg. Do I have to pay up?" He chuckled. "I didn't cheat at all. You didn't ask me if I came with you." "No-o-o..."
"If you want to call off the bet, I guess it's all right. I got this much out of it already." He jounced, and Tuesday squealed.
At the sound, Edna set her jaw. "No. A bet's a bet, and I'm not going to welch." She swam to the side and climbed out onto the deck.
Tuesday relaxed now, expecting Greg to lift her off his penis. But he had his hands at the small of her back, and he held her steady.
"That was some bet," he told her. "Edna got pretty reckless."
"Oh? It sounds like she'll have fun."
"She will. She goes wild when she's in bonds. In fact, that's the trouble. She gets so wild it scares her. She doesn't actually fight it, but she tries to get out of it whenever she can."
"But. . . ! " Tuesday choked off her exclamation, driving her crotch hard against Greg's groin to cover her near-goof.
So they'd told her in their woman talk that they all loved their bondage sessions. That had been woman talk. If Edna was that careful not to miss her turn, but managed to keep Greg believing she was afraid or reluctant, she had to have a damned good reason. She probably figured that it would be more exciting for him if he thought she was reluctant.
"You look awfully distracted," Greg observed. "A penny for your thoughts."
"Sweetie," Tuesday said with a sugar-coated drawl, "you've got my pussy for free, but you can't have my thoughts. Not for a goddamn penny."
Greg laughed hard, and crushed her to him. "By God, Tuesday, I could learn to love you! Never mind. You're not as stingy with your thoughts as you'd like to make out. I'm satisfied with the ones you do talk about, so long as you keep coming to me this way." He pumped inside her two or three times by way of emphasis.
She squirmed, rubbing her breasts against him.
Edna cleared her throat. "Keep that up, and you're not going to get around to collecting on your bet, Greg Whorton. You'll be limp as a licorice stick."
X
"She's right, too." Greg lifted Tuesday off his penis, and she treaded water while he swam toward the deep end of the pool.
He heaved himself out on deck and stood, water streaming off his tanned form.
"Where's that broad with all the wisecracks?" he growled.
"Right here, hero," said Edna. "But don't you dare come near me until you're dry. I don't want to stand out here all tied up and freezing to death."
"You're not about to freeze with that sun coming down the way it is." But Greg toweled off.
Edna waited, her own towel draped about her shoulders, but revealing a glimpse of her breasts, and all of her body from the waist down.
Greg rummaged around in the poolside equipment locker and extracted several lengths of half-inch nylon rope. "Pool supplies," he explained to Tuesday. "Here; feel this."
He tossed a tag end into the pool near her, and she reached for it. She found it as soft as satin sash cord. It would be a lot more comfortable than the cotton stuff they'd used on her last night, she thought.
Edna held out her hands, and Greg tied her wrists together, then led her to the edge of the covered portion of the deck, where he passed the end of the rope over a supporting truss. He pulled down on the free length, and Edna's arms were hauled over her head. He stopped before they were painfully taut, lashing the free end to a vertical support.
"There, me proud beauty. I have ye in me power!" He twirled an imaginary mustache.
"Greg, please!" Edna twisted and hid her face against her arm. "You know that kind of teasing gives me the jitters!"
"So I do, love. Sorry." He ran his hand over her, slowly and lovingly. Tuesday shivered as she saw Edna squirm.
Having her arms extended as they were did things for Edna's figure, Tuesday observed. For one thing, it pulled up on her breasts. They were heavy, and even though they were firm, they tended to look ready to sag when she was naked. Tied as she was, the top curvatures were drawn taut, and the nipples jutted upward. They were still full, yet appeared haughty.
For another thing, the posture drew her abdomen inward. She had a fine figure, and her waist was quite small. With the faint protrusion of her lower abdomen pulled in, her pubic mound was almost shockingly prominent. The picture was one of real beauty, Tuesday decided. It seemed a wonder that men didn't resort to the rope all the time.
Edna was growing increasingly agitated. She shifted position continually, and Greg made his hands play over her as if she were some kind of instrument. So far, he hadn't touched her genitals. He did have one nipple sucked into his mouth, and his cheeks worked fast, showing a strong vacuum action. Edna blew her breath out through clenched teeth in long hisses, and she pushed her chin first against one shoulder and then the other.
Greg's right hand slid down to Edna's lower abdomen as Tuesday watched. It described small circles, its touch appearing light and varying, and Edna pulled back from it again and again. Tuesday swam to the edge of the pool, where she pulled herself up and folded her arms on the coping, resting her chin on them and staring in fascination. She felt that she mustn't miss the first hard reaction when Greg dipped his fingers under the mound.
It came with such a deliberate pace that Tuesday tightened as much as Edna appeared to. Greg's fingertips stole down into the thick brown hair and through it. Edna caught her breath, and pushed her bottom as far back as her restraints would permit. But die fingers disappeared into the shadow between her thighs, and the knuckles twitched.
"Greg! Oh, God, Greg!" Edna flung herself from side to side. "I ... I wasn't ready for that! Oh, Christ!"
Greg pulled his face from her breast. "Jesus, doll, you're sensitive as hell! How come?"
"I ... I don't ... know!" she panted.
At another movement of his hand, she cried out and crossed one leg over the other.
"Aha!" Greg exclaimed. "I waited, doll. I didn't tie your legs, but now I get to!"
While he was knotting lengths of rope to Edna's ankles, her breathing quieted. She focused on Tuesday, and gave her a weak grin.
"He's pretty goddamn sanctimonious about this," she said. "He pretends that I force him to tie my legs. He knows from the beginning that I'm not going to be able to hold them still."
Greg chuckled. "It's hell to deal with a woman who knows a guy so well. But she's good enough to make it worthwhile."
He pulled her feet apart, securing the ropes to the vertical supports to either side of her. She still wasn't spread-eagled, Tuesday noted, but the combination of her lines, all running along the length of her body, created a wild and primitive picture. It made Tuesday's mouth water. And she remembered only too vividly what it felt like to be stretched out like that.
Greg's hand returned to Edna's crotch, and her hips thrashed again. She mumbled continuously. Her face was flushed, her lips parted and her eyes closed.
"God!" Tuesday said. "She looks like a statue of the spirit of passion!"
"I hadn't thought of that," Greg admitted. "But you're right; she does."
"Oh, Greg! Go easy!" Edna cried.
He slowed his hand.
"Yes, darling. That's better!"
His hand dipped further under her crotch, and she rose suddenly onto her toes.
"Oh, you bastard! How many fingers!? "
"Three," Greg replied.
"Unh! Good! Push hard!"
Greg pushed. "like that, puss?"
"Oh-h-h, yes! But don't call me puss, darling, please!"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, doll."
"Why not?" asked Tuesday.
"One of the other guys uses that nickname," Greg said. "You probably heard him last night."
"I did, now that you mention it." She couldn't recall which it had been. She thought it was Ron, but wasn't sure.
"Well, we try not to use each other's pet nicknames. It bothers the women. When they get really worked up, they have a hard enough time remembering whose dick it is, I guess."
Edna trembled. "You're getting fast again," she warned, "you don't want me to go to pieces too soon, do you?"
"Hell no!" Greg withdrew his hand and stepped back. "Why don't I let you catch your breath?"
"I'd like to." Edna sagged, and drew in great, sobbing breaths.
Tuesday rolled up onto the deck and found a towel. She turned her back on Greg while she dried herself, and as she tossed the towel aside, she felt his arm encircle her waist. He held her bottom against him and cupped a hand over one of her breasts. His other hand plunged between her thighs, mauling her already tingling flesh. She gasped and grabbed his wrist, but it felt like a bar of iron. She gave up and reached behind her. One hand found his penis, and she closed her fingers around it, stroking rapidly.
Greg released her abruptly, and leaped back. "God damn!" he exclaimed. "You'd make me come that way!"
Tuesday giggled. "I'm so hot from watching what's happening to Edna, it wouldn't take much of your fooling around to do that to me!"
Greg grinned. "Aw, a little grab-ass never hurt a woman."
"Of course it didn't. But it's probably made a lot of them come when they'd rather wait," Tuesday retorted.
Now Greg pinned her elbows behind her with one arm, and grabbed the folds of her vulva again. She jerked and twisted, but there was no way to dislodge him. She panted violently, not knowing whether it was from exertion or excitement, but sure that excitement played a major role.
When he pushed her toward a lounge, she went willingly, and she flung herself down on it when he released her arms. Her knees fell apart and she reached for Greg. He put one knee on Uie lounge beside her and bent to kiss her, and she lost herself in the kiss, clutching him to her and trying desperately to get her legs around him. But he pulled back before she could, and when she tried to recapture him, he held her down with one arm.
"Easy!" he cautioned. "Easy, baby! All in good time! I just thought I ought to keep you entertained while Edna was calming down."
"Jesus Christ, Greg, you'll make a wreck out of me!"
"That's my Greg," said Edna. "The woman wrecker."
"It's hardly that bad," protested Greg. "It's just that I love cunt so much I can't stay away from it when it's handy."
Tuesday winced. Greg hadn't used much strong sex language before. She suspected that he was more worked up than he'd been the previous night. But she didn't object very strongly. The pungent words acted as a sort of relief valve for her. They were a temporary substitute for the physical ravishment she hungered for.
"Okay, Don Juan," Edna said. "If you can tear yourself away from feeling the editor up, I'm cooled down enough to take another round."
Greg snickered and returned to his helpless wife. He played with her again, skillful in his choice of nerve centers and quick to follow up her responses. In a matter of minutes she was begging for him to go slower, and he did so. But as her passion mounted, Edna's sensitivity increased, and it was obvious that she would reach a climax if any sort of stimulation continued.
Greg retreated for the second time and Edna sagged, her arms stretching to their fullest extent. "Oh, Greg!" she whispered. "Don't ever let it end!"
"I'll do my best, pet."
He came back to Tuesday now. She stared up at him, feeling her eyes widen with anticipation. His hands stroked her, and his lips nuzzled at her nipples. She drew up her knees and let them fall away from each other, presenting her crotch. He fondled it, then suddenly rolled her over, put one arm under her belly and lifted, so that her bottom was in the air. His other hand clutched at her vulva, and she felt his fingers plunge through the mouth of her vagina.
She moaned her delight. "All of them, Greg! AH of them! Oh, please!"
She felt herself distended until it seemed that her hips were going to split at the joints. She crammed a cushion against her mouth to stifle her scream, and shoved her bottom as far up as she could, straining against the terrible beauty of the fullness. "Your thumb, too!" she whispered harshly. "Your thumb!"
The stretching became an agony, and she felt hardness sliding inward through the throbbing rim.
"Oh, Jesus! Jesus! All the way to my mouth, Greg!" Then, "No farther! Oh, Greg, you've got my uterus in your hand! How far in are you!"
She could hear his labored panting. It had a frantic rhythm, as if her response was driving him to his limit of control.
"How far, baby? I'm in you to my wrist. Jesus Christ, baby! I had no idea you'd be able to take my whole hand!"
"I ... I didn't either! Oh, Greg! If you slip now, I'm dead! Be careful, darling! But Oh, God, I'm coming! I'm coming!! Darling!! "
She knew that if she closed her eyes she'd see explosions of fireworks inside the lids. But the pressure in her belly was so great that she couldn't convince herself that her eyes would close, and she stared, eyes bulging. Her body bucked helplessly, and the strength drained from her, running toward the awful knot in her gut, and vanishing.
"Take it out, darling," she said softly as she began to collapse. "But carefully ... carefully!"
Greg's hand withdrew. It felt as if her uterus was still in his grip, and panic swept over her at the thought that he was going to disembowel her through her vagina. But the pain subsided, and she gave a deep sigh of happiness.
"Oh, Greg! That was something I'd never thought I'd feel!"
"I'm glad," he replied. "I sure came close to dumping my load. Christ! Edna would have been furious!"
"And then some," Edna interjected. "I'm about ready to take some more."
"Whew!" Greg whistled. "A guy can keep goddamn busy trying to satisfy two broads at once!" He turned away from Tuesday, and she let her bottom down and rolled onto her side to watch.
Almost at Greg's first touch, Edna's weight came onto her wrists, her knees bent and her belly thrust forward. She grunted and swayed as Greg thumbed her clitoris.
"Give me what you gave Tuesday, Greg. Oh, give it to me good!"
Greg's hand slid out of sight, and he folded his thumb into his palm, then worked his entire hand inside his quivering wife.
"Yes, yes, yes!" she grunted. "Now do the clit!"
He doubled his other fist and pressed its knuckles against her clitoris. He ground it against the hidden organ, and a low, guttural cry undulated from Edna's straining throat. She appeared to strangle, and her body arched in convulsive spasms. For an endless minute she was poised in the air, her feet off the ground, her body arched grotesquely. Then a terrible shudder shook her, and she began to go limp. It happened one muscle at a time, the largest first and then the smaller ones.
At last she let her head fall forward, and moaned.
"That's all, Greg. Oh, baby, I loved it!"
XI
Greg untied Edna's ankle ropes from the patio roof supports, then loosened the end of the line that held her wrists. As she tumbled forward, he caught her in his arms and carried her to the lounge next to Tuesday's. Tuesday looked at her exhausted face and felt that she shared something precious with her friend. She was glad she'd come West for her vacation. Damned glad, she told herself.
Her eyes felt heavy, and she let them close. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she felt herself growing numb. The world seemed to slow, and sounds faded into a vast distance. Hands were tugging and arranging her limbs ... dream hands that had to belong to the gods of sleep and sex ... hands that fluttered over her and aroused her desires, and demanded that she relive the past twenty-four hours.
She floated in a space that had no boundaries. Strange swirls of light shone dimly for a heartbeat, then dispersed in the ever-present dark. Sounds that were not sounds because they were too deep, resonated in her chest and belly. She smelled the scent of her father's shaving lotion and her mother's body powder, and of newly cut alfalfa.
After an interminable time in her directionless, eventless flight, she felt herself emerging once more into a more familiar universe. There were sounds that she knew, and smells of recent memory, and the feel of the lounge pad under her back. She opened her eyes.
The sun beat down on her belly. She must have slept, she reasoned, for she had lain on her stomach when she watched Greg take Edna down. She tried to stretch, but her limbs refused to obey. She wrenched at them peevishly. She must not tolerate such nonsense. But there was pressure at her wrists and ankles, and it slowly came to her that she was bound. She forced her awareness to extend to each part of her body, in order to define her situation.
When she was sure that she knew, she gave way to a terrified chill. She was bound, as she had suspected. Her arms extended over her head, the wrists lashed to the frame of the lounge. Her thighs were spread to their limiting angle, her knees hooked over opposite sides of the pad, and her ankles were pulled hard toward each other under the lounge and tied together. There was a thick cushion-perhaps more than one-under her bottom, thrusting her belly and hips high.
She looked along the length of her body, straining her neck to see along her side and over her thigh. Beyond her lounge was another, and on this she could see other knees and taut thighs, and a gaping, hair-framed vagina. The light brown shade of the hair told her that it belonged to Edna.
A movement drew her attention to Greg, who approached from the side, carrying a long, bulky mechanism with an electric cord trailing from it. He laid it on the deck between the two lounges, where it was no longer within Tuesday's field of vision. He stared down at her, apparently absorbed in the lines of her thighs, and the gaping maw between them. But she twitched, and his glance wandered to her face.
"Oh, you're awake! I'd begun to think you'd sleep all day!" He leaned down to kiss her.
Her chill vanished, and a warm flush spread over her. Everything was all right now. She sighed happily.
Greg knelt at the foot of her lounge-which was also the foot of Edna's-and retrieved the mechanism he'd put there. Tuesday still couldn't see it, but she could feel a hard object, blunt and massive, thrust against her opening. It pushed steadily, and Greg's fingers pried her tissues aside. She felt her vaginal rim distend, and the blunt object crept inward, its surface stretching the walls of her channel. She swallowed and muttered, but her excitement was suddenly back at full strength. She was aware of Greg's fingers rubbing her rim, and the slippery feeling puzzled her until she realized that he must be slopping lubricant on her.
She saw him turn toward Edna, and she twisted until she could see the gap between her hostess's thighs. Greg's hands were visible, manipulating a gnarled-looking club into Edna's vagina. A gleaming metal shaft protruded from the outer end of the device, leading back toward Tuesday, and she could associate the sporadic sensations at her own crotch with the movements of Greg's fingers on the shaft. When the brutal club was deeply implanted in Edna, Greg busied himself with something where the two lounges butted together. Tuesday could see nothing of what he did, no matter how hard she struggled.
"Greg ... what are you doing, darling?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "I'll tell you in a minute, baby. I've got to concentrate right now."
There was a period of silence, and then a click, and the hum of a small motor and gears. The club in Tuesday's loins rotated slowly, setting up a breathtaking, sliding friction on her walls and rim. She forced herself to look at Edna's crotch. The shaft and the club were turning there in exacfly the way they felt to Tuesday.
"What is it, Greg? What are you doing?"
Greg stepped back and stared from Edna's crotch to hers. He grinned when Tuesday's hips began to oscillate. "I've got the two of you on my rotisserie," he said.
Tuesday opened her mouth in horror, then clamped it shut. 'That sounds horrible!" she exclaimed.
"I know. But it really isn't. How does it feel?"
"I ... Greg, do I have to tell you?"
"I guess not, but I'm going to be able to tell before long."
"I like it, darling. It's like nothing I've ever felt, but it's good. I think I'm going to take a long time getting to where I can come this way, but I can tell there's no way in the world to escape it if you keep that thing running."
"I thought so. Edna's going to be well into her climb when she finally wakes up. She's wiggling now, and she doesn't show any sign of coming awake."
"Have you ever ... used this before?"
"Not on human meat," Greg quipped. "It struck me while you were both dead to the world that the slow speed of the thing ought to make it ideal for this. It took a bit of rigging, but it looks like it's working just right."
"Just ... right." Tuesday felt a buzzing deep in her core. "Just right, darling."
Greg regarded her tenderly. "Tuesday?"
"Yes?"
"Do you realize what a beautiful pair of tits you've got?"
"They're ... they're not that different."
"I don't know. They're enough different from any others I've seen to keep me hungry all the time I can see them."
"Really? You're not just hunting for something to say?" "I'm serious, baby. They're beautiful." "Th-thanks ... darling. I'm glad you ... like them." "You sound as if you were having a hard time concentrating on me."
"I am. That thing's getting to me!" "Feel like you're getting close?"
She panted and shook her head. "No. I just feel terribly warm and good inside, and like I'm going to stay right at this level all day."
"Boy, that'd be an achievement!" Greg looked suddenly eager. "Most things work too goddamn fast. You have to stop too often so you don't push too far."
"You have a thing about stretching it out, haven't you?"
Greg nodded. "Everyone I know has that kind of thing."
"They do?"
"Yeah. Male or female, they all want to make it last as long as they can, at the highest possible pitch short of coming."
Tuesday lapsed into silence. She needed a moment to analyze her reactions, confident that her orgasm was far enough away so that she could do so without losing her train of thought. She discovered that her feet were moving. They tugged upward until her heels touched the sagging pad, then down and apart until the rope snubbed them. With each upward movement, her knees were forced apart, thrusting her pulsing genitals onto the rotating club. When she swung them down, her knees and thighs came together a little, and the closing tendency of her yawning rim made the club feel bigger.
Her hips were rising and falling in the same slow rhythm, for she was achieving the movement partly by the pumping of her legs and partly by squeezing her buttocks together, then letting them spread. The small of her back arched and sagged, and as it did her belly thrust up and fell back. Her breasts were like fluid-filled bags on her chest. They bulged toward her face when her belly rose, and flowed away when she dropped. Her hands clutched at the empty air, senselessly clawing.
She chewed her lower lip, and could taste a faint trace of blood. Her breathing was much faster than normal, and shallow. She felt as if she'd run a long way, and was now jogging on nerve alone. But the intensity of sensation in the depths of her vaginal canal overrode every other. It was as if all warmth and all awareness within her body was being generated there, and spreading to the other parts of her body. She had a distracted notion that there was some kind of similarity between the aliveness that poured forth from there and the emotion that welled out of her toward Greg. She caught at the notion and held it to her, turning it over and over. It had to mean something.
Greg's awed whisper broke in on her disintegrating thoughts. "My God, Tuesday! Can you see Edna?"
"No."
"Well, she's still sound asleep, but she's working up to a climax. She's giving it all she's got-flopping around on that shaft as if she were riding me. She's going to come in about a minute and a half!"
"Greg! Really?"
"Damn right! She's going to come, and she isn't even going to wake up to enjoy it!" "She must be worn out." I guess so.
There was a long period of quiet, and then Greg spoke again.
"There she goes! Jesus! Shell break her back if she isn't careful! Oof! God, what a convulsion! I'd better get ready to get that artificial prick out of her."
He moved fast, and Tuesday remembered that with all of his sex play, he had yet to have an orgasm. He must be keyed up to the breaking point.
She felt irregular tugs and thrusts on the huge shaft between her legs, and cried out in a low tone. She fought for control, resisting the sudden burst of lust that threatened to plunge her into the same spasms that had rocked Edna.
"Is everything all right, Greg?" she asked.
"Yeah. Whew!" He whistled quietly. "I've got her s disconnected now. She really blew off! I've never seen her come like that before!" "Is she...? "
"She's okay. But she's still sound asleep, too."
"Greg, darling?"
"Yeah?"
"Disconnect me. Please?" "But you haven't come yet!" "I want you in me. Please, Greg?" "I meant for the rotisserie to do it for you." "Darling, I want you." I want you now, she thought. Now, while Edna's out and we're alone. "Well, I. . . "
"Please, please! Just for me, darling?"
"I ... you ... All right, Tuesday."
She saw him bend over her crotch, and the shaft bucked and dragged. But it was coming out. The hum of the motor died, and her vagina closed, and there was a sound of metal being laid on concrete. She held her breath.
Greg knelt between her thighs, and she stared at the angry purple of his penis as it jutted above the hump of her belly. He leaned over her, planting his hands on the pad at each side of her waist. His penis now aimed downward, and she could feel its head touch the flesh over her clitoris. He lowered himself into the saddle, and his shaft buried itself in her, feeling larger and hotter and harder than the club he'd removed. She sobbed. He stroked forward with his hips, and she tasted iron as the inner end of her canal stretched.
"Oh, Greg, scrub me! Scrub me hard!"
He ground his bony structure against the pulp of her genitals, the root of his penis bludgeoning her inflamed vagina.
"Yes! Oh, yes! Now, darling! Oh, my darling! Fuck me! Feed my cunt! It aches for your prick so!"
The words bruised her mouth as she said them, and her ears seemed to echo the blunt, brutish terms. She writhed, her belly pounding against Greg's as he flung his weight down on her, driving the breath from her body. She felt joy like the reverberation of a bell tingling through her veins.
There were sudden hard contractions in his shaft, and searing fluid erupted into her. She held her breath to feel every surge, and her body responded widi an abrupt, ravening spasm. She shook so hard that she couldn't see, and her orgasm gained momentum. She thought she heard the tone of a great gong.
And then her world slowed its mad spinning, and she was conscious of Greg's groans, and her tremors, and the sweat that poured off him to cover her. He collapsed onto her, crushing her breasts, and she cried out softly in protest against her inability to enfold him with her arms and hold him to her.
She kissed his face-covered it with light, tender kisses-and tightened the mouth of her vagina to squeeze the last drop of his juice into the pool she held. She felt elated and giddy, and prayed that he would fall asleep on her.
XII
Tuesday held each dress and suit up in the sunlight for a long time before laying it into her wardrobe case. Each brought back a vivid memory from the past two weeks with the Whortons.
The white knit strapless was the first to go in, and it took the longest, for when she looked at the light shining through it she recalled the night of the first party. She ran one hand down behind it, seeing the shadow, skin-colored, through the fabric and reliving those terrifying moments with her arms tied to the posts at the kitchen bar, and the knit being pulled slowly off her cringing body.
That night had taught her the feel of nakedness as she'd never before known it. It had taught her an attitude toward sex that was foreign to her, and had opened the lives of four suburban couples to her scrutiny. She paused to let a wave of prickles subside as she remembered that it had also brought her the sensation of a dog's deep-probing tongue, and a deep wish to take the place of either of the two women whom she had seen that dog mount.
The cotton princess reminded her of the day that had followed that night. She felt a stab of pain and happiness as she let her mind touch on the wild ride she'd had on the diving board, and the even wilder experience of feeling a spit turning in her. She was aware of the fact that pain was mingled with happiness. She loved Greg Whorton, and she was going to miss him with all the intensity of a lover separated forever from her loved one. But she knew that for her there was no alternative. And she knew also that her love was of a more precious and acceptable nature than the kind that generated jealousy, hatred and strife. It was a kind of love that Greg's wife and Tuesday's friend, Edna, could see and understand and welcome, because she welcomed its fulfillment.
The suit with the monogrammed lapel brought back the picnic in the mountains, with Carl Blair coming out of his humorless shell and moving like an automaton from one pair of raised legs to another, insatiable and inexhaustible as he wore five lustful women down to total surrender. She still marveled at his capacity, and remembered her own frightened admission that he had outlasted her, even though he'd made it five times to each of hers. He was some kind of freak, of course; he had to be. She'd never meet another like him, nor would she want to.
They were holding a farewell open house for her, and it would last to within an hour of plane time. She'd have a half-hour to freshen up between the last guests and time to leave for the short drive to the airport; and she knew she'd need that time. As the time for the open house approached, she made a last-minute check on her appearance and her preparations. She checked the panty-hose and bra she'd laid out on the bed. She would put them on when the affair was over. She stood before the full-length mirror and unbuttoned the jacket of her suit. Opening the front had to be something that could be done quickly, and as she buttoned it again she was satisfied. She hiked up the skirt, deciding finally that it slipped over her tingling legs smoothly enough.
She heard the door chimes ring, and there were quick greetings and laughter down the hall. She hesitated, then hurried out of her room.
It was the Blairs. Lucy came to meet her, and Tuesday kissed her warmly. She met Carl in the middle of the room, and her fingers were working the buttons of her jacket even as her lips crushed against his. He pushed the front of the jacket away to reveal her naked breasts, and his hands fondled her gently. Now he pushed her backward toward the table, where he boosted her up, tipping her back and sweeping her skirt up over her hips at the same time. She raised her legs, Carl bellied against her bottom, and she felt the hard thrust of his penis. It drove inward, arousing her as it stroked in and out. There was a sudden warmth inside her, and Carl leaned hard and then backed out.
"Tuesday, you're the damnedest woman editor I've ever met," Carl told her. "And the only one. I'm going to read that magazine of yours. I'll want something to bring back the times I've dipped into your honey pot."
"You're sweet," she murmured dryly. Of all the men, she would miss him the least.
Carl and Lucy left soon, and were already out of sight when Tony and Midge arrived. Midge folded Tuesday in a hard embrace, her hand going inside Tuesday's jacket to one of her breasts, and her lips sucking greedily at Tuesday's the way they had at the first party. Tuesday responded hotly, her tongue darting over Midge's, and her pulse quickening.
"Goddamn!" Midge whispered when they drew apart. "You're still the fastest gun in the West."
Tuesday laughed shakily. "Midge," she whispered, "you're the only woman I ever met who could have tempted me to try Lesbianism."
Midge joined her laughter. "I guess that's a compliment," she replied. "If I ever decide to go in that direction, I'll come for you."
Tony upended Tuesday and exercised his tongue. She cried out in hoarse tones as he brought her passion to a boil.
Moments before her approaching orgasm, he withdrew his face and helped her to her feet. "Baby," he said, "I'll look for a whole new depth in your editorials now. The things you've been hiding between the lines-and in those hide-away sentences you tuck in-ought to be wrapped in asbestos after this trip."
She sobered and clung to him. "Oh, Tony, I just hope I can keep them subtle enough to give me some chance of pretending innocence when old Quackenbush raises his eyebrows."
"You'll make it, baby."
He stared into her eyes, then caught Midge's arm and hurried away.
Tuesday began to sense that the open house resembled an appointment schedule. She chuckled at Edna for her insistence on surprises.
It was some time before Ron and Erline arrived. Tuesday smiled to hide the sudden tension that hit her at the sight of Genghis as he lunged at the end of the chain that Ron held. Inside, Ron unhooked the chain from the white dog's neck and turned his own attention to her. He kissed her, a near duplicate of the passionate kiss they'd shared on the first night, and she panted for him at the end.
"Let's have a 'Ronnie Special' for a going-away present," Ron suggested.
"I don't know what that is, but if it's with you, I'm eager to learn," Tuesday said. "After all, when in Rome, you know."
Ron grinned and slid his hand up under her skirt to her crotch. He squeezed, then released her. He crossed to the green armchair and lowered himself into it. "Come over here," he said. "I want yoi to lean over me from behind the chair."
She did, and he unbuttoned her jacket, pulling her down so he could draw each of her nipples into his mouth for a tense session of teasing. Then he reached back and pulled her skirt up over her hips, exposing her legs and bottom. He drew her down his front, letting her legs fall to either side of his head. To her surprise, he now pushed himself up out of the chair, one arm locked across the small of her back, brushing her to him. Her crotch was under his mouth, and her thighs rested across his shoulders, straddling his head.
She screamed once as he drew her clitoris between his teeth and applied his tongue to it. Under his savage mouth-work, she flailed the air with her feet. Lust burned within her, and soon she unzipped his trousers and pulled out his rigid penis.
"If you can do it, I can too," she muttered.
She tongued the head of his penis, and when it was thoroughly wet, she forced it into her mouth. Her own genitals were aflame, and she knew that she'd reach orgasm in moments. But she resolved that when she did, Ron would join her.
Suddenly he began to walk. His gait seemed unsteady, but giddiness from her inverted position combined with her raging passion to cloud Tuesday's perception. Then he was bending, and she was on her back in his grip, and she lost her hold on his penis. He laid her on cushions, and she looked around to find that she was on the coffee table. She lay still, her legs in the air and parted, letting Ron's fingers explore her quivering tissues.
There was a new sensation, and she looked down. Genghis' head was at her crotch, and he drove his tongue into her. She cried out and tried to reach him, but he pulled his head away. She stared at him, sudden panic flooding her as he returned her stare. He reared and brought his forepaws down on the cushions at either side of her waist.
"Ron! Your goddamn dog is...! "
"Of course, pussy! He's saying good-bye."
Genghis stretched his neck and lapped at her open mouth. She grabbed his ruff and turned her face to the side. There was an insistent prodding at the mouth of her vagina, and then a heavy lunge, and Genghis drove his penis deep inside her. She shuddered and tossed her hips, but he was embedded so deep that she knew there was no escape.
She tried, anyhow. She couldn't sit up; the dog's weight and her lack of leverage held her flat. Nor could she roll, for his forepaws now grasped her waist, and her thighs bracketed his body. His penis darted back and forth at a dizzying rate, and her involuntary response crowded out her revulsion and desire to resist. She felt herself rise to accept him, and her throat ached from unvoiced shrieks of mingled fear and delight. Genghis had length that she'd experienced with no man. And he had inhuman speed.
When heat flooded her, she clamped her thighs on the dog's flanks and locked her ankles over his lunging back. She tugged at his ruff, raising her face to lay it against his. She broke into sweat as the first tremors of orgasm seized her. She humped to meet Genghis as her contractions struck. Her vision clouded and lost focus. There was a fiery rush of heat into her cavity, bringing a new wave of spasms to her body.
And then it was over. Her limbs shook in the aftermath, and she felt drained. Genghis relaxed on her, reaching out with his tongue to lap up her perspiration. But it seemed forever before he finally hunched himself back and began to extract his penis.
When he was out, Tuesday hovered between consciousness and unconsciousness. Slowly, she regained control of herself. She let Ron help her to her feet, and leaned against him. "You sweet, thoughtful, lovable bastard, you," she said. "You've been thinking that over since that very first night, haven't you?"
Ron smiled and nodded. "I couldn't get the picture out of my mind, pussy. I knew it would be the last thing you'd ever buy, but the vision of his white hair on that figure of yours just wouldn't go away. Angry?"
She shivered. "No, love. Not angry. Frightened, I suppose, but not angry."
"Frightened! Why frightened?"
"Don't you see? Genghis was too good. It was an experience not at all like anything I ever knew before. I
"You mean it's spoiled you?"
"For men?" Tuesday grinned and shook her head. "Hell, no, Ron. I've got to have my men. But I ... Well, I don't know whether I can ... There'll come a day-or a night-when I've got to find another Genghis!"
"Oh!" Ron hugged her and whispered into her ear. "Look, lady editor, if that does happen, call me. Just say you miss Genghis. There's a kennel not far from here where they train dogs. They cost like hell, but they come out almost human. Better, in some ways, because they don't talk. And they can be moved cross-country in a hurry by air."
"You'd do that for me? Go out and arrange for...? "
"I sure as hell would, pussy. You're part of my love package now."
"Oooh! I do love you, Ron! I didn't know I could love so many people all at once!"
"That's part of this kind of life. Tuesday. Not many people have the temperament that can stand up to it, but the ones who have are damn lucky ... and damn happy."
"I believe you," she murmured.
She tilted her face up to his, and they kissed, drinking each other's emotion.
Ron and Erline left then, taking a reluctant Genghis with them. Tuesday rushed about her freshening up, shivering as she reflected on how little she'd anticipated that she'd need it. And then she was dressed, and they were in the car and on the way to the terminal.
It was one of those rare days with a noticeable wind blowing-and rarer still, blowing hard out of the south. Instead of climbing out over Point Loma and the Pacific, the plane lifted off to the south, and by the time it had completed its climbing turn, Tuesday could look out of her window and see where she had been.
She gasped. To her overwrought perception, the terrain was a geographical depiction of her visit. The Silver Strand pointed north, a giant, ribbed penis with darker Coronado as the head and North Island the glossy tip. Point Loma arced around the advancing organ, with Shelter Island forming a mast-haired lip. And the harbor completed the open vaginal mouth. The impression stabbed into her memory, then faded as the land slipped away to the rear.
Tuesday faced forward, her breath fluttering and her hands shaking in her lap. The jet climbed toward the east on the first leg of Tuesday s flight toward the comfortable skyline of her home.
A stewardess paused beside her. "Cocktail, ma'am?"
Tuesday shook off her paralysis and smiled up at the girl"
"God, yes!" she exclaimed. "A double!" "What brand, ma'am?" And the mini-skirted child began to recite the in-flight list.
