Even in our enlightened modern society, few people have dared to attack the sacred institution of motherhood. One of the few exceptions, Philip Wylie, created the term "Momism," and a large part of his reputation rests on the savage way he has slashed out at it in A Generation of Vipers and other books. It has to be said, however, that Wylie has gone as far in the anti-motherhood direction as most writers have in preserving the pro-motherhood bias. As in most other things, the real truth undoubtedly lies somewhere in between.
It is obvious that motherhood can be a pure and noble thing; the number of men and women who have been inspired to greatness by their mothers is so vast that if we began to cite examples we could go on for pages merely listing names. But a mother is first and foremost a human being, and the natural biological process of bearing a child does not miraculously transform her into a saint. If the woman herself has un-cured psychological problems, she can be the cause of severe psychological traumas in her children, no matter how well-meaning she may be otherwise.
A more recent hardcover bestseller perhaps carries the anti-motherhood argument to its reductio ad absurdum. In The Baby Trap, author Ellen Peck sets forth her belief that most women don't want to be mothers at all, or at best that they want to have babies for all the wrong reasons. Among these reasons, she says, are the following: to cope with feelings of feminine inadequacy, to hold straying husbands, to conform, to fulfill roles set by society and the mass media, to combat boredom and loneliness, or simply to "cop out."
The results, Ellen Peck contends, are frequently more upsetting than the causes. The blurb copy for her book is perhaps as instructive as the text itself. To quote just one paragraph: "Many couples want something. Perhaps they define that something as a child, but that may not be what is wanted at all. At least consider the option of childlessness. For the first time in history, the option is easily yours to take. Don't be cheated out of 15 years of young life and intense experiences that can never be yours again."
This may sound like a blatant vote for selfishness, but the point is that a woman may become a mother for purely selfish reasons-and many children have been victimized as a result. In The Outraged Orphan, Dansk Blue Books' author Wayne Sherman makes the same point in fictional but highly dramatic and shatteringly convincing terms.
Jennifer Lorn, Mr. Sherman's heroine, is a "nice" girl who has been raised just a shade too strictly and confined for most of her young life to a gloomy Victorian house in which her "ailing" mother has played tyrant with her illnesses-most of which were imaginary. Finally, Mrs. Lorn imagined herself into a fatal heart attack. There are those who would argue that this is medically impossible, but the fact remains that, at the beginning of the story, Mrs. Lorn is dead and Jennifer is free at last. But what can freedom mean to such a severely sheltered, totally restricted girl?
For the first time in her life (at twenty) Jennifer is free of the domineering old harridan who had inculcated into her a staggering amount of misinformation about sex-and with it an almost insurmountable distaste for men. Like any normal youngster-and Jennifer is soon to find out that she is very, very normal indeed-she wants to break loose from the austere pattern her mother's demands have made on her. She decides to use her newfound freedom as an orphan with a tidy fortune in the bank to find out the truth about life and sex. It is not surprising that she goes about doing so in exactly the wrong way.
Jennifer's first attempt to have an "affair" with a man is utterly disastrous. In Mr. Sherman's facile but sensitive style, it becomes the kind of tragedy that almost verges on comedy; it hurts so much that it will almost make you laugh. But Jennifer still has the resiliency of youth, and she decides to give life one more try before committing suicide. She joins a "swinging singles" cruise to Mexico, a cruise whose advertisements virtually guarantee a highly spiced and exotic sex life along the way. She has only vague ideas of what happens aboard a "swinging" cruise ship, and rather imagines the trip as one long floating orgy in which she can be a keen observer even if not an active participant.
The results, of course are totally unexpected. We can not reveal the outcome here, but we can say that it contains many surprises for Jennifer and for the reader. And we can also say that, although by its nature The Outraged Orphan contains many graphic and explicit sex scenes, it is also one of the most delightful love stories we have read in a long time. As publishers, we are proud to add it to the already impressive list of Dansk Blue Books.
-The Publishers
Chapter One
Jennifer Lorn had never really seen her own body-not to look at it, to inspect all its interesting contours-the slim waist, the tapering legs, the high, amber-tipped breasts, the-place between her legs, sketchily covered with fine, silky hair. She couldn't even let herself think of that or what it was or if it had a name.
Mother Dear would be horrified. The very idea! Nice girls... Well, if Mother Dear could have arranged it, girls wouldn't even have had legs, much less anything between them. Mother Dear had not approved of men (sex, of course, was never mentioned). Men were vile creatures. Look what a man had done to Mother Dear.
A cruel brute of a man, Jennifer's father had been-to hear Mother Dear tell it. And once Jennifer was born, her mother had taken to her bed where she had spent most of the past twenty years, enjoying one brand of illness after another as each became fashionable.
Just a month ago Mother Dear had surprised her doctor (the latest one of a long procession) and astounded herself by becoming really ill, with a heart attack, and climaxing that by dying of it, leaving Jennifer an orphan with a small fortune.
There were those who would tell you that this was impossible-that Mrs. Lorn could not possibly have died of a heart attack, since she didn't have a heart. Nevertheless, heart attack was the medical verdict. And Jennifer was free after twenty years of devoted attention to Mrs. Lorn-as Mrs. Lorn had put it many times.
That was not quite Jennifer's version. Actually, Jennifer didn't have a version, but had she been able to express it or even realize it, she wouldn't have put it down as "devoted attention." Mother Dear had demanded-and received -constant attention, but it was not devoted, as any of a long succession of maids could have told you. Mother Dear was a tearful whiner, exacting attention with the ingenuity and persistence of a drill sergeant.
She had also spent endless hours telling Jennifer just how brutal and domineering and- well-vulgar men could be, without being specific enough to make it intriguing or even informative.
So at twenty Jennifer was viewing her body in the tall pier glass without even knowing why she was really interested in it. It was, so far as she knew, a perfectly normal body-rather better assembled than most, but normal. A trifle pale, perhaps, but that was from staying home so much with Mother Dear. Mother Dear didn't approve of tennis or golf or, horror of horrors, swimming, where men and women went in the water together practically naked. Mother Dear's idea of practically naked ranged somewhere around the Gibson girl bloomers-and-blouse era, but since this was unspecified in her endlessly long lectures to Jennifer, no one was aware of it.
Her lectures on men and sex had been absolute marvels of obfuscation, which had left a growing, alert and fairly intelligent Jennifer with nothing but the vaguest of uneasy doubts about the prospects of continuing the human race beyond this generation. And how it had got this far without complete disintegration often baffled her.
Now Jennifer was free of lectures, free of the repressive, funereal atmosphere of the sickroom, even though it still smelled faintly of overlayered medications and Mother Dear's various perfumes that had never quite hid the fact that Mother Dear did not bathe as regularly as she should. Mother Dear's last doctor had recommended throwing open the shutters of the sickroom and letting in a little sunlight and air.
"And, my dear, I might suggest the same thing with your life. Open a few shutters. Let in some light and air. Live for a while in the sun. You may get a bit sunburned, but even that's a healthier condition than living cooped up in a gloomy room. And now I must be going." And he had blown his nose decisively into a large and very white handkerchief. He managed a smile for her. "If I were twenty years younger, I might help you open some of those shutters."
Well! Jennifer frowned at her nude body reflected in Mother Dear's pier glass. This very act was opening one shutter. The chaste pier glass had probably never reflected a body, much less one so completely and aggressively nude. The very act of invading what had once been Mother Dear's sanctum and peeling out of the stodgy clothes Mother Dear had decreed was a step in revolt-a shutter flung wide to some unknown sun with unguessed powers.
And Jennifer liked it.
With the room's physical shutters open it was warm and attractive if a little on the excessively feminine side. The warm air played over Jennifer's soft, too-white skin, exciting her in ways she hadn't realized she could get excited and of which she was quite certain Mother Dear would not approve.
Jennifer lifted her chest with a deep inhalation and watched her breasts, small but shapely (though Jennifer was not yet aware of just how shapely; she had nothing for comparison and no standards to judge by). She got a definite and rather licentious tingle from looking at them, and even more from touching the soft amber-pink nipples and seeing them spring into firmer shape.
She ran her hands down her sides and around her thighs-my goodness, she had actually thought "thighs"-which were part of the anatomy Mother Dear chose to disregard. And as for what was between her legs! That furry little cushion that hid what, so far as Jennifer had been aware that her pudendum-oh, she had looked up the name in a good dictionary- served other functions. And that it got hot in flashes, as it was getting right now whenever she touched her nipples. Very intriguing hot flashes that somehow indicated more and more exciting flashes yet to come, if Jennifer but knew the key.
Academically, Jennifer knew the key. Even Mother Dear had not been able to shut out the entire world. Some very private, rather lurid, and quite specific reading had informed Jennifer that beneath that muff was not just an outlet for wastes but an inlet for a male penis, with mysterious but very exciting results. Which was something she meant to discover for herself.
Jennifer was naive, in that she had been excessively sheltered and almost effectively brainwashed, but she wasn't stupid. She was quite aware that there were obstacles in the way of getting a male penis into her pudendum, the major one being that she didn't know any males. She couldn't court the elderly janitor of the apartment house down the block, the heavily mustached butcher who was also heavily jocular, a newspaper boy who had to be paid every two weeks, and assorted taxi drivers, delivery boys and the inescapable repairmen, laundrymen, and truck drivers of our mechanized civilization.
Jennifer simply did not know any males except an elderly cousin who was also the family lawyer, the various doctors, all invariably elderly, who had attended Mother Dear over the years, and a mysterious and intriguing male voice on the phone that called Mother Dear regularly and to which Mother Dear referred as "my broker."
Jennifer scowled at her reflection. She turned sideways for a glimpse of her slim, rounded buttocks and tapering legs. Now, if she only knew a male...
Jennifer was about to meet a male, but did not know it. While she was contemplating her navel and other more interesting areas of her slim, virginal anatomy, she had, in a dim way, heard the doorbell, without associating it with anything concerning her. Callie, the latest of a series of maids (Mother Dear had run through maids in very short order), would attend to whoever had rung.
Jennifer turned farther, craning her neck to peer at her slim behind reflected in the pier glass. She took a few tentative steps, observing the rocking motion of her buttocks, which, according to her reading, was extremely provocative. She failed to get any reaction from watching her rocking buttocks.
She got ample reaction from walking into the young man who was just entering the door of Mother Dear's room, guided there by Callie and left to his own devices.
Jennifer felt the rough texture of his coat first as she bumped against his chest, and then his arms flung around her. She heard, "Steady, there, ma'am. You'll trip," spoken in a rich male baritone. The arms tightened, but that wasn't what cut off Jennifer's breath. It was just the feel of them around her, hands warm against her back-and her whole front atingle from the rough texture of his suit. With a special hot flash down where, as she knew, hot flashes originated.
It was a momentary thing, a quick brush, a pair of strong arms holding her and the utter horror of knowing that a man had grabbed her nude body. She didn't even look at him, except for a brief glimpse in the mirror, where she had been observing the rocking motion of her tokus.
She simply shoved. "Get out! Get your hands off me! Get out! Get out!" And whimpered.
The man released her and stepped backward through the door. "Your pardon, madam..." He closed the door, to leave Jennifer staggering and shaken. And horrified. The brute! The callous, base male...
Only, did she really feel like that? There had been excitement in the pressure of his chest against her breasts, a stifling excitement made more exciting by the rasp of rough-textured cloth across her nipples and the feel of his arms around her. And the warmth of his hands along her back. And the excitement had extended downward, into her pudendum, which had gotten one of those hot flashes, only this one was deeper--and it lingered. She could still feel it as she stood there before the closed door, hearing him retreat down the hall.
What a little fool she'd been! Here she had been studying herself in a mirror, wondering how and where she could get a male penis into her pudendum-and one had come along providentially. And she had shooed him away.
Jennifer almost reached for the knob to fling open the door, to call out to him, perhaps even to run after him. But first a robe or dress or something... anything! Jennifer scrabbled among the clothes she had discarded, trying for something quick, which hadn't been Mother Dear's idea of clothing at all. Clothing had to be designed for difficulties, to prevent even worse things.
By the time Jennifer had on at least an outer shell of clothing and had hurried down the hall and pattered down the stairs, he was gone, with Callie standing at the door, still clutching a fan-folded dollar bill and wearing a bemused look.
She turned slowly when she heard Jennifer, waving the fanned bill. "He gimme this, he did. Said the show was worth the admission price."
Jennifer flushed, braking her headlong rush. Yes, he'd seen the show, all there was to see. But there could have been a second act, less concentrated but more interesting.
"Who was he?"
Callie looked blank, not unusual for Mother Dear's maids, since Mother Dear's habits were well known at all the domestic employment agencies, which for years had sent her all their culls. "I dunno, ma'am. He jes' said he had some papers to leave with Mrs. Lorn. So I sent him up to her old room. The papers is right there." Callie pointed with the fanned bill to a large manila envelope on the hall table and then, suddenly realizing what she held, tucked it safely into the cleft between her meager bosoms, scuttling for her quarters below stairs.
So he was gone. Jennifer stood there, aware suddenly that she was adequately covered with a most uninteresting dress and that was all. A faint breeze from somewhere stirred up under the dress, faintly brushing at the soft hairs of her pudendum, stirring it once again to flashes and hardening her nipples.
Memory played interesting tricks. She could recall the exact texture and weave and color of his jacket, and measure, against some mysterious feminine standard, the strength of his arms. But she didn't know what he looked like. Her head had been turned. There had been a fleeting, shadowed glimpse in the mirror, and then his retreat. And a closed door.
It shouldn't have ended like that. It should have concluded in a welter of passion, in fornication and struggling of bodies and the deep penetration of his penis into her pudendum. It always did in the books Jennifer had read, left behind by various maids.
There had been passages in those books that were graphic. How his penis swelled to enormous proportions, how the girl's pudendum- only the books generally called it "cunt"- would swell and open up like a flower, spouting juices, so that she wet the way up her passage of love for his reddish-purple prick to penetrate. Locked in passionate embrace they had worked into an exciting rhythm that always ended in an explosive swell of his penis far up her cunt. There had been other details, too, that had sounded exciting and had brought on some of those hot flashes Jennifer had come to know.
Now all she had left of that brief, unfulfilled encounter was a manila envelope. And no identification. Just some brochures on investing in a shipping company that also ran glamor cruises. Jennifer flung them down angrily. There was no way to check on who the young man had been. And how did she know he was a young man? She hadn't really seen his face. There was just something so-masculine, so virile about the way his arms... And the flesh of his hands on her skin... Jennifer relived that moment, deciding all over again that he was young. And now she added attractive. She almost went on to "handsome" but decided, wisely, that the evidence wasn't strong enough.
Of course, she could ask Callie, but somehow, after the young man's comments on the show being worth the price, that didn't seem exactly the thing to do. It might stir up inquiries and speculation in Callie. Not that Jennifer really cared about what Callie thought, but somehow that moment there in the room, with the young man's arms around her naked body, was not something she wanted Callie speculating on. Not that it was sacred. Far from it! But just the same, it was a moment Jennifer preferred to keep to herself, to remember with a certain delicious repugnance-and get more hot flashes.
At that moment the phone rang. Jennifer, still bemused by her encounter and how it might have developed, strolled into the living room to answer it.
The voice was masculine but deeper, harsher than Jennifer remembered from her brief encounter. No, this wasn't him. It was Mother Dear's "broker." With hearty laughter in his voice;
"I don't know how you do it, but you can sure pick the long shots-and weeks in advance. Mrs. Lorn, they ought to have you handicapping."
Jennifer drew a deep breath, stilling her momentary disappointment. "This is Mrs. Lorn's daughter."
The voice hesitated. "Daughter? You don't sound like the five-six-year-old kid Mrs. Lorn is always talking about."
"I don't because-I'm not-by quite a few years."
"And spunky, too. That I like. Well, what do I do with this bundle your mother won on Slim Dancer in the Preakness? She picked this filly six-seven weeks ago, when she could have been scratched. At those odds, she shoulda been. And now she's won-with a track record."
"How much?" Jennifer was making quick adjustments in her image of her mother. And of herself.
"Oh, just a couple of hundred. If your maw had put more on Slim Dancer's nose, she'd a broke the big bookies."
"Suppose you bring it over." Already Jennifer was setting a scene that would entail her being in a negligee-Mother Dear had some lovely sheer ones.
"Sounds cozy, kiddo, but I can't leave here. I got other winners to pay off."
Jennifer hesitated, wondering if she could carry it off. And then she made the plunge. "I could come over and collect it."
Jennifer had flung open a shutter and was waiting for the sun to shine in, and possibly give her a little sunburn.
The voice hesitated and then chuckled. "Now that does sound cozy. Grab a cab. On me. The address is..."
Chapter Two
Cass Fordham wasn't quite what Jennifer expected of a bookie, having read Damon Runyon avidly. He was handsome in a bold, hawkish way and, except for an occasional effort to make nature copy Runyon's art in his speech, an articulate and facile talker. An interesting man.
He had opened the door to Jennifer, eyeing her costume warily. And it was a costume, a sort of modified child's middy blouse with an over-long blue skirt which Mother Dear had considered appropriate for a growing girl.
"You the girl I talked to? Mrs. Lorn's kid?" He had backed away, grudgingly making room for her to enter. "You don't look much like your voice. I mean, like you sound on the phone. You sounded hip."
Jennifer caught her breath, held it for a long moment, and then let it out slowly, saying the line she had rehearsed a thousand times on the way over. "If you don't like the clothes, why not take them off?"
Cass scowled, studying her, and then laughed. "Kid, you got a line! A real, swingin' line. 'Why not take 'em off!' That's a real swingin' greeting. So come in, unless you want it right out there in the hall. And I'll accommodate."
He shut the door behind her, urging her deeper into the room with a little shove between the shoulders that became a caress, wandering down to her little rump. "We can get to those clothes, but first, a little business. Here's a hundred and forty bucks. Two dollars at a hundred to one."
"That's two hundred dollars." Jennifer said it shakily, hiding her nervousness. This was madness, utter, unparalleled madness. She ought to turn and flee. Now!
"Less my commission-less a little matter of twenty bucks which she was into me for. So it's one forty. Okay?" He handed her the money and Jennifer stuffed it in her purse without counting it, without even looking at Cass.
Anyway, he didn't produce those hot flashes down in her pudendum the way the other man had. Jennifer had somehow expected every man to have the same effect. They did in the books she had read-each man had produced tense and exciting passion, and then gratified it in spectacular ways. Even thinking of those ways produced some hot flashes.
And Cass produced more when he slid his hand up her arm and slid it across her breast. He hugged her briefly, feeling her body stiffen.
"Don't be so tense, kid. Take it easy." He laughed. "Take it easy-but take it. All of it, eh?" And slid a hand under the looseness of the middy blouse, looking mildly surprised when he encountered her bare breasts. "No bra? You did come prepared." He flipped a hand at the over-long skirt. "No panties?"
Jennifer shivered, partly in fear, partly with the stimulus of a hand on her bare bosom. It was bare, there was no bra, because Mother Dear had never got around to admitting that Jennifer was old enough or had enough development to warrant a bra. Panties were different. Jennifer had on panties, very boyish jockey shorts.
Cass moved closer to her, until she could feel the male heat of his body. And his body was urging her toward the couch.
Jennifer stumbled trying to turn, trying to flee this crazy predicament into which she had got herself.
And sat in a tangle of legs that was very revealing. Cass leaned over, the better to enjoy the view. "Verrry nice. Verrrry!" He dropped beside her, one arm instantly draped around her shoulder, the other sliding softly over the skin of her bared thigh.
Cass seemed to have half a dozen hands roaming over Jennifer's body. She could feel one slide up under the middy blouse, caressing one bared breast, while another seemed to pull and lift at the unwieldy middy blouse. And another ran strokingly down her spine, until she was arching up, ready to scream with tensions. And there was a hand that brushed across the fuzzy fur of her triangle and another that seemed to sneak in from the rear, teasing at her cunt and bringing a series of hot flashes that all but scorched her.
They couldn't all be doing these things at the same time and also undoing the skirt and slipping her out of it. It just seemed simultaneous, a confused, exciting and tremendous experience.
Jennifer moaned, rolling with the pressure of his hands, obedient to them, even though she could feel rebellion rising. She followed his whispered, hoarse instructions by lifting her little buttocks, and the panties slid away.
She was naked!
It was a horrifying discovery, yet exciting, churning up her stomach, closing a tight band around her chest, making her breasts stand up, the nipples hard and erect, seeming to emerge amber-pink and growing from the pink coins of their bases.
Her cunt was open, with juices flowing, hot, exciting juices. And Cass's hand stroked her inner thighs and across her mound. His fingers traced the creases between her legs and her stomach and then slid down, opening her slit wide. And all the while there was this hungry gulping in her throat.
Cass seemed to sense it, and kissed her. It was a completely new kind of kiss. Not just a peck on soft lips but a grinding of flesh, a thrust of his tongue into her mouth. And she was accepting it, sucking on it, and thrusting back with hers.
She would never understand how he managed it, but while all this was going on, at a pace so furious Jennifer seemed to be melting, her juices flowing, her throat parched with a new kind of hunger, her stomach knotting and gnawing, Cass slid out of his shirt and undershirt and stripped down his pants. He didn't seem to have any underpants, or else they went when the pants did. For all at once his penis stood erect, sliding up against her leg, a contrast in colors, in shapes. His penis was hard, thrusting, and a long, reddish shaft with large blue veins throbbing through it, with a head that was almost purple. And shiny, wet with a few drops of his juice.
She was twisted on the couch so that she could look down the length of her body, curved now so that she could see her cunt, realize it was open and flowing, wetting her, wetting the couch.
And Cass was edging up on her, thrusting his huge penis toward her cunt, moving an inch at a time by humping his body while his hands played over her breasts, squeezing her nipples until they spurted up between his fingers-and the fingers, like stiffened lips, chewed at them.
Her whole body cried out for completion, for that enormous prod to crash into her cunt, to stab upward through her, bringing new tensions and promising some ineffable release.
Cass kissed her throat, slid his tongue over her breasts, teasing her nipples. He backed off in his creeping approach with his shaft on her cunt. Instead, he slid his head down, tracing out the lovely lines of her body, sliding it over her breasts, over her belly button and on down, along the crease between leg and stomach, and down, right into the valley of her cunt, tickling her clitoris, sending new electric charges up her spine, tightening the band around her chest until she could scarcely breathe.
His tongue lapped at her clitoris, slid over the brighter pink of her opening vulva, sliding in, probing to reach deep inside her.
Jennifer fought it. It was what she had sought, but twenty years of Mother Dear's reiterated horrors of men and sex were stronger. With the excitement that tormented her body Jennifer saw punishment, an immense and unimaginable future of terrors and regrets. So she fought, writhing under Cass's attack on her body, twisting away from the tongue that seemed to slash at her pink and vulnerable vulva.
Cass was stronger, and for a long moment he held her, weighting her down with his body as he slid back into position, so that his penis throbbed and thrust directly at her cunt.
"Please! Cass, don't! Don't! I can't. I mustn't let you. Oh, please, please..." This died to a frantic moan as his penis slid up against the open vulva, sending great shocks up through her. If she didn't stop him now...
Just why she felt she had to stop him wasn't even clear to Jennifer. It was just years and years of Mother Dear's vague and unspecified horrors, more frightening than the excitement that surged through her body.
Unknowing, she did the one thing that could have stopped Cass. She brought one leg up sharply between his, smashing it into his balls and penis. Cass screamed and rolled off her, cursing.
He tried to stand up and couldn't. He struggled up, half crouched over, holding his injured manhood. "Damn you! You little teasing slut! Oh, damn you! Damn you..." He went on into language Jennifer only half understood.
She huddled miserably on the couch, her arms wrapped inadequately around her nakedness, feeling her body cool suddenly, shivering at the coldness. She hadn't meant to put so abrupt an end to her seduction. Just as she hadn't been truly sure she wanted a seduction.
I am hopelessly confused. I'm lost. I want sex and I'm afraid of it, afraid of this man who would have given it to me, who would have showed me the mysteries and wonders of it. I will always be like this, tormented for want of sex, frightened and ashamed of wanting it.
Jennifer lay back against the couch, only half seeing Cass stumbling and limping, groaning and cursing her, bent nearly double with the excruciating pain. "Get out! Now! You little cheat! You wanton tease! You unpaid whore!" As he stumbled around, bent over, grasping at his injured balls and penis, he gathered up Jennifer's scattered clothes.
In an untidy bundle he carried them to the door, opened it, and flung them into the apartment hallway. "Go get them. They suit you. A child's clothes for a woman's body. That's what you are-only partially a woman. Go home. Grow up! And don't come back here. Ever!"
Still in her stockings and shoes, Jennifer huddled her nakedness to the door, circling around the crouching figure of Cass swearing at her. She bent to pick up her clothes and Cass thrust at her with his bare foot, flinging her face down on the carpet. It wasn't that it hurt, it was the utter degradation of it. Naked-and kicked out of a man's apartment because she was inadequate as a woman.
Behind her the door slammed, then opened again, and her purse, well aimed but weakly thrown, hit her right where the kick had landed.
It was the final, the crowning humiliation. Swatted in the ass by her purse!
Jennifer gathered herself up, shivering, and started picking up her clothes. Gradually she became aware of a pair of legs-trousered legs- standing nearby. She turned hastily away, tangling her feet in that cursed blue skirt, and pitched backward into masculine arms, into arms that went around her with surprising gentleness. She could feel the rough texture of cloth against her skin, the pressure of his hands holding her, cupping her breasts.
She wrenched herself free, stooped and snatched at the skirt that had tripped her, and fled down the hall.
On a landing of the enclosed stairway she hurriedly dressed, sobbing softly. Outside the door she heard his footsteps and his voice asking, as courteously as if he sat at tea, "Shall I go back and beat him up?"
"N-no. Please, just go away. Far away. I want to be left alone. That's all. Alone! Please go." It was jerkily said as she yanked the middy blouse over her head and tugged the offending skirt into place. She wouldn't even try for the panties till later, till she, too, was far away.
At least covered if not dressed, Jennifer fled down the stairs and into the night, where she located a cab. Huddled in the back seat she gave way to tears. I'm frustrated-and always will be. I can't ever learn to accept sex. Mother Dear's bogeymen rise up to haunt me. Then she realized how her thoughts were running and was horrified. This can't be me, rushing out to fling my body before some man-a strange man. Flaunting myself. Oh, dear God! I'm just an animal. I'm a bitch in heat. It's against everything I've known. Not just Mother Dear's prejudices but everything I believed in. If I had been more churchly, I'd say against my religion.
She caught her breath with a gulp, staring into the rushing night outside the cab, horrified at how close she had come to the ultimate in humiliation. Cass had done her a great favor. He had thrown her out before she could violate her body. Oh, yes. It was me, not Cass, who set that scene. It would have been me, violating myself, not Cass violating me.
And I am ashamed.
She came to as the taxi driver said, not unkindly, "If you need help, ma'am..." When she shook her head, he added, "This is the address you said..." He turned to look at Jennifer's strained and stricken face, and asked, with a touch of anxiety, "Didn't lose your purse, did you?"
Jennifer caught her breath, fumbling across the seat. No, there was her purse. She sighed, trying for a smile. "No, I have money." She paid him, climbing wearily out of the cab, as if her body rather than her spirit was bruised.
Chapter Three
Even as the house closed around her, Jennifer felt again the stirrings of rebellion against Mother Dear's years of imprisonment-imprisonment of Jennifer's soul. And there was no escape. She had tried that briefly, and faced two humiliating rejections. In one day! The first man she had truly encountered had looked on her naked and run away; the second had attempted to take her body-and she had, without really meaning to, foiled that. And the man had thrown her out.
Then, of course, there was that minor encounter in the hallway of Cass' apartment house where some man-she couldn't even supply him with a face, since she had been too embarrassed to raise her eyes that far-had offered help and felt of her nudity. Rather gently, as she recalled now, thinking back. And she had run away from him, too, hidden in the stairwell to dress, to come home, to this house.
This is the place for me. Lock myself in and throw away the key. Become a recluse. Live here, where I won't face the temptations of my treacherous body. Except in a pier glass. Or is that sinful, too? And was it sinful thinking of that young man who had seen her preening her body in the mirror? He had even reached out and touched her-which she knew wasn't true, but it suited this particular fantasy-and she had thrown him out. Which also wasn't quite true.
She walked into the room and stared at herself in the pier glass, fully clothed-well, not fully, since there were no panties under the skirt, She relived that ghastly moment of humiliation, face down on the carpet outside the door to Cass' apartment-stark naked, with a man looking at her. As some man had seen her-naked-before this very mirror.
Her cheeks burned with the memory of those incidents, hating herself for having created them, yet feeling a tightness in her chest, a warmth in her loins because of them.
I think I am going mad. I'm schizophrenic. I want sex. My body drives me to wanting. And my mind and all my training tell me I shouldn't. And it isn't just Mother Dear's warped, Victorian precepts, her vague, unformulated hatred of sex. There are rules against it, quite strong rules and all sorts of penalties, real and emotional or, if you like, call them religious, though I'm not a very religious person.
She brought her attention back to the mirror and the reflection of herself in the unhappy clothes, the shapeless middy blouse that hid her breasts and slim waist and the droopy dark skirt that covered her legs. Very slowly she lifted her skirt, revealing the slim, rounded legs. And above that, she knew-and could feel again the warmth of it-was her... pudendum. Her sex box. She made that almost defiant.
We were made for sex. For a man and a woman together. So why shouldn't I give my body to a man? Why shouldn't I know the rich experience of being made love to? But not as I tried today. That was false, artificial. It should just happen. It should come as a natural wanting, a hunger of both...
She was talking herself back into sex-and realized it. And couldn't fight it. Her body was betraying her again, the warmth flooding through her, starting in her loins and spreading.
Because I am twenty. Because I am young and the sap is rising. There is spring in the air, spring in my veins.
In the mirror she saw the bright splash of color and turned to see what lay on the floor. The young man who had seen her naked had dropped some pamphlets. Jennifer stooped and gathered them up, holding them against her still aching breasts-Cass' hands hadn't been so gentle.
Jennifer started out with them huddled to her breasts and then turned back defiantly, adopting Mother Dear's room with its gay colors and many tables and lamps. She dumped the pamphlets on one and stirred them with her hand.
They were pamphlets about cruises, about fascinating places with romantic-sounding names.
It seemed to her, looking at the pictures of young people playing deck tennis and shuffle-board and betting on odd wooden horses and splashing in improbably blue swimming pools or lounging in deck chairs looking out over an intensely blue ocean, that everybody must be going on cruises. And everybody with a mate. "And the animals went in, two by two..." But not for me. I had my chances, two of them, and muffed them both-and that "maybe" third that might have developed into something, but didn't.
Realizing how she was reacting, Jennifer brushed the pamphlets to the floor, glaring down at them. They were temptation! Cruel, bright, gay temptation.
And yet she had just said it herself: if "anything"-and she realized she meant sex but couldn't quite face up to it-was to happen, it would have to happen naturally. And where else could it happen more naturally than on a cruise ship, under a clear, moonlit sky, with warm breezes...
Jennifer stooped and gathered up the pamphlets, sorting them out. The long luxury cruises she put aside. The people pictured in them seemed older, stable, sedate. But there was one-a "Swingin' Singles Cruise" out of Los Angeles to Acapulco-that seemed interesting.
Jennifer studied the brochure with supercritical eyes, trying to estimate if the girls pictured in the bright, gay pictures had been made love to. Of course, there was no way of telling. Jennifer had no criterion for it. Besides, she told herself, even if they all looked smiling, content or even gay, that's what they were paid to look like. They are just models, she told herself sternly, who look happy on command.
It wasn't too expensive, either.
It wouldn't hurt to ask. She picked up the phone and dialed, and a bright voice answered.
"The Acapulco cruise? The 'Swingin' Singles Cruise,' we call it. For singles, only of course. You do understand that, don't you? Of course, two girls may share a cabin. Or two men. But we don't encourage couples. It's strictly a fun cruise." And the bright voice sighed lightly, as if regretting not being on that particular cruise.
"Could I get a cabin-by myself?" Jennifer hadn't really meant to go on that cruise--just ask about it, and dream about what might have happened if she had gone on it.
Instead, she found herself booked for a private cabin on the boat deck. "It's the breeziest. And in the tropics that means a lot," the bright voice said, sounding wistful.
The tropics! There was a special lure to those two words. The tropics! They conjured up visions of palm trees and white sand and scantily clad people cavorting in the sun.
There she was, thinking again of people-but always a man and a woman-and scantily clad. In her imagination they wore less than that. She firmly sat on that idea and then, to cover the lengthening pause:
"I hadn't realized that Acapulco was in the tropics," Jennifer found herself explaining.
"Oh, yes. You're already in the tropics as you pass Cabo San Lucas. You'll see the Southern Cross from there on down, every night. And in Acapulco..." The bright voice died away to a whisper... "there are tropic nights, with bougainvillea climbing to your balcony. And the smell of frangipani in the air..."
Jennifer, who had had an unfortunately large amount of time to read, was not all sure that frangipani grew in central Mexico, but she didn't correct the bright voice. Frangipani sounded as if it ought to be there.
"And the soft, muted music of the mariachi bands strolling under your balcony..."
Jennifer was hooked and knew it. "When can I pick up my ticket?"
The bright voice became brisk, businesslike. "Allow me half an hour to confirm your reservation and you can pick up your passage any time after that. I assume you meant the next sailing-which is less than a week off. Now, you'll need your shots, but you won't be required to carry a passport. Any established clinic can give you shots and a health certificate. May I suggest several lightweight wash-and-wear dresses-for dining. The ship is informal, but the management does suggest dressing for meals." The voice giggled. "Bikinis are distracting to the waiters. And you'll be wearing those most of the time. Or slacks."
Jennifer hung up, dazed. She hadn't really meant to book passage. On a swinging cruise? It seemed almost like booking a night's lodging at a whorehouse, because that was obviously what the swinging cruise was--just one grand floating orgy. At least she would see it, see what sex was like, even if she couldn't participate, even if she was doomed to be a frustrated old maid.
But wash-and-wear dresses! Slacks! And as for a bikini! Why, she didn't own a single one of those. And there would be other things-a sheer nightie. A shortie? Well, why not? No one would ever see it, and it sounded so pleasantly scandalous. A bathing suit? No, a bikini was a bathing suit-of sorts. Robe? Jennifer was frantically going over the list, realizing that she had none of those frivolities. Not even sandals or wedgies.
Suntan oil? Jennifer giggled. That was what that elderly doctor had suggested-open windows, let the sun in, even get a sunburn. And she was anticipating sunburn-with a suntan lotion.
At one of the better shops Jennifer learned with amazement about pantyhose and body stockings, and that people really bought them. They weren't just the figment of some advertising artist's pen. And in the wash-and-wear department there was this Italian weave in canary yellow, white and black that... well, Jennifer had to have it. It was so different from anything she had known. But then they all were. And buying became one delightful series of amazements and revelations. And fun!
Jennifer was already enjoying her swinging cruise, as she was enjoying the new clothes, preening in them in the stores, trying them on before the pier glass that she had had Callie move into her room. Swanking about in that dove-gray and lavender with the wide suede belt, swinging her hips in the Italian weave- and under them all, feeling the new sensuous-ness of the pantyhose, which still mildly scandalized her. No panties with?
But then, practically everything scandalized her-including the prices. So that, in the welter and confusion of acquiring all she needed- which was everything the bright voice and the brochure recommended-she'd almost forgotten why she was going.
Cass reminded her. He called, making what sounded like an apology, mingled with a little anger at Jennifer, and asking for a re-run on their aborted date, but with a satisfactory conclusion this time. He didn't specify to whom it would be satisfactory, and Jennifer didn't ask. She hung up, shaken with the humiliation of remembering, and almost turned in her ticket.
Nevertheless that Friday she stood on the dock, between two bags packed with new clothes and three bikinis, having lavishly overtipped the taxi driver and the porter. She was wearing the Italian weave. The yellow seemed to catch the sunlight, focussing on her, straight and slim and very frightened, still remembering Cass.
She would have turned and run, abandoning the two bags, except that a very nice officer, youngish, with a twinkle in his eye, came over to stand and talk with her.
"Miss Lorn, you'll find the proceedings do straighten out. And everybody does get aboard and the ship does sail, even though that seems unlikely at the moment. It even sails on schedule, which I have come to regard as practically a miracle." And he smiled down at her from a very nice height, nearly a foot above Jennifer.
Jennifer smiled nervously up at him, wondering how he had known her name, and then felt foolish. Her name, in large black letters, was printed on the flamboyant pink luggage tags, along with her cabin number.
He smiled and patted her hand. "They'll process you in a moment. L's are next." He patted her again as he wandered off to reassure some other bewildered stranger.
Jennifer felt as if she had been patted on the head-right on top of the silly, frilly pillbox of a hat-and told to eat her porridge, it was good for her.
But he was right. She was "being processed" -which took almost no time-and was being escorted up the gangplank by a porter loaded with bags, hers among them.
At the head of the gangplank-it was the head, wasn't it, resting on the ship?-she felt she was being processed again. But in quite a different way. Half a dozen or more young men were looking her over, nodding, and then turning attention to the next nearest female.
Jennifer had only the most rudimentary idea of what a swingin' cruise was-but that little was lurid, garnered from paperback books the various maids had left behind. Seeing the men staring at her, watching them turn from her to study each new female appraisingly, she was sure the books were faithful reporting-and this was the start of the orgy, with the males selecting their mates.
She would have turned and fled down the gangplank but for those behind her thrusting her inexorably into the midst of these... men.
The men parted, smiling or nodding, and let her and the overburdened porter through. Breathing with difficulty, Jennifer went down the lane opened for her, heading for her cabin on the promised breezy boat deck.
It was breezy. She had to hold her skirt with one hand and the silly pillbox hat with the other. She was well aware that the coterie around the gangplank were peering up the hatchway, enjoying her dilemma.
So the orgy was starting! It almost seemed she could hear drums throbbing behind the scenes-and then realized she could. It was the throbbing of the ship's engines. Jennifer smiled. Quite appropriate! Those drums would accompany them all the way to their destination like some tribal ceremony. They would be part of the pounding, leaping frenzy that would mark the orgy.
Jennifer's ideas were indeed lurid.
Chapter Four
After the traditional cruise ship farewells, the playing of a band, the hooting of the ship's horn and the brassy bellowing of tugs, and streamers of confetti, some of which had gotten caught in the pillbox hat, Jennifer felt a little baffled.
Behavior in the ship's corridor was sedate enough, even a bit on the prim side, with just a suggestion of suppressed and feverish gaiety. No one tried to drag Jennifer into a stateroom and offer to violate her.
And the dining salon was positively decorous.
Jennifer shared a table with three other girls, two of whom knew each other and discussed the merits-or lack of them-of the various men abroad. Some were labeled "cute" and others rated on down to "drip." To Jennifer's amazement this did not seem to apply to the men's sexual prowess at all, just to their all-around desirability as shipboard companions.
Elsie, the jolly, small bouncy one, and Anna, the tall slender ash-blonde, worked in the same office (doing what not yet specified) and saved all year for this annual bash. Not always this cruise but some intriguing "tour" that promised a supply of men. Object, of course, matrimony. And four years of negative results hadn't discouraged them. Carol, the fourth girl, wasn't, on closer inspection, quite such a girl. Jennifer guessed her as thirty and was being unconsciously cruel. Carol was only twenty-eight and admitted to twenty-five. She, she said, also liked traveling. Yes, she preferred cruises. Yes, she felt commercial airlines were a bore. Got you there, of course, but no fun on the way, and Carol had smiled warmly at Jennifer.
"I suppose that's why you came. For the fun?" She made it a question, and Jennifer, her attention momentarily distracted by the young officer who had spoken to her on the dock, nodded. Carol prodded further, leaving Elsie and Anna to the comparing of notes on the prospects among the men passengers. "Is this your first cruise? I noticed your luggage as you came aboard. So new and fresh. And that charming Italian number. Quite chic and the very latest. And that smoky silk you're wearing tonight. A Bellanciaga?"
Jennifer pulled herself back from an absorbed study of the young officer to blink at Carol. "Bellanciaga? No. I'm afraid this is pure Lerner at $29.50." Jennifer ducked her head to inspect the smoky gray silk that could be mistaken for a Bellanciaga. It did look nice, as she had decided the moment she saw it in the window. Just the thing for a cruise dinner or high tea-or didn't they serve high tea on Dutch boats? But not Bellanciaga. Still, it was nice of Carl to notice.
Carol smiled at Jennifer's disclaimer on the Bellanciaga. "I'm sure you have some lovely things. How about a private fashion show? Just us girls." Carol looked around the table, smiling.
Elsie and Anna shook their heads. "There's dancing. And the first dance is the time to weed out the duds and select the real swingers."
Jennifer nodded, as if she knew all about weeding out the duds and selecting the swingers. "I think I'll just watch. I'm not up to dancing just yet." It had an intriguing sound, like a mildly debilitating but popular illness, interesting and a bit languid. Jennifer would have been hard put to answer if anyone had asked just what she was recovering from. Of course, the paleness of long confinement with Mother Dear did aid the illusion. Otherwise, Jennifer felt fine. She simply didn't know how to dance.
Elsie and Anna whisked off from the dinner table to be in the ballroom for the early and closer inspection of male potential.
Jennifer lingered on at the dinner table, sipping very excellent Dutch chocolate and watching, a trifle disappointed. The dining salon was positively sedate, except for one mildly noisy group in the corner who were toasting each other, the captain, the first, second and third mates, and the purser, and were working their way toward stewards and the line's board of directors individually when the young man who had spoken to Jennifer somehow cut off their water and efficiently and effectively herded them toward the deck and fresh air and the eventual exercise of dancing.
Carol tapped Jennifer on the arm for attention. "Don't go gaga for him just because he's kind to you. That's his job. He's cruise director. Nice to everyone, even drunks."
"Oh!" Jennifer hadn't realized her interest in the young man was so obvious. "It isn't that. He just reminds me of someone. And I can't think who."
Carol chuckled. "My dear, he reminds every woman of-someone. If she's eighty, it's a favorite grandson; if eight, a favorite uncle. And to those in between, he reminds you of-someone. That's his special charm. It's what cruise directors are hired for. Shall we stroll or watch the dancing for a while?"
Jennifer hadn't intended to let herself be monopolized. She wanted things open and loose, for any opportunity that came along-at least enough to find out if she really was some sort of a freak, a cold woman who could get very, very warm inside. Still, Carol did seem to know the ropes. She might provide some direction to Jennifer's private search.
"I think I'll watch the dancing..."
Jennifer wasn't even aware of the names, but the dancing did look wild. Rather frenzied, and it had a disorganized look to it. Partners didn't even hold hands, much less clutch and glide hands over bare flesh. And there was plenty of bare flesh. Maybe, as the papers said, the miniskirt was dead, but it was a very lively corpse out on the dance floor. Jennifer blinked at how much was revealed as the girls swirled, twitched, lifted arms and swayed. And at the variety and diversity of very brief panties, some of them little more than holes tied together with thread-net mesh, Carol informed her- with a small patch to cover the very special area.
There were other costumes out there, pants suits in intense pink and what Jennifer privately dubbed "dishwater green," and awning stripes that accentuated the rippling movement of pelves and buttocks, and mumus-or were these granny dresses-that revealed as much in the superstructure, breasts that were obviously unfettered by a bra-and bouncing distractingly.
The men were more conservative and more uniform in dress. Slacks and open-throated shirts or slacks and turtleneck shirts, with considerable latitude in colors. The slacks, Jennifer noted, beginning to feel warm, were very tight, revealing bulges right where bulges were interesting.
Not having any experience, Jennifer couldn't judge whether the bulges were outsized or normal. In either case, they looked enormous-and formidable.
And they made Jennifer realize she was getting unaccountably warm, right down where warmth counted most. Or maybe that was just Carol's hand stroking her arm.
Still there wasn't any orgy, as she had confidently expected. Girls were not lying around being debauched in public, as the phrase "swinging singles" had implied. Or as Jennifer thought it implied. She was getting exactly what the brochure had offered, a fine stateroom, excellent meals, and an opportunity for fun and relaxation. And, she gathered from the comments around her, some very good music, though it sounded-well-primitive, and could very easily get into your blood. Which it was probably meant to.
Occasionally some man would stroll over to ask Jennifer or Carol to dance, but Carol's careful smile and firm shake of her head broke that off rather quickly, even though Jennifer would have been willing to try. It looked easy. You simply got up and did things in time to the music. It didn't, apparently, matter much what you did, since you were almost entirely independent of your partner. Yes, she would have liked to try, but Carol's "No" was very decisive.
One young man quirked an eyebrow at them and turned away, muttering, "So that's how it is."
In a noisy, bouncy sort of way the dancing was sedate enough. Any orgies, Jennifer decided, were going to be private. So private, Jennifer wouldn't even see them, much less participate.
"Shall we stroll? The night is lovely." Carol was prodding Jennifer up, holding her arm, even sliding an arm around her waist, as if she were an invalid who needed help. Well, Jennifer told herself, that's what I pretend to be.
The stroll on the deck was not as cozy as predicted. There weren't any warm tropic breezes yet. And even Southern California nights can be chilly, especially out on the water. Carol kept an arm around Jennifer's waist, chatting gaily about the other tours she had been on, the amusing people she had met, some dear, dear friend she had made.
And her hand was sliding across Jennifer's slim, unfettered behind caressingly. "I think we should go in now. My place for a warm sweater or yours for a fashion show." She laughed lightly. "I'd adore to see your things..."
So there was Jennifer, slipping out of the smoky gray, standing there with nothing on but her shoes and pantyhose, reaching for one of her new dresses. Carol came up behind her, putting both arms around her, cupping her bared breasts in either hand. "You have such young, firm breasts. So-alluring. So-kissable."
Carol had turned her around and pressed her mouth against one of Jennifer's small, firm breasts, her tongue teasing at the amber-pink of the nipple, until Jennifer felt once again the hardening of her nipples, the swelling of her breasts and the urgent excitement in her pussy. Even if she didn't understand why Carol was interested, the touch of her hands on Jennifer's buttocks sent new waves of heat and excitement through Jennifer.
On her buttocks! The pantyhose... Somehow Carol had slid them down and was caressing Jennifer's buttocks. Carol slid one hand around, touching at the edge of her pussy, starting up waves of heat and a tightening in her chest.
Jennifer found she was being urged backward, onto the berth already thoughtfully turned down by a stewardess, while Carol sucked at one breast and then ran her tongue over the other, teasing the hardening nipples, bringing new flashes of heat to Jennifer's loins.
It was bewildering to Jennifer. Why should Carol be interested in a girl's breasts, in the slimness and roundness of her buttocks and the softness and warmth of her cunt? One of Carol's hands was gliding over her pelvis, smoothing and parting the soft, still downy hair of her pussy.
It can't be happening. That was how Jennifer felt. It can't be happening. Yet it is. And I have no way to stop it, except to fight, to struggle. And actually, she didn't want to struggle. The excitement was just what she had been seeking, excitement that began as heat in her pussy and extended upward to a warm glow in her chest, sending hot flashes through her pelvis and up through her stomach.
Only a man could thrill you like that, could bring your body to life, to wanting and excitement.
Yet Carol was bringing just that wonderful stimulus of excited pussy to Jennifer. And Jennifer, more in bewilderment than active participation, let herself be stretched out on the berth while Carol knelt beside it, bending over Jennifer's breasts, sucking at them, while her hands played over her thighs, touched lightly on her pussy and slid between her legs, gently wedging them apart.
Carol's tongue played over Jennifer's slim, flat stomach, teasing slowly down toward her pussy. It raced out the fine creases between leg and stomach and worked its tantalizing way down to her pussy.
And I'm not fighting it! I don't even know what is happening, but I'm not fighting it, because it is thrilling, it does stir me. Almost as much as Cass did. Though I don't understand why a girl would want to suck on another girl's pussy, as Carol is starting to do. But it does give me a thrill.
Carol's hand had slid around one of Jennifer's buttocks and was working daintily at her vulva, spreading the deep pink lips while her tongue touched the outer edges and then slid softly inside.
Jennifer bucked, feeling that penetration, and Carol calmed her with a soothing hand caressing one breast, murmuring endearments.
Jennifer could feel her pussy opening freely, feel the juices start-and the tentative, tender touch of Carol's tongue that started new fires inside.
She wasn't horrified. It was too new to Jennifer, too overwhelming. The excitement kept building, just as it had with Cass, and Jennifer's little pussy responded. Her pelvis worked up and down, trying to get more of Carol's tongue. And she was moaning. She hadn't realized it until, in a sudden silence, she heard herself.
Carol raised her head, leaving Jennifer's cunt momentarily free, and started on a string of endearments before ducking once more between Jennifer's legs.
Jennifer arched her body with the exquisite agony of tension, and then dropped back on the berth just as there was a knock on the cabin door and a steward called out, "Miss Carol Clark, an important message for you at the purser's desk. Will you..."
Carol rolled over, glaring at the door. "I got the message. Okay... Be right there." She stood up, glaring down at Jennifer. "So you've got protection. What is it? A conspiracy?" She laughed harshly. "If you were set up for me, you've learned something, kid. The Mod Squad arrived too late."
And Carol twitched herself to the small private bath and came out a moment later, glaring at Jennifer. "And I'd have sworn you didn't spot it. Whoever set you up sure let you down this time." She laughed wickedly. "And I've put my mark on you. You like it, kid. You love it." And Carol stalked out, slamming the door.
Chapter Five
Jennifer lay there, shuddering. How could this have happened? How? Because I am stupid. I should have known about Lesbians. And yet, even though I've read about them, I didn't recognize one in Carol.
Her body had betrayed her again. The aching need for release, for some animal gratification, had led her to this, to lying here, shuddering because a Lesbian had tried to make love to her. She shook her head at her own thinking. No! Not tried. That woman had made love to her-in a manner that somehow degraded her own womanhood, debauched her body.
Jennifer dragged herself up and into the shower, to wash away some of the ugliness that seemed to cling to her. She knew she had permitted it. Surprise, astonishment that such an assault could occur was poor excuse for having allowed things to progress as far as they had.
And Carol, though she was angry about what she seemed to consider a conspiracy-with some accomplice, had left that jeering message-that Jennifer was hooked.
Jennifer looked down at her body, at the water streaming over her breasts, her stomach, her-yes-cunt. She could think of it dispassionately now in those terms, book terms she had never expected to encounter.
Am I -hooked?
Remembering the scene-and in spite of the momentary excitement Carol had stirred in her body-Jennifer knew she wasn't "hooked." She felt too much revulsion, too great a humiliation. Degraded. That was the word. Her body was degraded.
Maybe Lesbians had something going for them. It wasn't therefor her. Nothing but a feeling of frustration -of incompletion.
She wondered if she might have been hooked if Carol had completed her lovemaking. She shook her head. Just the suddenness of it, the bald effrontery, had thrust Jennifer into accepting as much as she had. It hadn't been... satisfying.
If I am going to have sex, I want it with a man. I want a man's prick rammed up my pussy! I want sex man-woman style.
That's what my body says I want... And Jennifer writhed under the beat of water on her skin, feeling the urges sweep through her body, creeping up her legs, to her pussy and into her belly. I want to wash away all the degradation Carol heaped on me. Yet, in doing it, I make myself want-create a new hunger.
And what to do about it?
Had Jennifer been less naive, more worldly, she would have known what to do, and it wouldn't be the casual happenstance of events on a cruise, however delightful, however much it promised in the way of swingin'-which, to be quite truthful, Jennifer acknowledged to herself, she didn't know much about.
But she did know that standing under a warm shower, while mildly stimulating, wasn't the answer. She stepped out of the shower feeling clean-freed of Carol. While drying herself she considered her wardrobe. She was just a little horrified to find she was contemplating something easy to get out of, in case some man...
She put the thought aside, but even so, she wore no bra. Her breasts were firm enough without. Pantyhose? They were not so easy to slip out of.... Brief panties? Or nothing? Nothing.
That's depraved! Her mind told her that, but her body enjoyed the exquisite freedom of nothing under the sheer shift.
She tried to tell herself she wasn't really looking for a man, that she was just going up on deck to enjoy the soft night breeze and clear away some of the confusion Carol's lovemaking had created.
Yet she rejoiced when the breeze, stronger than she had anticipated, plastered the shift against her body, molding her high, firm breasts, whipping between her legs, bringing her whole body into high relief, and demonstrating, if there had been anyone else to see, that she was wearing nothing under the shift. The breeze, against all nature, blew straight up, so that she had to fight the shift and hold it down. And the sudden breeze on her pussy, stirring the hairs, started her daydreaming. If some man...
That's when she nearly stepped on the couple who had been overwhelmed with sex in a very public place.
She peered around. Actually, this corner of the boat deck was quite secluded. In fact, very private. And the man advised her, "Scram, nosy! Scram!" And the girl used both hands to cover her face, about the only portion of her not completely exposed.
Jennifer backed away, waving her hands futilely before her face, as if she were brushing away the image of what she had just seen. But it was a moment that wouldn't brush away, making Jennifer's body flush with excitement.
Imagine someone looking on when...No! Sex was a private affair, even if you did announce your intentions by going on a swingin' singles cruise. Going was just a way of flinging open shutters, of letting sunlight into your life. The sunburn was private.
And Jennifer stepped into space.
For a ghastly moment, as she glanced down at her erring feet, she could see the waters rushing alongside the ship. And then she was falling.
Something snagged at her shift and held. But the shift didn't. It split right along the long zipper, spilling Jennifer out of it, her legs kicking wildly, her arms flailing.
One arm was grasped in a strong, almost crushing grip. Jennifer jerked to a midair halt and swung back against the ship, her behind smacking into steel and old, rough paint. Then she was being hauled up, her bottom scraping along the hull. Above her a man was swearing. And then talking, directing her.
"Now. Give me your other hand. This way. No, don't claw at me. Just your hand, so I can grab your wrist.... That's better. Now you can push yourself off from the ship's side a little. Sort of walk your way up. It's going to cut your feet because you lost your wedgies."
Jennifer stared upward, squinting, trying to see the face that belonged to the voice. "I wasn't wearing wedgies!" She sounded indignant.
And suddenly she was back on deck, at the very edge, almost behind one of the boats hanging in their davits. And looking back at the dark, rushing waters, while someone held her wrists.
"Oh, no, you don't! Not twice in one night! If I have to sit on you! Though the lord only knows how you knew enough to pick the one sure suicide spot on this boat. You've been stupid enough about everything else." The grip on her wrists shifted and Jennifer lunged perilously toward the edge again, staring in horror.
"Yes. Take a good look. A really good look, Miss Lorn. When you go off there, at this spot, the current sweeps you right into the propeller. The port propeller, if you care. And it chops you into about seven pieces. Most of which we never find. Oh, an arm here, a leg there. The sharks usually get the rest."
About halfway through this recital Jennifer shut her eyes, turning away from the sight of the black, rushing waters, and buried her face against the rough texture of a man's coat.
Now that she could think again, she could feel the rough texture rasping against her breasts and stomach-and she could feel the cool night breezes all over. She was naked. And in some man's arms. She lifted her head and stared. It was the young man who had spoken to her on the dock, the ship's officer Elsie and Anna had said was cruise director.
"I'm sorry."
He shook her, moving her carefully, even gently away from the edge of the boat. "You should be. You could have damaged our port propeller. If your bones are hard enough."
"I said I was sorry. I wouldn't damage your old port propeller for anything! And if you'll just let go of my wrists, I'll go to my cabin. Peacefully."
"Naked?" There was a chuckle in the voice now, covering the anger of a moment ago. "Miss Lorn, I'll lend you my coat. And I'll escort you to your cabin, to lock you in if it were practical. And incidentally, to protect my coat on the way. I never know when some impulsive act will start you off, discarding your clothes. And I can't afford to lose a practically brand new sports jacket."
All the time he was talking he was slipping out of his jacket and easing it onto Jennifer, who was accepting it meekly, mostly because she was virtually in shock. The realization of what he had been saying about the rush of waters and the chopping of the port propeller had finally penetrated. Sharks! She shivered, and the man looked down at her. He spoke gruffly, but there was a kindness behind what he was saying. "Cold! Well, you should be, doing a strip up here on the boat deck. It's windy. And the air is cool this far north. And if you hold the coat closed up to your chin, you'll pass. I've seen shorter dresses. Now, walk. I have an arm around you. It's not affection, Miss Lorn, I assure you. I'm just protecting my property. My coat. In case you decide to make a break for the starboard rail. That's also usually fatal. In a gruesome way. Now, if you'll just come through this door. You'll have to press close to me, to make it, and I know you object to that, but I must insist. I'm not turning you loose until I get you back to your cabin. And then I can have a stewardess on guard, to see you don't get into any more difficulties."
Jennifer was aware that they passed couples who smiled knowingly at the scene of the young man with his arm around a barefoot girl-clad only in the man's coat. She was aware that he braced her in a corner, holding her with a body block, while he fumbled her door open and then thrust her in.
"And now, may I have my coat?"
Jennifer whipped it off, thrusting it at him, her back half turned, not even looking over her shoulder at him. "Here!"
She heard him gasp and felt him come in behind her, closing the door. "Kid, you are hurt! Go on, put on a robe. Put on something. You're too distracting standing there with your bare face hanging out all over-and those big, staring eyes. Are you trying not to cry?"
"No!" Jennifer flung herself face down on the berth. "I am crying! Because I hurt all over. Now get out! Get out!" She rolled over on her scratched and bleeding buttocks to stare up at him, completely disregarding the fact that she was naked. On a bed. With a strange man in the room. She pointed. "You! It was you. I told you to get out!"
The young man nodded, grinning suddenly. "Twice. When Cass somebody threw you out- because you wouldn't. I can guess what you wouldn't. And for the third time-on the boat deck. You do come apart at the seams rather easily, Miss Lorn. But the scenery is good." He became very brisk, walking toward the berth. "Let me take a look at your-er-rear. I do have a certificate in life saving and first aid. And after all, I've seen about all there is to see."
"Three times!" Jennifer said it in awe at the mysterious ways of fate. She rolled over, propping her tokus for the man's inspection, peering at her behind and him over one shoulder. "And I don't even know your name."
Chapter Six
He continued to study her bruised tokus, frowning slightly. "The wound is not mortal. Oh, my name?" He flicked a grin at her and went back to a concentrated study of the scraped derriere. "It's Bruce Caldwell. Happy to know you, Miss Jennifer Lorn. Now, this little tokus... Hmmm. Not bad in this light. Or any other, I might add. It is a very satisfactory little rump, though slightly brush-burned at the moment. A little Merthiolate-or maybe potassium permanganate. Have you any choice in colors? Red for Merthiolate. Purple for potassium. Or we could work in a little iodine-brown-if you don't mind the sting. And then a salve."
Jennifer began to feel a little faint, a weakness as he touched her small reddened rump. It was a weakness that had nothing to do with pain. It was, on the whole, a rather exciting weakness in a deliciously languid way.
"Merthiolate it'll have to be. There's some in this medicine chest. And Noxema. That ought to do it."
He sprayed the Merthiolate over the scraped areas of her buttocks while Jennifer watched with tightly held breath, her eyes big as she studied the man who had, three times now, seen her naked-and whom she had driven away. Well, not the third time. He was still here. But he was going to walk away in disgust.
He had seen her twice under circumstances she preferred not to think about. And the third time he seemed to think she was trying to commit suicide. And he was doctoring her very private little rump, painting it a Cherokee Indian red. What man wouldn't walk away from that horror?
Now he was smearing the soft white cream over her behind, with a very special gentleness, it seemed. He caught her looking at him and winked, a very gay, friendly sort of wink. Not salacious. Just friendly. "You have a very delectable tokus-especially when decorated with whipped cream. It seems worth biting. Very luscious. Very!" And he leaned over and kissed one buttock, just at the edge of the salved area.
Jennifer gasped and rolled away from him, almost burying her buttocks against the wall, forgetting that it exposed her entire front elevation. Or had she really forgotten? It was a point that was to trouble Jennifer only briefly.
Her young breasts stood erect, her nipples already hardening after the brief kiss that still tingled on her rump. And her stomach, taut and lean, was tense, close to quivering. And her legs... One of his hands stroked her leg, the inner part of her thigh, stroking gently, a light caress that stirred her, deep in her throat, 'way down inside her stomach, and in the hottest spot of all, her loins.
Jennifer reached up, throwing her arm around his neck, drawing his head toward her mouth, sweet and waiting.
He slid an arm under her shoulders and lifted her, burying his face in her throat, kissing the great artery where blood pulsed to a newer, wilder rhythm. Jennifer threw back her head, accepting this, and the soft tracing of his tongue down her throat and across her breasts, to tease at a nipple.
Her arm tightened, pressing his face closer to her breast, feeling the nipple slip between his lips, his tongue caressing it. Jennifer moaned softly, writhing as he teased at her nipples, as his hands sought to caress her thighs, to reach up and touch her pussy.
The touch of his fingers on her pussy brought a breathless, writhing moan, an expression that was close to ecstasy as she threw back her head, her mouth open, her eyes staring at the ceiling, her mind checking the ways he delighted her.
She realized that her legs, without will or approval from her, had opened with delicious weakness and that his hand cupped her pussy while one finger tapped out a gentle rhythm.
She drew a soft, shuddering breath as his mouth moved upward, releasing her nipple, kissing her throat and, at last, as she had wanted so long, closing over her mouth. His tongue speared into her mouth, momentarily startling her, and then she was responding, her tongue to his in an ecstasy of writhings.
His hands slid around her waist, lifting her so that her breasts once again brushed his chest. She moved, twisting, so that her breasts rubbed against him, against the texture of his shirt. No, that wasn't his shirt, that was his chest and a tangle of hair.
She couldn't recall when he had slipped out of his shirt, but now, with her arms around him, she was exploring the muscles of his back and shoulders, caressing him in return, as his fingers dug into her back, crushing her against him.
"You are a sweet child, Jennifer. Very sweet. And I'm taking advantage of you-horrible advantage..."
She whispered back, "Darling, you know it's what I want, what I have wanted. What I went to see Cass to get. Only it wasn't right with him. It is with you. So very right."
"You don't know. You're a child yet. Oh, yes, I know about Mother Dear, and how she has- babied you. And even if I am taking advantage, I'll be loving you for allowing it. And I'll be gentle."
He was gentle. His hands caressed, his tongue touched and made new magic within her body, made her breasts swell, her nipples stand valiantly erect, and her little vulva open like a blossoming flower, to display its pink inner lips, swollen now with passion, waiting for his entry.
Jennifer could see his prick-his joystick, one of the books had called that great shaft with pulsing blue veins and a shiny reddish-purple head like a bulb. How had he slid out of his trousers? She hadn't even been aware of it, so absorbed was she in her own delicious reactions, in the agonizing intensity of waiting, of feeling something tremendous impending.
His shaft was rigid, a great, quivering stick that aimed at her pussy, her waiting, anxiously waiting pussy. And this time she would not panic, would not fight, would not strike back with that unwittingly cruel blow, as she had with Cass.
This time was for real.
Even though her little tokus still stung from the brush burns, from the Merthiolate and the gentle application of salve, she sank back on it, letting those legs fall languidly open, so that his prick could reach her "heavenly gate"-another phrase from a book.
He aimed it, moved slowly up on her, kissing her throat, twisting around to kiss one breast, and then clamping his mouth on hers, in another sweet exchange of kisses.
She could feel the head of his prick pushing at her vulva. Sudden panic struck her. His prick was so big! Her little pussy was so small! Suppose she screamed with the pain of it? Suppose she bucked away from him, as she had with Cass? That would be the end. She would find that place on the boat deck-this time deliberately-and plunge overboard. It would be over quickly, and she wouldn't even care if the sharks got her body. It would be no more use to her...
Oh, dear God, his head had pushed-was pushing against the wet hotness of her vulva. She could feel skin and muscles stretch to accept it. She gulped at her fears and thrust upward with her pelvis.
His prick slid in!
Only the head, but he was within her body. His prick was driving slowly up her cunt, where she could feel each new move of his bulb, each additional millimeter of shaft. It hurt, yes. She could feel her flesh and muscles stretch to accommodate that head and shaft. But it also thrilled.
The very movements that pained also brought new ecstasy, new thrills. She arched her back and then sagged, thrusting with her pelvis to drive his shaft deeper. And something within her was spouting juices that made the passage of his shaft easier-and more exciting.
The slight motion of his chest across her nipples stirred new longings, new desires, and the wild urge for deeper and deeper penetration.
His hands reached up from where he was bracing on his elbows, and pressed her breasts, moved them gently, so that they stroked his chest and his chest in turn stroked her breasts.
And the rhythm of his drive up her pussy was increasing, the tempo stepped up. And she was moving with him, in a sensual counterpoint.
She could feel the swell of his head within her pussy, far up that most accommodating tunnel-how could it take so much shaft? A pulsing rhythm seemed to say something to her, even though she had no previous knowledge.
He was going to come, going to explode his semen far up her passage, 'way up into her, farther up, it seemed, than her bellybutton. She knew it with her body, with all its wonderfully exciting reactions, not from any reading, certainly not from experience. This was woman-stuff, to know your man, to know when his rhythm was at its peak, when his shaft was ready to explode.
And to explode with him.
Her body had accepted his shaft, had built its own rhythm, and was now tight and tense, with delightful but almost excruciating tensions.
Her hands were digging into his back, in a seeming attempt to pull him impossibly closer. And his hands caressed her back.
Suddenly she flung her legs up, wrapping them around his legs, squeezing him deeper into her, one last, extra millimeter of drive up her pussy. Her heels beat a frantic tattoo against his buttocks, and her pelvis drove up and slammed into his in one great surge. It held there, as if they were suspended in some delirious era of time. And then she dropped back, her pussy bursting with juices as his shaft exploded far up her in one great, one terrific surge of passion.
And then collapse. Jennifer subsided slowly, her legs sliding off his, her arms dropping limply to her sides. His body sagged onto hers, his breathing deep and shuddering. They lay like that for a long moment, Bruce supporting much of his weight on his arms, his chest barely caressing Jennifer's breasts, his pelvis still locked closely with hers.
Now he slid downward, dragging his prick slowly from her pussy, wet now and limp, but still sending shuddering thrills through her as it came out.
He fell heavily on his side, rolling off her, and smiled at her, his eyes tender and caressing. And Jennifer smiled back. She whispered softly, "Thank you, Bruce. Thank you for saving my life-and a new excuse for living it."
Chapter Seven
She heard herself saying it and was amazed -no, not amazed. Horrified. Certainly she had sought sex. Certainly she had come on this swinging singles cruise expecting sex. And she had yielded to Bruce. So easily-so simply. As if sex were normal. Something everyday. Something that just... occurred. Like supper time.
It wasn't something to live for. Sex wasn't a complete goal. And she had made it that. And that violated every precept she knew. Not just Mother Dear's absurdities, but the real, fundamental principles of living. Everything I've ever known. In Sunday school. In church. Not that I'm a very churchy person.
Revulsion swept over her. She had given her body to a man, to just... some man. He happened to be a man she had seen twice before, the man who had grabbed her as she was pitching overboard. But he was simply-a man. Male. Something that could satisfy those urges that had swept her, had shaken her loose from all the fine and somewhat noble precepts she had learned. And, she had to admit, in deep rebellion against Mother Dear's earnest exhortations, exhortations that sounded false, even to Jennifer.
Mother Dear's exhortations may have been false, over-exaggerated, products of some fantasized ruin she had suffered, but the real basics remained. Jennifer had violated them. She had almost casually given her body to a man.
And now he lay beside her, staring hungrily at her body, ready to grasp and violate it again.
Jennifer blinked, focussing on Brace's face. It wasn't staring hungrily at her body. His eyes- they were rather nice eyes-were on her face. And he frowned slightly.
"I think you mean that. You make it sound as if I were noble. I'm not. Not by any means. I'm a very selfish guy who has taken advantage of a very sweet, very naive, somewhat bewildered girl. You are naive, you know, despite the fact that you are extremely competent in bed."
Jennifer stiffened. "Competent in bed." It sounded like a letter of recommendation for a prostitute. And then the idea intrigued her.
"But aren't all girls? I mean, what is there to it that a girl has to do except lie there and- take it?"
Brace blinked at her. "You don't know, do you? It's how she takes it that counts. The frigid, rigid ones-oh, they can lie there and take it, but they never give nor receive pleasure. That's one thing that turns out such poor unhappy creatures as Carol, always restlessly seeking sex but in the wrong way, the unsatisfactory way, the-well-incomplete way."
Jennifer knew he was talking about Carol's Lesbian attack on her, and she shuddered. That was real debasement-and then she was astounded that she could lie naked in bed with a man and discuss-well-anything with him. Yet she had to know.
"It was you sent that steward-with the message for Carol."
Bruce nodded. "I've tried to keep an eye on you ever since you boarded the boat." He grinned lazily. "And not just because of a cute yellow and black outfit and a silly pillbox of a hat. After all, I've seen what was under it. Twice." He frowned off into space. "Only it wasn't really that, either. It was a look you had -a sort of quiet desperation. That look doesn't go with a swingin' singles cruise. They are for gay, relaxed people. For, you might say, uninhibited people. At least, they're for people out for the sheer fun of it."
"And I wasn't?" Jennifer loosened one hand from around her legs and touched the hair on his chest. And drew back, horrified. I've got to stop! I've got to send him away! This is foul. This is depraved, sitting here naked, listening to a man tell me... what was it he was going to tell me? She wanted to hear.
"That you weren't, Jennifer. Oh, you were out for-something. And desperate. As if you had to prove something or quit."
And I've proved it! I'm in bed with a man. I have had my body violated. A man has stuck his prick up my pussy. And I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed for even remembering the words from those books. And the worst of it is, I'm not doing anything about it. But I do want to know the why of it.
"And you thought I was quitting when I nearly went overboard?" She frowned. "You didn't have to snatch off my clothes."
"Not guilty. You caught it on a cleat as you stepped back and started down. I just grabbed you. And yes, I did think you were quitting. The hard way. And believe me, it is the hard way. They tell me you start regretting it the second you start falling. But when you started fighting to get back, I knew I'd been wrong."
"You kept saying things..." Jennifer shuddered. "Propellers. Sharks..."
"It seemed to make you mad enough to fight. And fighting is good for would-be suicides." Bruce grinned, surveying her body in one sweeping glance that made her suddenly cold-and then very warm.
"Besides, I liked the feel of you fighting in my arms. You feel very nice in a guy's arms. Fighting-or--just in a guy's arms. Like this-"
Bruce reached for her, sliding one arm around her. She started to struggle, hating the very thought of him touching her. He mustn't touch her. He had no right to disturb her like this. To make her body suddenly warm, suddenly yearning. To make her want to reach for his body, feeling her hands glide over the bronzed, rippling muscles.
By what right were his hands so thrilling as they caressed her back? How dare he hold her so breathtakingly close? And force her arms up around his neck, pulling his face close, so that his mouth was on hers?
And, to her horror, she knew he wasn't doing it. She was. She was responding. She was reaching for his lips, seeking that kiss that set new fires to raging. This was truly madness.
But, as she knew, as her whole body knew and recognized and demanded, this was glorious madness, rich and satisfying.
The madness drove her hand wandering down to close around his penis, feeling it quiver into renewed life, renewed interest--just a quiver but very interesting. Very. Jennifer studied the long, limp shaft, the deflated head, blue-gray now against the tan of his leg.
And Brace's arm tightened around her waist. He raised the other, touching her breast, poking his finger at her nipple and then releasing it, watching it swell and harden.
Jennifer closed her eyes and sucked in a great deep breath, inflating her bosom, making those soft, round mounds stand out, pushing against his hand. And she slid her hand down until it touched his penis.
She felt the almost instant stiffening and stroked it. She couldn't have told why she did it. Something primitive within her directed her. Or perhaps she was unconsciously remembering some of the more lurid passages in those books. She closed her hand around the shaft and felt it swell, pulsing with intense blood rushing through it.
One of Bruce's hands slid under her still sensitive bottom and came up under her pussy, his fingers finding the lips from below and teasing them.
Jennifer lay back against the wall, her breath coming in long, shuddering gasps as her little pussy started the swelling that would open those very pink lips and produce a startling flow of juices. Her hand closed convulsively over his shaft and she moved it up and down in slow strokes that kept the shaft growing and hardening, until it swelled to those astonishing proportions she had known earlier.
With her legs cocked up, one arm still holding her knees, her little pussy was directly available to his seeking fingers. She could feel one slide in, teasing at her clitoris, and she shivered with the excitement of it.
Bruce lifted her feet and rolled on his side, so that his prick was bobbing against the lips of her vulva in place of his fingers, which now held the lips wide apart, ready for an entry.
"Slide onto it, Jennifer. Sit on me and slide down on it... You can control how deep..."
Jennifer swung one leg, so that she straddled his hips and slid her pelvis around, up onto him. His penis rubbed against her pussy, the shaft caressing her clitoris, driving her to intense new excitement. With her breath held, she moved slowly, sliding her pussy along the shaft, feeling and seeing it touch that head, now glossy with juices and purplish.
She raised her pelvis, feeling his penis stiffen and rise with it. Oh, God, that long?
Bracing herself on her arms, she looked down her body, past where his hands were playing with her breasts, to see his penis, long, hard and round, bobbing at her pussy.
Levering with her knees, she lowered herself, feeling his hand guiding the head into her cunt. She lowered, slowly, feeling that glossy, swollen head slide over the juices her own little pussy was providing-and with an almost audible "plop" shoot into her cunt.
Half squatting, half supported on her arms, and now held and supported by Brace's hands, she could stare down her body, see the mounds of her breasts, the soft flatness of her stomach -and her pussy, with the head of his shaft already buried inside.
Hungrily she watched as she lowered herself, sending that shaft up and up her tunnel. She could feel each minute motion of that head along her passage, feel it with growing excitement, with new tightness in her chest, new heat within her body and the increased flow of juices. And all the time seeing his shaft go up and up, swallowed by her little pussy.
She realized that Bruce, too, was watching her pussy, studying the movement of his shaft up her tunnel. He caught her look and smiled at her.
"You're beautiful, you know. Every small part of you fits to perfection. And you feel wonderful, sliding down on me."
Jennifer nodded. She didn't trust her voice, for she felt like screaming with the sheer exuberance of feeling his shaft within her, sliding upward, penetrating deeper into her, until she couldn't imagine how she could take so much of it. And it still kept going in-and in, farther up. Way up.
Now Bruce pulled his pelvis down, tugging his penis, so that it slid backward in her pussy, and then driving upward again.
Jennifer gulped, holding hard to his shoulders as she eased herself down on that tremendous rod of pleasure. And now it was almost buried in her pussy. She could see the pink lips of her vulva gulping at the flesh of his shaft, see the veins of his penis swell and pulse.
With a sigh of immense satisfaction, she let herself go, sinking down on his penis, feeling it drive far up in her....Oh, God, how wonderful! How wonderful to look-and to feel-as he drove his penis into her.
And she could control it. Control it? She wanted all of it, every microscopic bit of it driving far up inside her. She forced herself down until the lips of her vulva were pressed against the flesh of his pelvis, until his prick was driven as far up her as it physically could go.
And still she wanted more. Until Bruce started a slow rotation of his pelvis that pulled and pushed at his prick, sliding the head up and down her passage, starting a wild, tormenting desire way up her, a new fire in the lips of her vulva-and all the way in between.
Bruce's hands played over her breasts, starting fires up there than ran through her body to meet the fires below, until her whole being seemed a blaze of heat, a mass of triggering impulse that spurted juices, that tried to milk his shaft with the muscles of her tunnel, that chewed and nibbled at the base of his shaft with the pulsing lips of her vulva.
Bruce caressed her breasts and slid his hands over her slim, flat little stomach and on down to the inner sides of her thighs-and back again in a massage of love that kept her body churning with excitement.
At the same time he moved his pelvis faster and faster, driving his shaft in and out-only a fraction of an inch but enough to massage her tunnel from vulva lips to somewhere far up in her belly, it seemed.
He raised himself, pulling at her, and brought her breasts down where his lips could work on them, teasing her amber-pink nipples, tracing the faintly coppery rings around them, and pressing the hot flesh of her breasts.
She couldn't believe it, but it was happening all over again, the buildup of exciting pressure within her, the pulsing of his prick, the response of her tunnel, shooting juices.
It was a wild explosion, wild, but silent, all through her, as if her whole body had briefly disintegrated, had blown itself into component parts, deliciously enjoying the sensation, grinding down with her pelvis on this shaft of love that gave her such exquisitely painful pleasure.
Bruce moaned, clutching her, nibbling frantically at her breasts, then, with his mouth wide open, seeming to try to swallow one, teasing the nipple with his tongue. He drove upward with his pelvis, drove his shaft for one last time far up in her body-and held it there as his bulb exploded in a great mass of hot juices.
Then he sagged, his face momentarily blank, then wreathed in a smile that warmed Jennifer all over again.
And she sagged, as if the orgasm had melted her spine. She slid down on him, feeling his chest against her hypersensitive breasts, so that it was almost a pain-but delightful.
She buried her face beside his neck, murmuring his name. His hands came up her back, caressing her as he murmured endearments.
The slow sliding out of his prick from her pussy ignited a brief fire in her, and she shivered with it and slid off him, to lie beside him, cramped in the narrow berth, cramped but cozily warm and happy. Her nose nuzzled his ear and she whuffled at him.
He jerked his head away and turned so that they lay face to face. He rubbed his nose against hers, nuzzling her affectionately. He kissed her, not with great passion but with sweet and rather endearing affection.
"Sometimes I think this is the best part, the long, slow, gentle recovery." He chuckled. "Except, of course, there wouldn't be any long, slow gentle recovery if there hadn't been some very exciting tensions and releases. Delectable in themselves."
Jennifer nodded against his forehead. "As you say-delectable in themselves. And are there more ways to be delectable in themselves?"
Bruce promised her. "Dozens. We've only tried two."
"Dozens? There can't be." And she fell asleep speculating on the possible ways, some of them quite extraordinary.
Chapter Eight
Jennifer awoke, stretched, and groped for something that was not there. She opened her eyes wide, turning her head to seek what was missing. And then she knew. Bruce. Bruce was gone, but the long imprint of him was there. She touched the imprint, stroking it, remembering.
Remembering! Realization flooded her, striking deep at something inside. Her heart? It seemed her whole viscera were involved. And it numbed her.
She had had a man! She, Jennifer, had let a man fuck her. Oh, yes, she could use a word like that now. In humiliation, in degradation.
How could she have done it? How could she possibly have let a man touch her body, possess it completely, slide his prick into her belly and take her-not once but twice?
I must have been mad. Crazy. Quite crazy. Even to think of it! Let alone allow it to happen. And yet I not only allowed it, I connived at it. I sought it. Oh, not that particular moment -with that particular man. But I sought sex. Just by coming on this cruise.
There's no one to blame but me. I deliberately sought out this cruise. I even prepared for having sex. I bought The Pill.
Jennifer shivered and pulled the sheet around her nakedness. Naked! She was still naked, as Bruce had seen her, as Bruce had possessed her.
And, worst of all, I enjoyed it. My body enjoyed it. There were delicious thrills...
Jennifer deliberately put a stop to those errant thoughts. They weren't hers. She would deny them, and deny the night before. Wipe it out.
Only it wouldn't wipe out. Memory swept in waves over her. And the sensible, sane side of Jennifer glared at them, scowled them back into some depth of her being. Bruce hadn't been that tender. He hadn't thrust his prick that far up her, and exploded those delicious...
Jennifer cowered in her bunk. I'm depraved. I'm lewd. I can't -I won't think such things. I won't be such a person. That girl is an animal!" And the animals went in, two by two..." Yes, it takes two to be animalistic. So I cooperated. I was part of that animalistic act. That-fucking!
But how had it come about? Jennifer tried, behind her eyes that shut out-no, shut in-pictures of last night's debauch-to piece together the events that had led up to this-this awful, degrading night, when her body had been used. She ended those thoughts definitely, with finality. She had spent twenty years under Mother Dear's domination, under her precepts of right and wrong-and anything having to do with a man was wrong. Nauseously wrong. Violently, sick-making wrong!
The release of Mother Dear's death had ended her tyranny but it hadn't ended her precepts. It was against these that Jennifer had rebelled. Rebelled violently. Rushed to Cass, just because her body craved-something.
Those precepts were right! Those and what lingering memory Jennifer had of early Sunday school training. But not altogether. Sunday school teachings, and her other readings, had said such things were wrong. Mother Dear had said they were horrid! Filthy! Vile!
They weren't horrid. They were delightful, as Jennifer now knew. There were sensations that... Jennifer resolutely climbed out of bed and stalked to the shower. A cold shower would sting away those erring, wicked thoughts.
It didn't. It simply reminded her that last night she had used parts of her anatomy never really used before and other parts in ways that were new-and, of course, horrid. Only sometimes it was difficult to remember exactly how horrid they were. Waves of delicious languor swept up, obliterating the horridness.
She twisted around and viewed her tokus- which still showed a fading but once gaudy red from the Merthiolate. And remembering how the Merthiolate had been applied, Jennifer flushed.
But, remembering how she had received those bruises, Jennifer gulped, shuddering. A momentary step in the dark and a plunge that would have been fatal except for Bruce, whose strong arms had grabbed her.
And the gray shift? What had happened to the betraying gray shift that had left her naked? Was it still hanging like a flag from some stanchion on the boat deck for all to see? For all to know that here a girl had abandoned her clothing and her inhibitions?
Jennifer emerged from the shower, toweling her hair, aware of a sound at her door. Before she could retreat a trim Javanese stewardess walked in, holding the gray shift.
She smiled at Jennifer. "Mr. Caldwell said you tore this last night on a stanchion. I have mended it."
She displayed the back of the shift, where the tear had been skillfully, almost invisibly repaired. The shift had been pressed. It smelled freshly ironed.
Jennifer turned to her dresser, reaching for her purse, when the stewardess exclaimed, "Your backside! You have injured your backside! How does this occur? Your pardon... I do not mean to ask that. It is only that I would help if I could."
Jennifer corkscrewed herself around to study her derriere. "I think it's all right now. That's mostly Merthiolate. I-skidded." Jennifer held out a bill to the girl.
"Oh, no. That is service of the line. Mr. Caldwell say, line at fault. Fix dress."
Jennifer thrust the bill at the girl, taking the shift. "Nonsense. You did the work. And it wasn't altogether the line's fault. I was somewhere I shouldn't have been, I expect. So..."
The Javanese girl sighed. "Thank you. It is very kind of you." She backed out with a little bobbing bow, smiling.
Still, Jennifer was not going to wear that shift today. Let it hang in her wardrobe, a reminder. As if she needed one.
The shift was put away. But not the memories. Of course, she would have to thank Bruce for saving her life. It seemed to her she had done that last night, but it should be done in less stimulating surroundings, when things were- calmer. Even thanking him would, of course, remind her-remind both of them-of all that had followed.
She slipped into a silvery greenish number that had the very breath of spring, pinned on an aquamarine clasp that seemed to set it off, and went down to the dining salon and breakfast with almost unseemly haste, as only a normally healthy young female who had had abundant sex the night before could approach a breakfast.
Elsie, eager and seeming to bounce in her seat, was the only one of her tablemates present. But she was making up in eagerness and talk for the other two. "Anna has a hangover. She shouldn't mix her drinks. I've told her and told her... But we did have a lovely time. Some of the boys are really good musicians. After the dance we went down on C deck and had a real 'way-out session. Till five a.m." Elsie yawned majestically. "I got about an hour's sleep. Maybe I should'a stayed in bed. Like Anna. Except she's groaning and has the trots. You're lucky. A private cabin. Nobody to disturb your sleep..."
Jennifer nodded, deliberately willing herself not to flush. She had had someone to disturb her sleep. Bruce. Even very forcibly not thinking about him brought a slow warmth to her body, almost a glow in very private areas. Sternly Jennifer forbade her body to respond so eagerly. Not that it did any particular good, it seemed.
Elsie was scooping eagerly at her grapefruit. "I love breakfast. Lots of people don't. I mean --just a cup of coffee and maybe a snarl for the cat. I like to eat. I guess it shows." She patted one plump hip contentedly. "You look as if you could eat. Like you slept well. I mean, you aren't all tensed up the way you were yesterday. You look-oh-relaxed. Like you might be willing to enjoy this cruise after all."
Jennifer frowned thoughtfully. "Was I? Tensed? Yes, I guess I was keyed up. That's why I took this cruise."
Taking a large hot buttered roll, Elsie nodded. "It's already done you good. I can see."
So her body was betraying her. Again! Daring to show up-and at breakfast-relaxed and at ease when she should be showing the horrors of betrayal.
Somehow she knew Bruce was behind her chair even before Elsie beamed and waved a butter knife at him. "Hi, Mister Caldwell!"
Jennifer resolutely studied the menu while they talked above her head.
"I hear Anna needs a bullet to bite on. Or a hair of the gay dog that bit her. I've sent a stewardess to her cabin with a-harumph-restorative. I don't guarantee it, but it has been known to get a roar out of an old bearskin rug."
"That's Anna. She was wondering this morning who laid that old bearskin rug down in place of a tongue. Thanks, Mister Caldwell."
"Bruce. Make it Bruce. Simpler. And don't forget. We'll be in the tropics by tonight." He touched Jennifer lightly on the shoulder and her body stiffened, feeling too many responses, so she locked herself away. "The Southern Cross will be visible tonight. Am I going to have the pleasure of introducing you to it, Jennifer?"
That was ridiculous. How did you introduce someone to the Southern Cross? "Miss Lorn, the Southern Cross. Southern Cross, Miss Lorn- whom I am going to take below and screw a dozen different ways." That's what Bruce was really saying.
But he wouldn't. Not this night. Jennifer wouldn't be so unnerved by her near brush with death, by the betrayal of her body, responding in his arms. She would be calm, resolute. And thank him very nicely for saving her life. And go down to bed. Alone.
Jennifer hadn't realized how bleak the prospect sounded.
Chapter Nine
They were approaching the tropics. Even on the boat deck the new temperatures, the whole climate were noticeable. The breezes were warmer, the sun brighter. And Jennifer slumped in her deck chair, almost angry with all these people for enjoying the warmth, the brilliant sun-and taking up Brace's time.
If he weren't so busy she could have a few minutes with him, thank him for all he had done... Jennifer shook her head. That wasn't the way to put it, for he had done many things for which she certainly had no intention of thanking him.
Anyway, she could get it over with and be free to breathe deeply again. There were too many constrictions now. Too many-yes-inhibitions. Too much humiliation. And the casual way Bruce seemed to accept her surrender! Inviting her right out in public to view the Southern Cross and practically stating his intentions of taking her below to practice some of those dozens of ways of making love.
Jennifer caught herself up short. He had invited her to view the Southern Cross. The rest was her errant imagination. Her scandalous imagination. Her depraved imagination.
She was so intent on her own thoughts she didn't even notice the man who wedged himself into the next deck chair, grinning amiably at her. He was big-a little outsized. And a tow-head. With freckles. So that, despite his size, he still looked like a small boy.
"Could you share those thoughts? You seemed to be enjoying them so. I expect they're right nice."
Jennifer focussed on him, on the freckled nose -snub, naturally-and the friendly grin.
"They're vile. And I'm a witch who enjoys vile thoughts."
"You're a mighty pretty witch."
"That just shows you how wicked I am. I'm not pretty at all. I just slip into this disguise when I lure young men to their doom."
The towhead grinned at her, wider, if that were possible without setting his ears back farther. "I'm Jerry Brandon. And I'm ready to face up to that doom. Go ahead. Lure me."
"I'm Jennifer Lorn. And quite frankly, I'm too contented and lazy right now to lure anyone, even as nice and friendly and easily lured a guy as Jerry Brandon. Besides, you sound like a drink, which makes me thirsty, and here comes a steward with nice tall glasses of-iced tea? Lemonade?"
"On these Dutch ships it's usually limeade, unless otherwise specified. I think the Dutch have a surplus lime crop and dump it on their overseas ships. They rarely use it in their own country. Chocolate."
"You've been to Holland?"
Jerry Brandon nodded. "And if I had any sense I'd shut up now and let you suspect I'm a world traveller. I was through there. Once. On my way to Berlin. Courtesy of Uncle. Army of Occupation."
Jennifer laughed. "You don't look old enough to be troubled by the draft, let alone a veteran."
"That's my secret wizardry. Eternal youth." Jerry Brandon sat up, a slightly baffled look on his freckled face. "And my curse. Here I am, practically in my dotage. An elderly forty-five backed by years of experience all over the world -well, at least-Germany six months, Japan, three. And women pat me on the head and say, 'You're a nice lad. Now run along and play with your chemistry set.' I'm frustrated."
"This swinging singles cruise, I take it, is your way of getting unfrustrated? Which, if I recall rightly, you were doing fairly well last night with that strawberry blonde. By the way, where is she today?"
Jerry sat up, peering conspiratorially around, and then whispered, "Don't tell anybody, but I strangled her last night and threw her body overboard." He reached up to snag two glasses from the passing steward, handling one to Jennifer and gulping at his own. "Yup, limeade. Actually, she's seasick. On this millpond! Or else she's sick of the sight of me and won't leave her cabin." Jerry lay back in his deck chair, glass balanced on his chest, closing his eyes. "If you won't love me, I'll take second best. What about the girls at your tables?"
Jennifer sighed in mock despair. "I'm jilted. Well, there's Anna, the ash blonde. She's hung-over, according to my spy system, and Elsie will in all likelihood give you brisk game of deck tennis-and probably beat you. If that will help unfrustrate you. Carol? I haven't seen her since last night."
"The soignee one? The dyke? She's sulking in the library and glaring at everybody. That one couldn't unfrustrate a gang of horny marines after two years on Okinawa, if you'll pardon the expression. She wouldn't know the motions. She's a dyke."
Jennifer puzzled over that. "Dyke?"
Jerry sipped at his glass and set it back at precarious balance on his chest. "Dyke. Male member of the Lesbian team. You mean you didn't know?"
Jennifer shuddered, remembering. "I knew when she made a pass. I just didn't know the term. Or the warning signs. Apparently you read 'em loud and clear."
Jerry shook his head and grabbed at his toppling glass. "So'd everybody else. Or practically everybody. You noticed how the two girls scuttled, right after supper? They had her pegged. Dykes aren't popular on swingin' singles cruises. Or any recreational center where it's boy-meets-girl type. They upset the ecology. The man-woman ratio. Since they aren't either. And I'm boring you, so leave me alone and let me sleep out my frustrations. Only be there when I wake up." Jerry set his empty glass down by the deck chair and lay back, completely relaxed. "I like a woman handy, even if she is wearing stars in her eyes for some other guy. Goodbye!" And Jerry closed his eyes, breathing heavily, already asleep.
Jennifer sipped at her limeade, finding it refreshing, and stared over the rim of her glass at Jerry. He was nice. Cute, in a big, Newfoundland puppy way. But frustrated? Not him. And the strawberry blonde wasn't seasick. Probably exhausted from practicing too many of the dozens of ways of making love.
Jennifer once more clamped down on her thoughts. They were going astray again. And what had Jerry said about her? Stars in her eyes for some other guy? That was absurd! She hadn't stars in her eyes for anyone. Unless, once again, her body was betraying her, reacting independently of her resolutions.
She horrified herself by realizing that she was staring at Jerry's crotch, at the bulge of the brief bathing trunks. It was big. In her eyes it seemed enormous, and becoming monstrous. It must be huge. Perhaps that was why the strawberry blonde wasn't navigating this morning.
Resolutely Jennifer tried not to imagine Jerry's outsized penis stabbing into her pussy. That was madness. Sheer madness. Very horrid madness. Setting up fires inside her, disturbing all the calm she had managed to acquire.
Jennifer threw back the light rug preparatory to heading back to her cabin and the soothing and quietening ministrations of a cold shower.
Jerry spoke solemnly, slowly from behind his pretense of sleep. "You're deserting me. For another man. That's the story of my life. Frustration."
Jennifer leaned over and tapped his chest. "That strawberry blonde has probably recovered from whatever ailed her, and may even be anticipating a visit." Jennifer realized suddenly she was judging by her own physical desires- and shut up.
Jerry scrambled to his feet awkwardly, rather intensifying the Newfoundland puppy image Jennifer had of him. "You know, you could just be right. Nothing like a cheerful, beaming face when you're suffering from seasickness. Cheerfulness can give you one large pain in the- neck, so I'll risk it. She can only shoot me." And he loped off down the deck, a healthy male animal looking for a mate. And probably finding her.
Jennifer didn't expect either of them at luncheon. Possibly not at dinner, either. Depending on how frustrated Jerry was and how good at unfrustrating him the strawberry blonde was.
Jennifer stood up, drawing about her and the minimal bikini a light cape, and hurried off to her cabin and the prospects of a cool, cleansing shower.
She was ashamed of her thoughts, her speculations about Jerry and the strawberry blonde. By what right could she jump to such conclusions? And where did those bright, hedonistic pictures come from? Inside her. Because she had allowed a man to seduce her body, to take her freely. To ram his prick far up her pussy, to shoot hot salty juices up...
Jennifer knew she needed that cool shower, to get herself back on balance, to restore the calm she had once had. She also needed that calming influence so she could face Bruce, tell him that never again could she submit to such indignities.
She opened her cabin door and slipped inside, looking at the berth. It was neatly made up now, but last night it had been the scene of... She could almost see them, twined together in the frenzy of making love. How brutal, how degrading! Jennifer caught her breath, hating herself, and how-delightful.
That is only the treachery of my body, Jennifer told herself, leaning weakly against the cabin door, breathing with difficulty, feeling a desperate ache start in her pelvis and shoot upward through her body.
There was a soft, discreet knock at the cabin door. Jennifer sprang away from it as if the door had seared her flesh. She turned and stared at the door. "Who's there?"
Bruce's voice answered, light, gay, with just a suggestion of a chuckle. "My spies are everywhere. You cannot escape."
Bruce!
How dare he come so casually to her cabin door, banging for admission? Well, this was as good a time as any to tell him. Oh, of course, thank him for saving her life, but-yes, she was going to put an end to this crass, brutal, degrading use of her body.
Jennifer opened the door and he strode in, already reaching for her. She opened her mouth to protest and he clamped his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
His hands touched her and the bandeau of her bikini dropped away, leaving her soft, defenseless breasts bare and inviting, and now crushed against his chest.
Jennifer struggled, trying to tear her mouth loose from his kiss. She felt his fingers fumbling-no, acting with precision, unfastening her panties, sliding them down her legs.
Jennifer thrust her hands at his chest, striving for breath to tell him to leave. To get out of her cabin. Out of her life. To leave her with a cool, calm body.
She felt his hands cupped under her little rump, pulling her to him, feeling the bulge of his penis rubbing against her body.
The fists she had knotted for pounding on his chest fell open and slid up, as cupping hands, to tug his face closer-closer.
She heard the final, cataclysmic "click" of the door latch as he shoved it home.
And he was picking up her body-I won't even let on it's me, just my body-and headed for the neat smoothness of the berth.
Chapter Ten
One breast brushed lightly against the rough texture of his coat and immediately ignited fires. Her nipples hardened, her breasts swelled. And the hand under her buttocks seemed to have a special heat of its own, rekindling that flush of warmth in her pussy.
She tried to wriggle out of his arms and only managed to find her own arms linking behind his head, pulling his mouth tighter on hers. It was, of course, only a momentary madness-a wave of emotion that carried her, unresisting, along a stream she had renounced.
If he would just put her down, allow her to breathe with ease, with confidence, she could tell him this was all over. Finished. There would be no more lovemaking, no matter how many dozens of ways there might be.
He put her down, very gently, on the berth and stood over her, looking down at her nudity hungrily, with hot, burning eyes.
"I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure I could remember just how lovely you are. How sweet you taste. How exciting you are to be with. I had to come, even when I shouldn't, just to hold you again, to know you once again."
Now was the time to tell him of her resolution-that he was never to know her again in the sense he meant. Never again would he bend over her and kiss her. Never again would he feel her arms around his neck, tugging at him, begging him to come closer-closer.
Bruce bent over and kissed her. Her arms slid up and circled his neck, tugging at him, begging him to come closer-closer.
And all the time she knew it was madness, knew this was not the way. She must protest, protect her body against further violation. Protect herself, her innermost self, against the degradation of her body.
He sat on the berth beside her, reaching out to touch one breast, starting once more that enchanting excitement stirring in her stomach, the tenseness in her chest, the sudden, flooding warmth of her pussy.
It grew almost unbearable as he slid one hand down over her mound, cupping her little pussy, fingering at the lips of her vulva. He bent to kiss her, fiercely, eagerly. "I had to come back. I couldn't wait until tonight... I had to see you... to know..."
Jennifer laid a finger on his lips, denying everything she had told herself, all the fine resolutions she had made. "You're here. And I belong to you. If you want me." Jennifer tried for a smile, but it faltered into a gasp as he kissed her breast. "Anyway. And you said there were dozens."
Without her willing it, her fingers were undoing his shirt buttons. He flung that off. Then, with fingers that shook with her daring, she started undoing his trousers. First, that cumbersome buckle of his belt... In one swift movement Bruce brushed her hands away and was stepping out of his pants, towering above her, his penis a great rod of flesh above her, huge and ready, eager, with its juices already flowing.
She was lost. She had known she was lost from the moment he entered her cabin. Protests had only been in her mind. She had never voiced them. And now her body was betraying her into accepting him all over again, every bit of him. She even found herself whispering softly, hoarsely, with surprising intensity of longing... "The 'Rocking Chair'-is that one of your dozens of ways? Could we..."
"We could. We can..." He grinned down at her. "And fancy your knowing! You must read the damndest books, because I know you haven't -well-you are too naive to have learned any other way."
He picked her up, yielding and nearly limp, her eyes enormous, her breathing shallow and soft as one hand cupped her breast and another her leg as he carried her to the straight chair that had sat so primly before the writing desk. As if on a swingin' singles cruise anyone bothered to write.
He sat in the chair, with Jennifer in his lap, feeling the thrust and throb of his penis against her leg, the soft molding and stroking of her breast as his hand closed over it.
"Now you swing around and face me. Sit on my legs as you would the saddle of a horse."
Obediently, as if she had expected just such orders and would always obey them, Jennifer rolled over, swung one leg across his, and sat up facing him, her breasts on a level with his mouth. And he promptly kissed both of them.
Her little pussy was opened by the spread of her legs and by the natural and basic impulse of sex, exposing her pinkish inner lips to his penis.
As he kissed her breasts, new juices started to flow. She could look down her front and see her pussy, see Bruce's penis, its head pulsing and shiny with its own juices, pushing against the lips of her vulva. And she could see the muscles ripple in Bruce's stomach and feel the tenseness of his muscular legs.
And most of all, most exciting of all, she could feel the soft, insistent beat of his penis against her pussy, actually teasing her clitoris.
Bruce's hands swept in a gentle caress across her bosom. One lingered to play with and tease her nipples. The other strayed down her stomach, along the crease between leg and pelvis, and onto her pussy, moving his penis back and forth with a gentle, rocking motion across the tip of her clitoris until she felt she had to scream-and drove her pelvis at his prick. It was an almost futile movement, for there was no force, no leverage, and his penis pushed in and then slid out.
Bruce cupped his hands behind her buttocks, bracing, so that she had something to push against. Once more she moved on his penis and felt and saw the head go in, buried within the pink cavern of her vulva, the shaft still outside, awaiting that drive that would send it shooting up her, to penetrate far up in her belly, to excite areas she hadn't known existed.
Bruce gently increased the pressure of his interlocked hands, sliding her little tokus forward, easing his penis farther and farther up her cunt.
Being able to sit on his thighs, to feel and to see, added to the stimulation, the increasing tempo of the buildup within her. And now that she had the idea, she could reach around him, locking her hands at the small of his back, and inch herself forward, driving his shaft up her tunnel, feeling the bulb penetrate the passage, starting new sensations.
And that had freed his hands, so that he was caressing her breasts, stroking her sides, running his hands over the inner surface of her thighs until she quivered with anticipation, with pent-up excitement.
She could look down and see just how much of his shaft was left, just how far she could move to bury it all in her pussy. She could see the shaft, the flesh and the pulsing blue veins-and the flow of juices that ran from her own pussy. But whether they were all hers she couldn't tell. Nor did it matter. They were together, welded as one in this adventure in love-making. And saw his penis slide another fraction of an inch, felt the head drive far past her button, 'way up her tunnel, a pulsing, living thing sliding slowly up her.
Her hands played softly along the muscular back, so that she felt the force and drive of him as he started slowly pumping, a small but uniform rocking motion of hips and pelvis. It drove his shaft still farther up her. And she gave the final push that buried his penis to the balls, to the patch of dark hair that was on his pubic mound.
Bruce opened his legs slightly and her buttocks slipped down and her pelvis moved forward, driving still another fraction of an inch that bulb up in her tunnel.
And Bruce began the slow, rhythmic rocking that moved his mound teasingly against her clitoris and moved his shaft in a series of short but exciting movements far up her.
She rocked with him, in a tempo that gradually increased, while he buried his face in her bosom, sucking at her breasts, teasing her nipples, torturing her with excitement that was delightful torture and becoming more and more tense. Jennifer threw back her head and Bruce clamped his lips on her throat, below her ear, moving his tongue, sucking, moaning.
Jennifer found herself clawing at his back, trying to pull him closer for deeper penetration, for more excitement-which couldn't get more exciting. Arid they rocked together in a kind of frenzy that exploded into white-hot but silent fireworks behind her eyes, that sent violent shivers down through her whole body, that made her clutch and claw at Bruce's shoulders, at his waist, down at his buttocks, trying to push that exploding, juice-spouting bulb farther up. Even though it felt as if his come was pounding right at her chest.
It couldn't be, of course. Her tunnel didn't go that far up. But she was tight with tension-and suddenly release, tasting his semen with her whole body, watching her pussy drip juices.
And then she folded against him, weak, drained but satisfied, leaning her head against his shoulder, sighing.
Bruce was sliding his hands over her back, moving them around until he touched her breasts with one hand and lifted her chin with the other, kissing her with tenderness that was surprisingly gentle after so much violent emotion.
They sat, wrapped in each other's arms, warmed by their meeting flesh, waiting for the shuddering and shivers to subside. And while his penis deflated, pulling slowly out of her pussy, each movement brought a new shiver and gasp from Jennifer.
When it finally slid out they still sat on for a long, precious moment of just holding one another, letting the violent emotions subside into gentler, softer feelings.
At last Bruce reached down, turned her across his lap and picked her up, standing easily with her cradled in his arms. He smiled down at her. "And now we'll try a double skinny-dip."
Jennifer shivered. "I couldn't. Not right away. Let me lie on the berth and..."
"Double skinny-dip is a bath together. A shower it will have to be, but that's very interesting."
It was. The almost warm water washed away some of the languor that gripped Jennifer and reawakened her interest in Bruce's body. It was a superb body, well muscled, with a broad chest and straight, sturdy legs. He was bigger than she had thought. His clothes made him look slender. Actually he wasn't, except that his stomach was flat and his waist trim.
Soaping his body was a new delight, a gentle, laugh-producing delight, uncomplicated by deep involvement of their bodies-though both were conscious of each other, of nudity, of the ever-present possibility that emotions might take over again.
She enjoyed the new sensation of having him soap her and then swab her body with a soft cloth. And kiss her breasts as he bent to wash her legs.
It was both a childish delight and a very solemn and mature moment, a moment to treasure, to keep in a special memory that could be taken out and relived.
He powered her body liberally from a large can of dusting powder and carried her back to her berth.
"Rest, darling. Rest and dream-I hope of me. Because we'll look at the Southern Cross tonight-and then, when we have had our fill of looking, perhaps we'll slip away. Down here. And make love again. Perhaps some different way. Or invent one of our own."
He was dressed and gone with a brief, sweet kiss on-of all places-her forehead. Jennifer felt briefly indignant and then sighed. Perhaps he was wise. A less chaste kiss might have started things all over again.
She lay there a long time, trying to sort out her thoughts. They were confused. On the one hand there was the sweetness and excitement of their lovemaking. She glanced out the porthole and gasped. And in broad daylight! As if that were more reprehensible.
Already she was beginning to feel remorse. She should have sent him away. She should have told him there would be no lovemaking after looking at the Southern Cross.
I'm a slut! I'm a pushover. I have round heels. My body is too eager, too unrestrained, too responsive. I can't -I mustn't let Bruce touch me again... Everything in me revolts at the very idea. Everything except my body itself... and that betrays me. It betrays me into...
Jennifer fell into a daydream, recounting the special horrors into which her body had betrayed her-Bruce's kisses, her excited nipples, the vast, silent explosion.
She was late to lunch.
Chapter Eleven
Anna was up from her hangover but not too happy. She was inclined to look at the salad as if it still had garden bugs in it, and the entree got only peckish attention. Elsie, with her usual exuberance, ate her way down to the bone china and eyed Anna's wasted salad wistfully.
"It isn't really fattening, you know," Elsie pointed out. "It's the dressing."
Anna sighed, pushing her plate over. "It's dripping with dressing. That's what makes it so revolting. Oh, hello!" This was addressed, without any vigor, to Jennifer as she slid into her chair. "You're late." It was a comment, not a criticism. Anna didn't have the energy for criticism. "And you look revoltingly radiant. I hate people who get up and tramp around decks and breathe deep, just so they'll be healthy enough to get up and tramp around the deck and breathe deep. It's demoralizing!" But she managed a weak grin for Jennifer. "Only you didn't get even your nose sunburned."
Elsie waved a forkful of salad at Jennifer. "So we were betting on which man. There are only two things that make a girl look as healthy and happy as you-and you don't tramp decks." Elsie sighed. "I know. Or I'd have run into you. My friend is a fresh-air nut. As if you couldn't get good enough air through the air conditioner down in any stateroom. Even ours. Especially when the air upstairs has such a good start on being fresh." The rest of Elsie's comment was lost in the crunching of lettuce and celery and spurting of mayonnaise-or was it Roquefort?
Roquefort, Jennifer decided, studying the mangled remains before she could formulate an answer. And the obsequious waiter saved her from that. She ordered luncheon with such a liberal hand that even Elsie paused in her chomping to listen.
"You've got a man and you tramp decks. Nobody should be that healthy." Elsie lay down her knife and fork, a sure sign she was vitally interested. "How do you do it? Get a man, I mean. We go on cruises and ski runs and camp-outs and all we come back with is good health and sore muscles. If it wasn't for a boyfriend I keep hidden back home, I'd be frustrated." She aimed an empty fork at Anna. "And Anna would be an alcoholic, except she can't drink anything stronger than diet cola without getting sick. Only her boyfriend is a scuba diver. And what can you do under thirty feet of water?"
Anna regarded her entree with distaste. "But he does surface. Once in a while. Of course, I think he'd be happier if I were a carp." She pushed her plate an infinitesimal distance away. "He says carp have some very interesting mating habits."
Elsie regarded her empty fork with dismay, and then Anna's plate. "Well, if you're not going to..." She swapped plates. "I think he's really sneaky, watching carp make love. How'd you like a couple of carp standing at the foot of your bed? By the way, what are carp?"
That Jennifer felt she could cope with, stifling the laughter that the two friends had created-purposely, she was sure, to divert her. "The carp is the symbol of life, of fertility, to the Chinese."
Elsie looked as horrified as a round-cheeked youngster with her mouth full could manage. "So even the Chinese spy on 'em!" She waved her fork at Anna. "You should get a new boyfriend. Like maybe a truck driver. They're out-doorsy enough and generally are too tired to do anything but go to bed. And they don't peep in on carp."
Jennifer tackled her salad as soon as it was brought, eyeing Elsie and Anna with genuine amusement. They were a delightfully uninhibited pair. "Are you two trying to tell me something? Like a couple of carp have been standing at the foot of my bed?"
Elsie glanced at her friend, Anna, and shrugged. "There are rumors. But, of course, on a swingin' singles cruise there are always rumors. Unfortunately, not about us. Anna and me. We're immune. To rumors and any excuse for same."
"I would think just going on one of these swinging singles cruises would be enough to start rumors." Jennifer spoke from the memory of her own attitude toward the cruise.
Elsie grinned. "Oh, it does. It does. Among landlubbers. Among those who'd go if they could-but their wives won't let 'em." Elsie beamed over Jennifer's shoulder. "And we have a visitor. A Miss Carp, I believe. Are you condescending to mingle with us hoipolloi after dining with the ship's officers?"
Jennifer turned her head briefly, enough to identify Carol. And she caught Elsie's broad hint about the rumor-starter. So this was "Miss Carp." Jennifer returned to her meal, watching with amusement as Elsie and Anna hurriedly finished and rose.
"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" Carol was being particularly sweet in a very bitchy voice. "After all, it used to be my place..." She watched Elsie and Anna retreat, smiling in wicked amusement before she swept herself into her formerly assigned chair.
Jennifer prepared herself for barbed shafts and hitting and biting in the clinches. The idea helped to clear her brain. She had had many such skirmishes with Mother Dear-usually ending in defeat because Mother Dear could have a tizzy and need "medical attention" if an argument was going badly.
Of course, the skirmishes with Mother Dear were always trivial-and Jennifer rarely won one. But they had sharpened her wits. Particularly those that occurred as replays later in her room, alone.
Carol's glance swept over her and brought a smile to the tight, hard face. "You had such possibilities. It really is a pity I got that call so inopportunely. I hadn't known you had a lover aboard. You did the betrayed innocent act so well, too."
Carol helped herself to some crackers from Anna's plate. "I was almost taken in. Of course, you know he's married. Three children. Or is it four now?" Carol pretended to count on her fingers. "It should be four, just about now."
Jennifer speared a piece of chicken, studied it and smiled. "You're way out of date, darling. Four was the previous count. And the last was twins. Or hadn't you heard?"
Carol looked momentarily avid and then sensed she was being kidded. "My count was three." It was said stiffly.
"Oh! Of course. They so seldom mention the older one. Mentally retarded, you know."
It sounded so natural, so authentic, that Carol leaned avidly forward. "Mentally retarded? No, I hadn't heard that. What are they planning for the child?"
Jennifer shrugged. "A hopeless case, the doctors say. She'll never get above the moron level." She smiled sweetly at Carol. "So they're thinking of training her for a dyke."
Carol gasped, raising one hand as if she would strike Jennifer, and then subsided in her chair, white-faced, furious. "That was about as bitchy as you could get!"
Jennifer shook her head. "Oh, no, dear, Not nearly as bitchy as you were about to be, I just did it first." Jennifer attacked her chicken again, her hands steady though she wanted to shake with anger, with hatred-and a lot of it directed at herself for being, as Carol said, bitchy. "With provocation, of course. An idle rumor has to get to work-and sometimes it works the wrong way. I'm sure the second mate must resent your starting rumors about us. Just because he's been a little courteous to me."
Carol whispered softly to herself, "The second mate? So it was the second mate...." She slid out of her chair, a malicious smile twisting her near-perfect mouth. "And I had thought it was..."
"The first mate? Oh, him, too. But not the captain. He's quite a bit too old and rather stodgy, don't you think? Oh, I don't suppose you'd know about men. But he is. Quite. However, the others..."
Carol, the dyke, was stalking away from Jennifer's table, her head high, her neck rigid with anger, her hands clenched at her side.
And I feel sick. I don't like scenes like that - and I hate fighting dirty. That's what it was, fighting dirty. Because she really had no defenses. Only a system of attack. And if that failed... Well, I couldn't let her realize how much I was hurt by those rumors she started. Or even that I regarded them as rumors.
Jennifer forced herself to sit through the rest of the luncheon, eating as if she enjoyed the now tasteless food, smiling at people she had seen or spoken to. Including that amiable towhead, Jerry, and his strawberry blonde, who now seemed quite recovered and even eager. Jennifer even dawdled over dessert until she saw that the waiter was getting restless. He probably had other duties, doubling as a room steward, more than likely, where the tips were probably better. She sighed, sat back, and indicated she was through with the mousse, though she would have liked another bite or two.
Really, sex had given her an appetite. Or she could blame it on the sea air and the superb food.
She mentally checked herself. Yes, except for a mild pain right down where things had happened, she did feel good. Surprisingly so. She was obscurely angry because it was true. Jennifer felt that it shouldn't be true. I have been wicked. By all standards, very wicked. And my body feels wonderful, revitalized, renewed. While I feel utterly miserable. She tried to analyze just how miserable she did feel-and discovered she didn't. She felt fine.
Even Carol's contrived bitchiness no longer really bothered her. She had answered the snide remarks with some that were equally barbed and perhaps even cruder than Carol's. She wasn't even angry about the rumors Carol had apparently started, though she knew she should have been. No one should like to have rumors like that circulated, even-or maybe especially -if they were true.
So she walked out of the dining salon with a long, easy stride that brought several pairs of masculine eyes around to follow her. And several pairs of feminine eyes that looked with envy.
She was determined now to get into one of her more scandalous bikinis-though the very idea temporarily froze her-and manage to be seen soaking up tropical sunshine by the pool. Even if she didn't have the courage to test out the bikini by an actual swim.
Not that poolside tanning would in any way refute what rumors Carol had started, but it would at least demonstrate that Jennifer couldn't care less about rumors. Even if it only demonstrated it to Carol.
She heard his footsteps behind her as she crossed the main foyer. How she was so sure they were Bruce's footsteps she couldn't have told, but she knew. So she wasn't startled when his voice spoke close beside her.
She stopped and turned. Now was the time to tell him that there would be no viewing of the Southern Cross, no scene such as earlier in her cabin-which he obviously anticipated. She turned and saw his half serious, half laughing face bent toward her, his eyes skipping quickly over her, as if her making sure that she was there, in all her parts, and intact.
She felt herself melting under the candle-power of his grin-and hated herself for it. She was an independent person, someone in her own right. He had no options on her, no right to regard her as his own.
"Will you be with us tonight? To view the Southern Cross?" Bruce took her arm and turned her, strolling along with her until they were well past the apparently somnolent bar steward.
She managed a nod, almost brusque. There, that ought to show him a thing or two! "Oh, I expect I'll see the Southern Cross-unless they change the course of the ship-or some of the heavenly bodies."
Bruce blinked at her brusqueness and some of the candlepower faded from his grin, but he nodded. "You have a heavenly body. Don't change it." He suddenly laughed aloud. "To judge from Carol's face as she left the salon after that brief encounter with you, I'd say our kitten has claws." He released her arm and just barely resisted an impulse to swat her behind. "Go on, kitten. Rest up. Watching the Southern Cross can be strenuous."
Chapter Twelve
Jennifer was angry with herself for not speaking then, when the opportunity was given her. But he probably got the message. Her response had been brusque enough. She almost turned back, ready to tell him there would be no more casual lovemaking in her cabin. She hesitated. It could mean a scene. Not that Bruce seemed the type likely to make a scene.
However, even the suggestion of a quarrel in so public a spot, so soon after the scene between her and Carol, would certainly have its repercussions, and Carol would think she had scored a point. Also, it could very well focus Carol's spite on Bruce.
Later, Jennifer decided, would be ample time to tell Bruce the lovemaking was ended.
She worked out a very nice, calm speech as she slid into the bikini-and realized this one exposed entirely too much of her scratched and Merthiolated derriere. She added a matching play skirt and went up by the pool.
There were others there, some of whom had already started to tan and a few who were peeling unprettily. All the outfits, even the men's, were sketchy enough so that she could get a very good basic idea of figures and their potential.
Only-now that she attempted to apply criteria-she found she knew almost nothing of what really constituted a potential. Did those over-large breasts, oozing out of a bikini halter, mean the girl was a good companion in bed? Did the size and width of the buttocks indicate anything specific?
The girl with the over-large breasts obviously thought they were an asset, and displayed them accordingly. But then, so did the girl with the large buttocks. She even shook them from time to time to call attention to this sumptuous padding.
Jennifer considered her own figure. It really wasn't very lush. She had nice breasts, firm and well rounded, with amber-pink nipples rising from small coppery discs. Her stomach was flat. Was that uninteresting? Or intriguing? And her behind, now suffering from minor scars and major application of Merthiolate, wasn't exactly generous. Nice, rather tight, firm little buttocks.
Her legs, she thought, were good. They tapered out of that waist down to very nice calves and small ankles. Feet? Were they ever really pretty? Utilitarian and, if not misshapen, then attractive. However, she couldn't quite conceive of a man falling in love with a foot.
And then she was furious with herself for even thinking these things. I just came up here to be seen, so Carol couldn't say she had driven me to hiding in my cabin. She shut her mind to the bodies around her, to the body she herself occupied. She refused to feel-anything. So she was startled to feel a hand on her back. A soft, soothing hand. She turned, opening one eye, peering up at the strawberry blonde.
"Noxema. You'd have been getting a bad burn in a minute."
Jennifer struggled to sit up but the hand became firm, pushing her back.
"Small favor. In return for handing me back Jerry."
Jennifer subsided under the gently massaging hand. "He looked lost. In a small-boy way. And I had an idea you might be, too. A little lost, that is." Jennifer smiled, eyeing the attractive, almost lush figure. "But not in a small-boy way."
"He came back at just the psychological moment-between the time when I was ready to cut his throat or mine, and the time I'd have gotten maudlin. The weepy stage, you know. Men can't stand it. If you must weep, weep alone, unseen."
"I'm glad he made it on schedule. That seasickness story on this millpond just didn't ring true. I think he knew it. Just saying it convinced him. I had almost nothing to do with it."
"Roll over... Hey, you've got very nice ones. No wonder he noticed you. He's a teat man-and a rump man and a stomach man and a leg man... He goes for girls, if you know what I mean. And I think you did have something to do with it. He wouldn't have needed much encouragement right then to switch allegiance." The girl swabbed Jennifer's stomach with cream and rubbed gently, grinning down at Jennifer. "Now I've got him hooked. I'll invite you to the wedding when he gets around to proposing. I'm counting on the Southern Cross-and my lower berth-to work a little conversion."
Jennifer grinned back. "He's standing right behind you, listening. Now that he knows your technique, maybe..."
The strawberry blonde wrinkled her nose at Jennifer and then up at Jerry. "Of course he was listening. How else could I get a point across? Men don't think of little things like weddings until you shove it right on their plates. Hey, tow-head!"
"Hi, redhead!" Jerry reached down and tousled the strawberry blonde's elaborate hairdo, wrecking it.
Jennifer held her breath, waiting for an explosion. None came, so maybe the strawberry blonde was really smart. Now she yanked at pins and let her auburn hair fall around her shoulders, as if that was what she had meant to do all the time.
Jerry squatted down beside the girls, keeping his eyes on the strawberry blonde. "Are we thinking about getting married?"
The strawberry blonde ducked her head and began a vigorous massaging of Jennifer's stomach. "Not that hard, really. It was a passing thought. Merely a passing thought. Mostly because I have six girl friends I want to make pea-green jealous. By inviting them to be bridesmaids."
"Very poor excuse. I thought maybe it was because you love me. Like I cabled Mom this noon that maybe I'd bring home a bride if she'd have me."
"Jerry!" The strawberry blonde straightened, flinging Jennifer's jar of Noxema across the deck and into the Pacific and toppling both Jerry and herself into the pool in a splash that soaked Jennifer and thoroughly wet a number of other poolside loungers.
The wetting and the loss of the jar of cream was small enough sacrifice for the happiness of the strawberry blonde, who popped a seal-wet head above the rim of the pool and grinned at Jennifer. "He really did. Cable his mother." She held up a soaked and thoroughly illegible piece of paper. "It was in the pocket of his trunks. When he told me, I practically ripped 'em off him getting it. He's treading water, making emergency repairs. Jennifer! It's for real. We're getting married."
Her head disappeared abruptly and a loud gurgling came out of the pool. Jerry Brandon substituted his own wet head, also grinning.
"Contrary to all evidence, I am not standing on her in eight feet of water. If she drowns it'll be from talking under water."
The strawberry blonde's head popped up beside Jerry's. "He ducked me. Of course, it was just an excuse to cop a feel! Hi, monster." And the strawberry blonde splashed him liberally.
The two of them crawled out of the pool and ran across the deck, hand in hand, Jerry with long, straight strides and the blonde in light offside kicks and double-time action to keep up with him, the way small girls have to run to keep up with long, tall men.
Jennifer watched them disappear down the salon stairs, headed, no doubt, for the blonde's cabin, where they would have a delightful time drying each other off-and then a still more delightful time getting each other all rumpled and sweaty and needing a shower, which would...
Jennifer stopped her mental motion picture. It was becoming too painfully real, too intense in her own body. She lay back, turning her rear up, since that, at least, the blonde had completed before she flung the jar away.
So they were going to be married!
That seemed the strawberry blonde's dream -a wedding with six bridesmaids, preferably all envious. That, of course, was only the trimmings. The real thing was the marriage.
Marriage! That was what Elsie was seeking, what Anna wanted. For the prospect they scrimped and saved all year long and then spent a large portion of their income on things like this cruise, the ski runs, the ranch resorts. Why? To catch a man. In marriage. Because marriage seemed important to them--just the fact of it.
Marriage! Not whether they'd be happy in it. That didn't seem to count. Or at least not very much. Even sex seemed secondary, a sort of bait for the trap.
And what do I want? When I started this wild, impulsive idea, I wanted a man. Physically. I didn't expect love. I don't know that I could handle love. I'm not even sure I know what it is. Certainly Mother Dear never gave me any.
So I've had my man. It was wild, exciting, wonderful in its tray. But that was just my body answering its own physical needs. Responding to the physical attributes of a man.
Jennifer felt herself flush, knowing that she had responded all too readily. As I did. As I am ashamed of, letting this animalistic body betray me that way. As it will never happen again. I mustn't let it happen again. I must be resolute.
I don't hate Bruce for taking me. Why should I? I practically flung myself at him. Just because he happened to be there. It might have been Cass, if I hadn't kicked him. If he had played with me, built me up to that overwhelming climax, I might have come back to him and never gone on this idiotic cruise. I just haven't had enough experience in just- living -to know. Or know what I want.
But I do know what I don't want. I don't want a series of casual lovemaking episodes in a cruise cabin, just because I'm convenient and female and not repulsive. And I absolutely refuse to have even one more...
"Are you trying to batter your way through the deck? There are hatchways." Bruce's voice, light and chiding, called her attention to the fact that her small fists were beating a slow tattoo on the deck, counterpoint to the argument with herself.
And now he towered above her, smiling down, his lean strong body bare to the waist, bronzed as she had known it, and his pelvis encased in brief red trunks.
Her eyes focused on the trunks, on the crotch, where the bulge of his penis was noticeable, and swung away, lest staring become too obvious.
He flopped on the deck beside her, arms locked around his knees, his eyes staring past her at some distant inward view.
Now was the time to tell him. Or was it? He was so absorbed in some inner world he might not really hear her. Or comprehend. No, she decided. Wait till they were alone-and then tell him.
At the very idea of being alone with Bruce her pelvis became suddenly warm, her breasts swelled, and her nipples hardened. Jennifer repressed them firmly. No more of that.
Chapter Thirteen
The Southern Cross was a bit of a disappointment after the long buildup. It had started with a pitch from the captain, as if he were personally selling the Southern Cross and expected to make a handsome profit on it. Which, in a sense, was probably true. Certainly the first visibility of the Southern Cross was an extra added attraction of the cruise, of which he was master.
There were some rather gaudy photos of it, highly retouched, and ashtrays with stars in their bottoms and some perfectly revolting pillows with crosses of stars stamped on them, all for sale in the boutiques of the promenade deck. An amateur astronomer, a pestilential nuisance, was dispensing misinformation about the constellation and stars in general and offering views through his pocket telescope, as if that would enable you to read the names on the stars or stamped somewhere in the heavens beside them.
Jennifer found it difficult to spot in the haze and the thousands of other stars. Anyway, she preferred the closer reality of Cabo, where, as Bruce had told her, three young men had designed and built a magnificent hotel, carved from the rock of the promontory and capped only with a great sweeping wing of concrete. Not that she could see it. Cabo was only a faint haze of lights off to port, marking the southernmost jut of Baja.
The amateur astronomer and the breeze, though tropical, soon cleared the boat deck. And Jennifer found herself strolling with Bruce toward her cabin.
Now was the time to speak. To tell him it was over. There would be no more lovemaking. She had decided.
Bruce turned the corner with her, into the narrow passageway, crowding against her, swinging her around and lifting her on tiptoe, kissing her. Kissing her mouth, her throat, tousling her hair, pressing her breast tight against his chest.
It mustn't happen. Not again! Jennifer fought a wave of weakness, holding on to the mundane realities with difficulty. There was something she had to say, something she must tell Bruce.
He was unlocking her cabin door, almost lifting her across the sill, and closing the door behind him. Closing them both in this cabin, where so many things had happened....
"Bruce... no, don't kiss me. Please. There's something I must tell you... Don't... Bruce, please. Please... let me breathe! Don't hold me so close... You-distract me. Where was I? Oh, yes, something to discuss... Bruce! I can't even think when you put your hand on my... Please listen. It's Carol. I think we're compromised. Carol had done her damnedest to start rumors. And she'll probably keep it up, though I threw her a couple of rough curves today at lunch. I've endowed you with a wife and three-no, four children."
Bruce released her long enough to hold her off and look at her, smiling. "So that's what burned Carol up. That you didn't, apparently, care. Actually, it's only one. A little girl of nine. I show her picture at the drop of a hat, or if no hat is handy just ask. Judy is a doll, Jennifer."
Jennifer felt the shock deep inside. She hadn't thought she would. I thought it wouldn't make any difference. And I find it does. It somehow makes it doubly ugly. Because I have been making love with a man I assumed was free- and now I find he's married. That he owes an allegiance somewhere else, to some other woman.
And that made Bruce unclean, and by his un-cleanness dirtied her. Now it was really ugly. Now that heated coupling of bodies was utterly meaningless. Not even the hedonistic delights she had enjoyed... Yes, she could admit now to having enjoyed them. And any fragment of delight was being torn away.
And then Bruce restored it.
"My wife died three years ago. Pneumonia and complications. Pneumonia! In the tropics! It seemed impossible. We were living in Acapulco then. Judy and I still do. Judy and I have a house 'way up on the bluffs, just south of the big hotels, overlooking the bay."
She loved the way he said, "Judy and I have a house." It held pride and deep affection. What a lucky kid, what a wonderful doll of a girl! What a very lucky wonderful doll of a girl, to have Bruce saying, with love and pride, "Judy and I have a house..."
If just once Bruce had said anything like that to her, about her... She put that thought aside. Completely. Hidden. Never to be brought out again. She knew now that this was-as she had always known-just a shipboard romance. She had even got over her innate prudery-or almost.
Bruce had his wallet out and was extracting a slightly tattered color photograph of Judy- minus a front tooth and grinning about it. Aged about seven. Complete with freckles and twin pigtails that jutted out, making her look like a human helicopter. A very charming, slightly roguish human helicopter.
I don't want to love this child, this product of Bruce's making love to another woman, however long ago and far away. But she is cute. More than cute. As Bruce says, a doll.
I don't, really, want to love anyone. Not yet. I have so much living to catch up on. I don't even want to love Bruce --just to love his love-making. That's enough to absorb at one time. I'm not even sure I know how to love. For twenty years love was ruled out. Mother Dear didn't approve of love or any demonstration of it except, of course, for the adoration she extracted for herself. And that's not love. Not the way I think of love. Love doesn't demand; it gives. Everything.
Jennifer studied the picture, smiling involuntarily. "You're right, Bruce. She is a doll. A very roguish, hoydenish doll."
"Oh, she's a rogue, all right. She runs Josephina and the house with a small, iron fist-or at least Josephina lets her think she does. Josephina is fat, fortyish, and has raised more children than population statistics warrant. In her own way she's a doll, too." Bruce suddenly grinned at her, extracting the picture from her hand and restoring it to his wallet. "So much for my wife and four children. Carol can baffle over them for a while." He smiled at Jennifer, a rather tired smile. "I'm not sure the Carols of this world even know how babies arrive. They just know fear of it. And it turns them sour." He pulled Jennifer around and sat her in the one comfortable chair the cabin offered, and he perched on the berth, his smile fading.
"Carol did shake you, didn't she? You are still hurt, still puzzled. Perhaps, tonight, we should just sit a while and talk. Or maybe go back on deck and hold hands and listen to that would-be astronomer tell us marvelous improbabilities about the stars."
"No. Let's sit here. For a moment. I have so many things to sort out, Bruce. I have hated your making love to me..."
Brace's face flushed. He gulped. "But..."
Jennifer stilled his protest. "Oh, the physical part of me loved it, responded, gave all it had to give. At least, I think so. But there was another part of me that said all this is wrong, horrid, dirty... It may be. I no longer have just rigid views. It seems to me anything as wonderful as what we've had together can't be wholly wrong..."
"It isn't, Jennifer..."
She ignored his protest and went on. "I have even tried to tell myself I didn't care if this was your entertainment for each cruise-some woman who would make love with you. I don't know how many other women..."
"There haven't been 'many other women,' though you may not believe it. At first, the very idea seemed disloyal. Then, after a while, I knew she was gone, completely gone, and wouldn't care. Still, other women just didn't seem worth the effort. Or they wanted to use sex to trap me into marriage. I've been-wary."
He flung himself on the berth, staring at the ceiling. "Until you came along. I honestly don't know how I feel about you. Except you're the most exciting thing that has happened to me. You know how to give without demanding. You know how to make love without complicating it with schemes for the future.
"I thought we were ideally suited-until that bitch Carol got into the act. Now this is spoiled. I'll move out of your life. I'll go- now." He started to sit up.
Jennifer moved swiftly, sliding out of the chair to land somewhere between his chest and knees, pinning him down. "Oh, no, you don't. You don't move out on me just because some dyke makes up nasty stories about married men -and I make them up right back at her, but one better. Of course I was-well-a bit hurt, but that's over. And I have nothing to be nasty and jealous over, except a nine-year-old tyrant with pigtails."
"Jennifer!" Bruce caught her, settling her more comfortably on his lap, and then lay back, smiling up at her. "That's better than on the chest. I got in the habit of breathing a while back and don't want to forget how. Except for a tendency to cut off my breathing every now and then, did you know you were quite a remarkable woman? Very, very desirable. And I desire you. If you would just shift a bit off the kidney... There... that's better."
Jennifer, freed-she hoped-from her inhibitions, still wasn't at all sure she wanted to be made love to. Not right away. Casting aside her inhibitions-if she really had any-had taken a great deal out of her. She still wasn't sure. But the feel of his penis, a hard knot just beneath her pussy, started ideas that might develop into something interesting. That, in fact, were developing into something interesting, since Bruce's hand was sliding under her sweater and touching her breasts.
"And you think I give you problems in breathing! Just what do you think your hands do to me?"
Bruce grinned, managing to turn it into a very fierce and somewhat unrealistic leer. "I know what I'm doing to you-I hope. And I intend... Well, what do you know! Your sweater came unfastened. And those are your..."
Bruce propped himself into sitting position and kissed one breast, very gently, and then lay back, grinning wickedly. "That is known as the 'come-on,' the light, deft kiss on the bosom... Oh, you didn't think it was particularly deft? Then try this one for size..." And he caught her shoulders, pulling her down so that one breast pressed against his mouth.
She felt it deep within her, the pull, the welling up of passion, and buried her breast against his mouth, playing with the unruly hair, moaning as his hands caressed her back, worked gently at the fastening of her skirt, so that it fell away from her waist, letting his hands into more intimate and more satisfying regions.
She slid down his front, hating to pull her breast away from his demanding mouth, but wanting the taste of his mouth on hers, the tongues intertwined, pulling, creating new fires within her.
And as they kissed in breathless ecstasy, her fingers worked busily at the buttons of his shirt, so that it fell open. With no undershirt, it let her breasts rest against his chest in sudden, almost alarming heat. She moved slightly, just to feel the motion of her breasts against his flesh, against the mat of hair on his chest.
His hands were sliding her skirt down over the still slightly bruised buttocks, cupping them, pulling her tight against his body, so that she felt the quiver and pulse of his penis within his trousers. It stirred frantic desires in her and she writhed against him, rubbing her pelvis against the bulge of his penis.
Bruce raised her up, moving her a little to one side. "So I can get out of my trousers." He wriggled and heaved and then they were there, lying naked together.
Jennifer could feel the heat of his body down her entire front, where her breasts responded with hardening of pinkish-amber nipples and her stomach drew up tight, quivering with anticipation-and her little pussy started its slow budding, its bursting into soft, pinkish bloom, oozing the excitement of her juices.
Her lips found his ear and she whispered, "Do you know 'The Bridge'?"
He turned his head and kissed her mouth, shooting out his tongue for a fleeting hot contact, and then nodded. "I know 'The Bridge,' and we can try it. But first, let's kiss." And he pressed his mouth down on hers, sealing some new bargain in pleasure, in excitement.
Chapter Fourteen
"And kiss again. This time on your breasts, darling." And Bruce pressed his mouth against one breast, teasing the nipple with his tongue while one hand caressed the inner sides of her thighs, moving close to but never quite touching her pussy.
She didn't really understand it, but not quite touching her pussy at this point seemed to build the excitement to greater intensity, until she was sucking in air in gasps, trying to hold on to some remnant of reality that she really didn't want. Let go! Let go! Give up to emotions. Don't hold back.
Yet the very act of holding back seemed to multiply the sweet agonies of wanting.
His hand touched her pussy and she shivered with the delight of it, pushing down against his hand as his finger slid in, teasing at her clitoris. His other hand was around her, gliding gently but firmly along her back, making her realize that her whole body was involved in lovemaking, not just the small area of her pussy. That was just the central point, the focus-but her whole body, breasts, tensed muscles of her legs and stomach, her back, her mouth, her throat, her lips-every last ounce of her was involved.
Now one finger worked in and out of her little pussy, helping to open her vulva, to spread its pinkish lips so that, eventually-and not too far off-his penis could slide in, gliding on the juices his finger was pumping from her.
And she moved against him in a slow, writhing motion that excited them both to-a new pitch of frenzy, to new explorations. Her hands ran across his chest, down his sides, and centered on his penis. She turned a little, peering down between them, so that she could see his love muscle. It was big, a strong shaft threaded with heavy blue veins that pulsed and throbbed, and a bulb of a head, purplish in this light, that already dribbled juices that would make penetration easier, that would fill her tunnel with bulb and shaft...
She closed her hand around his shaft, moving it gently in a pumping motion that brought a moan of pleasure from Bruce and additional stirrings of desire in Jennifer herself. She pulled his penis over until it touched her pussy, moving her pelvis to rub the big bulb against the lips of her vulva, against her clitoris, where still further tension built, shooting exquisite agony all the way up-far inside her, where soon his penis would ram, sliding along the sides of her tunnel, pulsing and moving, to build toward that climax, that ultimate in gentle explosions.
He cupped a hand over one breast, letting the nipple slide out between two fingers, so that his fingers worked on the amber-pink nipple as if chewing. And his tongue brushed the tip, startling Jennifer into a moan of ecstasy. Or perhaps it was that special little teasing on her clitoris, where his penis slid back and forth to the slow working of his hips-and intensified by the movements of her own pelvis.
His hand slid in from behind, between her legs, and fingers spread the lips of her vulva, giving his penis more room to move, opening new layers of flesh for her to enjoy as the bulb of his penis slid over them, not quite penetrating but promising. And the very promise was an excitement of its own, an anticipation of delights and ecstasies yet to come.
Now that his penis was in place, against her pussy, moving with gentle insistence, Jennifer released her hold, grabbing both his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, then sliding her arms down and under the small of his back, in an effort to get closer-which was impossible. They were practically welded together already, but the pressure of tugging on him gave her immense satisfaction.
And she wanted that bulb and shaft rammed into her, far up her tunnel, creating the final step in lovemaking, the great release of an orgasm.
"If you want 'The Bridge,' darling, we do it this way. Slide off me. There, put your hands on the bureau, bending over. With your cute little scarred bottom aimed right at me."
Jennifer peered over her shoulder at him, momentarily aghast. "Not in the behind?"
Bruce came up behind her, moving his stiffened shaft, tickling her pussy in this new and more open position. "Not in the way you're thinking, darling. I'm going in from the rear- but right up your cute little cunt-and it should be a far deeper penetration than anything we've known so far. If you want, take one hand and guide me, though I won't need it." He grinned at her, making a wickedly lewd motion with his eyebrow. "I'm right on target."
As indeed he was. Jennifer could feel the pressure of his bulb against her pussy, sliding part way in. She didn't know how she knew, but she did know that she had to turn her toes in and spread the cheeks of her ass so that his penis could get into the opening and spreading of the lips of her vulva.
She felt the hardness of the edge of the bureau under her hands and then the gentle cupping of her breasts, one in each of Brace's hands. And the pressure of his bulb against the lips of her vulva. For a moment, as it was every time, there was a frenzy of fear that she wouldn't be able to take that huge bulb and shaft into her little pussy.
But, as always it slid in and the lips of her vulva and the muscles of her vagina closed over it, seeming to tighten up on it as the shaft moved slowly in-and in-and in.
Jennifer gasped with delight as his shaft entered, as it slid, millimeter by millimeter, up her cunt. She could feel the head pause for a moment at that little hard button 'way up her vagina-she wasn't quite sure what it was, but it was a significant point, a point that always brought a brief pause.
And then his prick rammed past it, and on up inside her. Farther, farther, farther-as his hands gripped her breasts and held them in a firm, implacable grasp.
The edge of the bureau cut into the palms of her hands as she braced against it, waiting for his bulb and shaft to reach to ultimate...
There. She felt his pubic mound thrust against her pussy and the dangle of his balls in her crotch. And far up her tunnel the bulb of his penis shivered and pulsed and then began a slow in-out motion. Not much, just a hair of motion, back and forth, but it was already starting to build toward that tremendous emotional impact-the climax.
She found she could vary the pressure on his penis by working her little pelvis up and down, and by swinging her buttocks in small but effective rotary motion.
Now his hands were freer, since he had reached the final penetration, and they played with her breasts and nipples in exquisite agony. Once in a while he ran one hand down her stomach to touch and play with her pussy, to tease her clitoris. And each time was like a shock, a very delightful, tension-building shock that was felt all the way up her tunnel.
They were moving in rhythm now, with a tempo that was imperceptibly increasing, her little pelvis moving up and down and her buttocks rolling against his pelvis while Bruce drove in and out just slightly-just enough to stimulate.
Now the tempo was nearly frenzied and her body was responding with tensions felt in every muscle, centered on the area where she could feel Bruce's bulb pulsing and quivering, his shaft moving slower now but with greater force, it seemed.
Her tunnel was flooding! She could feel the bulb spurt juices into her, hot and somehow tasting salty, even 'way up in her body. And then the tensions let go!
There was a wild explosion behind her eyes, centered far up her tunnel yet involving every particle of her being. A wonderful freeing of all parts of her in one great surge of emotion, of physical release. Climax!
Within seconds of each other they had reached climax and had an exquisite orgasm.
And now Jennifer felt limp, resting her head on the edge of the bureau, between her quivering hands.
She could peer down her body, see Bruce's hands slackening on her breasts, see, between her legs, the slow emergence of his deflated penis-as she could feel it, moving over the sensitized flesh of her vulva.
Her whole body felt purged, as of a great burden, swept clear, and refreshed, yet utterly languid, at peace. Completely relaxed.
She knew that Bruce lifted her, moved her to lie beside him on the berth, but it was all part of a hazy, delightfully insubstantial aftermath, a dream world in which she moved slowly, languidly, as if under water.
It was a wonderful feeling, a wonderful way of release of tensions. She knew he kissed her, whispered endearments, but they were softened and cushioned by her languor, by her desire just to lie in his arms and be.
It was an exquisite moment, the finale of love-making, from violent tensions to infinite peace. Her hand closed in his with the gentleness of a child. She slept.
Chapter Fifteen
Jennifer slept. She aroused briefly when Bruce left, murmured a sleepy goodnight and felt his kiss-and drifted off again, into dreams that were colored pink--just pink, as she remembered. They were very peaceful, very gentle, very delightful.
She awoke to hear the breakfast gong, surprised again at finding herself naked-and then surreptitiously enjoying it, and enjoying the night again in memory. I'm depraved. That's what I am. Depraved. And I like it. A month ago the idea of sleeping with a man wouldn't have occurred to me. Well, possibly it would have occurred to me- as something that would happen to the bad little girls Mother Dear always talked about, as if they were the girls next door whose every depravity Mother Dear knew -and thoroughly disapproved of-I might have imagined such a thing as being made love to-but the results would have, in my mental pictures, been catastrophic. Filled with all sorts of wicked punishments for the transgression.
But it isn't like that at all. I just feel-content. Jennifer grinned to herself. And just a wee bit tired, but such a nice tiredness.
And I'm hungry! The fact of hunger was an ever-present amazement to Jennifer. She seemed to think that, having had sex, food was unimportant. But she discovered each time that these two life functions went hand in hand.
She showered, taking a little longer than usual because she was inspecting her body and admiring its remarkable capacity for enjoyment. Her breasts impressed her, as they might an adolescent girl. She enjoyed soaping them, bringing the foam to little peaks over her nipples and then washing it away in a warm deluge that bared her breasts again. The soft hairs of her pudendum soaped up into a white froth that tickled her pussy. A mild stimulation, but Jennifer found it delightful, a very faint reminder of the way Bruce had touched her, stimulated her.
She dressed slowly, sensuously, feeling the gentle rasp of cloth against her skin, the special tightness the pantyhose imposed on her and the binding of her breasts into a bra.
Each part of sex, as she knew at, was a separate and interesting phenomenon: the teasing and lovemaking that preceded it, each step in the buildup of tensions-the tremendous explosions of orgasm, white-hot behind the eyes, soundless but intense in the belly-the long, lazy period of unwinding, of just-being, as the body flowed with new but languorous strength. And now this-awakening to the fulfilled desire and the actual physical hunger of the body, demanding new energies, new fuel for those future fires.
It would be nice to have Bruce here, to touch him, to watch him clothe his bronzed body, perhaps to discuss the very foods they would eat and to make a last-minute rush to get to the dining salon. It wasn't exactly a lack. She didn't recognize it as that because she had never had it. It was just that that lazy morning-time being together should be part of it, it seemed to her. It should be shared. It was too delightful a nothing time, of half-completed gestures, of slow motions, not to be shared.
That was probably one of the factors of marriage, the sharing afterward. Of course, there must be hundreds of other reasons, all equally good, for marriage. She just wasn't up to thinking them out right now. It was nicer just to let things happen and then to fit them into some kind of pattern or non-pattern that made a marriage-or left one like this, faintly lost.
Not that she was really considering marriage. It was just an abstract idea-marriage, a certain state of being for two people. For right now love-making was satisfactory. With Bruce it was eminently satisfactory. At the moment she couldn't imagine making love with anyone else, of giving her body to some man to use-and excite her into using it herself.
This whole trip had been a thing of impulse -a whim triggered by discovering the intricacies of her own body, and having a man-Bruce -see her discovery. And letting him go. And then going after that impossible Cass-and on to this. "This" being a state of infinite bliss.
Of course, there had been more to it than that. Those years of repression under the rule of Mother Dear. Even the books the succession of maids had left had played their part in setting the pattern.
And now she was caught up in its diaphanous but delightful threads. I could step out, break those cobweb strands, and go back to just- being-in that big house. But that's what I broke away from. I don't want to go back. Even if this should hurt-and it will hurt when Bruce and I part, as is inevitable-I want it. I want all of it, so much so that I'm willing to risk the hurt.
They were brave words she was telling herself, and she almost made herself believe them. But she knew one thing, she was willing to risk the hurt-when it came.
Maybe I won't care so much by then. Maybe I'll be used to being made love to. And the making love will be enough. The man won't matter.
But for now she could put all that away, leave it to the future. Now was today. And she was a healthy young female headed for a hearty breakfast.
The tropic sun splashed on the deck. Somewhere forward she could hear voices and laughter and the cadence of deck tennis. On the deck below she heard the sounds of people playing around the pool, one loud splash and laughter, subsiding to a murmur. The air was warm and languorous, with just a hint of decadence, of forests growing and dying. That, she decided, was absurd. They were too far off shore here for her to smell a tropic forest. But the illusion persisted.
She dawdled. In spite of a hearty appetite she lingered by the rail, watching the blue-green waters glide by, delighted by the sight of a flock-herd?-no, school of flying fish that leapt and skimmed along off the-let's see- starboard bow. Jennifer felt proud of herself for remembering such seamanlike terms. She was even learning to refer to walls as bulkheads and floors as decks and the bathroom as the head. Left was port and the rear was the stern.
Feeling proud of herself for remembering, Jennifer headed for the dining salon, debating a choice between fluffy waffles-which would probably be fattening-and scrambled eggs, which was unimaginative but very good for what ailed her-an empty stomach. Nice crisp toast hot enough to melt the chilled butter the chef seemed to think essential, and marmalade. With coffee that, no matter what the Dutch chef did to it, still tasted faintly of cocoa.
The breakfast, as always, lived up to billing. It was excellent. And Elsie and Anna were in their usual respective forms-Elsie bouncing and radiant, Anna expecting every calamity, up to and including the sinking of the ship on a reef. And about it all she seemed remarkably cheerful, a sort of good-natured Cassandra.
Elsie, though, had the main poop, as she put it. "The dyke is gonna leak. The word is she's going to prefer charges against the tour director -Bruce what's his name-on attempted rape last night. We hear tell she even has bruises to prove it, and is willing to show them to the captain. Since they're in places the captain probably hasn't seen in years and won't remember too vividly, the sight should be interesting. To the captain."
Anna sighed. "Oh, he's not that old. He winked at me last night. Or maybe he had something in his eye. But I distinctly saw a wink." Anna frowned. "I think."
Jennifer sat, her stomach suddenly cold. So the bitch was going to force Bruce to admit his affair with Jennifer-and Jennifer would back it up. It could, of course, cost him his job.
For herself, Jennifer didn't care. Wasn't this a swinging singles cruise, designed to entertain and to encourage such little peccadilloes as fornication-even though the brochures did not so specify? But it could hurt Bruce. And with a nine-year-old girl to bring up, there must be expenses.
Jennifer had no idea of the economics of it, but a tour director who was charged with attempted rape of a passenger certainly would have difficulty finding another post, even if he weren't jailed for it.
She also had some vague ideas that jurisdiction at sea, in the case of a crime, generally rested with the captain. Or was it under the last port of call? Or the next? Not that it made any real difference. Bruce would be hurt, and that little rogue of a girl would be smeared. It couldn't happen. It mustn't happen.
Jennifer flung down her napkin without even tasting her coffee. "Where's this hearing?"
Elsie looked up from a platter of scrambled eggs and muttered around a mouthful of toast, "Captain's quarters. I think. I'm pretty sure. I had it from that cute little Javanese girl. Do you know she takes classes at UCLA between trips?"
This last was said to Jennifer's back as she hurried from the dining salon. A steward directed her to the captain's quarters and then tried to tell her she wouldn't be admitted. She was held up outside the door to the captain's quarters by a steward who had obviously been listening at the panel and didn't care for witnesses. He waved her away.
Jennifer leaned around him and banged a hard little fist against the door. The door opened a crack and an eye peered out. Jennifer made a pass with one finger extended and the eye jerked back. The door swung a fraction open and Jennifer pushed her way in.
She first saw Bruce and the startled expression on his face. He nodded to her and turned back to Carol, who was lifting her skirt to display a livid bruise. "And he kicked me. There. When I wouldn't agree to his foul suggestion."
The captain, slow, ponderous and wearing glasses with bright gold rims, leaned far forward to peer at the leg exposed, shaking his head. "Undoubtedly a very bad bruise, Miss Clark."
"And there are others..." Carol was reaching for her blouse when the captain held up a hand. "Oh, we know about the bruises, so you needn't disrobe. But as for Bruce Caldwell being responsible, I have my doubts, Miss Clark. Particularly at the time you say. Midnight." The captain beckoned a steward forward. "At midnight where was Mister Caldwell?"
The steward scowled. "Midnight?" He stared at the captain's desk. "In crew's quarters, fo'c'sle, sir. Binding up Seaman Vrietland's ankle. He had fallen in the number two hold."
"Can't Seaman Vrietland testify to this himself?"
"He could, sir. Except that his ankle is quite bad. If you wish him present, I can have him brought up. "
The captain waved that away and stared at Carol Clark. "From shortly before midnight till three, Bruce Caldwell was in crew's quarters."
Carol drew herself up with a shuddering chest. "Are you going to believe a passenger, or one of these-servants?"
"I was present, Miss Clark. Seaman Vrietland's injury happened to be quite serious. We even had to call in the ship's doctor, which wasn't at first thought necessary. Do you wish to challenge the word of the captain?" He shrugged. "It is your privilege, of course. An appeal to the directors of the line-or even a court case, if you care to carry it that far."
Carol dropped her skirt, white-faced. "I certainly do."
"Then perhaps you had better hear what Miss Yung Tau Kee has to say. Miss Yung is your deck stewardess. She was in your room shortly after midnight. At your request. And was subjected to a most embarrassing scene. We prefer not to say more about the actions of a passenger, but the opportunity to observe your body was ample. Miss Yung says you had no bruises at that time."
"Oh, you're protecting your own, all right! It's a conspiracy. You are trying..."
She swung around and saw Jennifer. "And what about her? Where was she?"
The captain frowned and then smiled at Jennifer before turning back to Carol. "What about her? I am not aware she was charged with any offense. Do you wish to make such a charge? Knowing, of course, that Miss Lorn can then sue you for quite a large sum."
Carol opened her mouth, let it hang there a moment and then snap it shut.
Bruce stepped up to the captain's desk. "Miss Lorn and I saw the Southern Cross together..."
The captain clucked, "Very disappointing display this trip," as if it were his personal failure. "Not up to the usual. Ground fog." As if he couldn't admit that there were fogs on his sea.
"And then went below." Bruce grinned almost amiably at Carol. "To look at pictures of my family. You've heard of them, I believe."
Carol spun on a spiked heel and started out, but the captain's voice challenged her.
"Miss Clark, I wouldn't encourage any further stories about attempted rape if I were you. I might be forced to exercise my full rights as captain and place you under arrest for the false testimony you have given here this morning. Now, go back to your cabin-and I suggest you stay there until we dock in Acapulco. And hide that little quirt in a better place, next time. It could be found to match those bruises."
Carol, with a final glare at Jennifer, marched out. She would have slammed the door but it had a very good, very serviceable door check.
Chapter Sixteen
Jennifer strolled along beside Bruce, soaking up the tropic sunshine, enjoying the warm breeze that came from off shore-and you really could smell the jungle, faint and far away.
"Now what was all that in honor of? What did Carol hope to gain, besides embarrassing me through you?"
Bruce turned her aside, and moved toward two empty steamer chairs. "A cover-up-and revenge. On you, for being you-and me for breaking up what she hoped to make a charming alliance. With you."
"Never. I was startled. I was-well-panicked. And above all, I just couldn't believe it was happening. But to be interested in Lesbian love affairs. No!"
"Carol is unwilling to accept that, Jennifer. To her, you were her 'prospect'-her new paramour. Until I butted in. And I did, you know. I was keeping an eye on you, through the stewards and stewardess, because you looked so vulnerable. I didn't quite grasp what girl you went off with-until it was almost too late. If I'd known it was Carol Clark, I'd have broken it up much earlier."
"But how did you know she was-well- what she is?"
"Elsie caught on pretty quick. So did Anna. There are signs. If you know the breed. This one is particularly vicious."
"Were you really down in crew's quarters at midnight? I thought we..."
"So close as it made no difference. The captain may stick up for his crew-but he wouldn't perjure himself for one of us. And I was there for nearly three hours, Kurt Vrietland was in considerable pain. It may even be a break. The ship's doctor was topside, with a passenger patient. Threatened ruptured appendix. Fortunately it hasn't ruptured yet, and we'll get him in to Acapulco tomorrow. And Vrietland is now in a very professional cast."
"So it was all true. And Carol did make passes at that cute little Javanese girl?"
"Oh, definitely. That's what she was trying to cover up-as well as strike back at you-and me. If she could have forced you to testify that I was in your room at that time, making love to you, it could have hurt us both."
"So that's why you cut through what I was going to say. Because I would have, you know. I could have sworn you were there most of the night. I remember a kiss-or think I do-along about dawn. There is a distinct..."
"It was a kiss. A very chaste kiss. On your forehead. After I had tended to Kurt I came back and you were sleeping. You know, you are quite lovely when you're asleep."
Jennifer nodded. "And that's when Carol saw you leave my cabin. The second time. She thought she could compromise us-and divert attention from her own little peccadilloes." Jennifer paused in mock thoughtfulness, grinning impishly. "You know, I've always thought of peccadilloes as something like a cross between a porcupine and an armadillo. And you could lead them around on a leash. Like, why here comes Mrs. Jones, with her peccadilloes."
"Foibles is another good one. As in, Mr. Jones has his foibles. Six of them running around their pen."
"I've always wanted to go in one of those overblown drugstores and ask for a bushel of sundries. Or do they come by the pound?"
Chattering nonsense, they moved away from the scene of Carol's humiliation-which she had brought on herself. And on down the deck.
It was a day for almost feverish activity, since they would dock in the morning. It seemed everyone wanted to get in some one of the recreations the ship offered.
So Bruce was kept busy. Not so much so that he couldn't occasionally look over heads and smile at Jennifer. But that was a poor substitute for having Bruce in her cabin, in her bed, with her.
I'm getting to be a monomaniac on the subject. Here, I didn't even guess at the power of sex -didn't even know of it except through those books-a week ago, and now I sit around on deck chairs waiting for a few minutes with Bruce, the touch of his hand, even a smile from a distance. And dream of when we can be together in private. In delicious and very naughty privacy.
Elsie came by and paused for a moment by Jennifer's deck chair. "You look like the canary that swallowed the cat. And I bet I can guess which cat. And may the Lord preserve me from another guy who is determined to be deck tennis champion of the Pacific passenger fleet." Elsie waggled a limp arm and flaccid wrist. "I'd put it in splints except for the bridge tournament tonight. Last night before docking. Captain's dinner, special dancing-what can be so special when we have the same band every night, but that's what the program says-bridge tournament. Even movies in the library. Probably a Humphrey Bogart, or maybe even Laura LaPlante-and that's going back. Even my mother couldn't remember her." Elsie slowed down, fanned herself with a tennis head bandeau and grinned at Jennifer. "Actually, it's one of the new ones. Wild on the Road or something like that. All about hippies and motorcycles. Of course, all the new ones are about hippies and motorcycles-give or take a' few Fondas."
Anna wandered up, waved languidly and drifted off, bemused.
Elsie pointed at her back with the tennis bandeau. "She's hooked up with a brain. What's a brain doing on a swinging singles cruise? He says he takes cruises like this every year, so he can mingle with the hoi polloi. And Anna just found out that means 'the great unwashed,' and it's bugging her. Especially since she uses Dial. Every day. Sometimes twice."
Elsie twinkled at Jennifer to demonstrate that this was a big put-on, and both she and Anna had long ago known what hoi polloi meant. Then she wandered off, possibly because she had caught sight of her would-be deck tennis champion coming up a hatchway.
The strawberry blonde, Laura, waved from the protective arm of Jerry, who fiercely guarded her against whatever might, on this bright, gay deck, attack his beloved. Yet he could see the funny side of his over-protectiveness because he grinned at Jennifer and shoved Laura toward her, with a very possessive pat on the fanny.
Laura wandered over, looking a little weary but very happy, and flopped down beside Jennifer. "He wants to fly back, so he can show me off to his family. I want to go back by this boat and be very decorous and proper for three whole days. Only I don't think I could stand it. Jerry isn't the decorous and proper type. And I'm not either--when it comes to Jerry. So we'd wind up in an orgy. Which wouldn't break my heart. Only I wouldn't want Jerry to go home looking utterly exhausted. After all, he came on this cruise to build himself back up. So we'll fly. You really can't get into much trouble on a plane." Laura looked thoughtful and shook her head. "I don't think you can, though I've never really tried. It might be an interesting experiment. And you will come to the wedding, won't you? Jerry insists. I'd be jealous if I didn't know his motive is purely pecuniary. He adds you up as one more wedding present, a silver porringer or soup ladle. No, honestly, do come. It'll be weeks yet. San Franciscans make such a thing of weddings, all lace veils and traditions." Laura patted Jennifer's hand and moved off to rejoin Jerry at the rail in a position that flatly denied the certain law of physics that says two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time. At least, they were working on getting it repealed.
Jennifer watched and sighed. They were happy. They had a future all planned. Perhaps it wouldn't work out as planned, but for now they were happy.
Anna, Elise and Laura -they want something so desperately they are trying to make it look wonderful. Life isn't all that wonderful. I know. I've lived with a life that was bitter and warped. And it has left me-warped? At least I'm not bitter. Or I don't think so. I just have a different perspective.
Jennifer couldn't make herself believe that marriage was the ultimate destiny. Nor, of course, was sex, the lovemaking she had known. There was bound to be something else, something that melded the two together. And that, of course, could be love.
Only I'm not at all sure I know what love is. I might not even recognize it until it had passed me by. But at least I will have lived. I will have had romance if not love. And, for the moment, that's a very satisfactory substitute.
Chapter Seventeen
Traditionally, the night before touching at the first foreign port-and again at home port- there are ritualistic ceremonies. Among them is the captain's dinner-either a dress affair or, sometimes, a costume party.
And then a "special" dance. Which, as Elsie had pointed out to Jennifer, was not likely to be so special, since the same orchestra played for all dances.
The bridge tournament was really a hangover from earlier days, before the ship had gone the swinging singles route. However, it did serve a useful function, even on a swinging singles cruise. Those who had been swinging a trifle excessively could at least appear and sit in public view without doing anything more strenuous than hold cards. And, without rancor on anyone's part, be "turned off" that night, in preparation for the land portion of the trip, which could be strenuous but in an entirely different way.
Jennifer could play-act with the others in the juvenilities of the costume party which the captain had elected, except that she was hard put for a costume. Everything she had was brand new and very much in style. Now at home there was an attic full of old trunks from which, as a young girl, she had recreated fashions of generations past, had pranced and pretended-but they were back home.
"You could always go as Eve and carry an apple," Elsie had suggested, safe in the knowledge that she had a serviceable domino carried on these trips for just such occasions.
"Or you could go as Lady Godiva," Bruce suggested over her shoulder. "And carry a horse."
"You two are no help. Besides, I don't think horses are available. And all the apples have been made into applesauce, to judge by the amount we're served." Jennifer slumped in her deck chair, glowering-or making a fair imitation of it. "Nobody told me there'd be a costume party. I'd have brought one of my middy blouse outfits... Bruce! That's it! Can you bribe a steward or one of the crew to rent me one of those middy blouses? And maybe a pair of pants..."
Bruce frowned, sitting on the deck by her chair. "This is a burly Dutch crew and you're not so much on size. You'd fall out of 'em. Though that might be interesting to see."
"No, no! I'll go as Mary Martin in South Pacific when she did that act on the beach. Remember? Big, baggy blouse, rolled-up sailor pants... Of course, I can't sing. Come to think of it, I can't dance, either. Oh yes. And one of those white hats. Like our navy boys wear."
Bruce chuckled. "I have one that survived my navy days."
"Perfect! Now if I could just-Bruce, can you teach me a few steps? You know, a-what do they call it?-routine."
Bruce shook his head. "Jennifer, you see me in my last moment of tranquility. End-of-cruise-night is a cruise director's nightmare, and I've got my saddle ready. Tomorrow I eat aspirins like peanuts. Somebody is bound to get belligerent in the bar, someone will quarrel with the orchestra over the piece to be played. Three couples will demand a recheck on the bridge scoring, and the movie projector will break down at the most interesting part, where the heroine climbs out of the creek, naked, and meets the boy on the creek bank, naked. Tonight I function in all capacities." He smiled ruefully at Jennifer. "And so I'll be late. Very, very late."
Jennifer touched his hand reassuringly. It wouldn't matter, she thought. She could use the waiting time to dream of the lovemaking to come. To anticipate this last night together. Somehow, without her realizing it, she had put a period to the affair-landing at Acapulco.
Bruce gave her a last, regretful smile and wandered off on his duties.
She only caught glimpses of him after that. A brief encounter at the captain's party, for which the little Javanese girl had brought Jennifer an assortment of blouses and white duck pants--and Bruce's own navy white hat. A view of his back as he bent over a bridge table, re-checking a score or settling some point of rules.
He had been quite right. The projector did break down. Not at the spot he predicted but it did break down. And Jennifer saw him dash for the projection booth.
The dance, which turned out to be composed largely of waltzes since that was the only tempo the captain recognized, was still going at one a.m., when Jennifer hauled herself down the corridor and to her stateroom. It really hadn't been such a strenuous night, it was just that there was so much of it.
She had only had to block a few minor passes, mostly by amiable and easily discouraged drunks. And since she didn't dance, she had sat out most of that. The movie, while exhausting and boring, hadn't required much activity.
Yet she was tired, bone-weary, it seemed. Perhaps the cumulative effects of several nights of lovemaking had caught up with her. She didn't feel actually weary. It was just that muscles didn't seem to care about cooperating.
She peeled out of the silly Mary Martin costume and stretched out on her berth, naked, letting the warm tropic breeze from an open port blow over her. Later she pulled a light sheet up to her breasts and lay staring into the dark, drowsing off and snapping awake as she waited.
He must have slipped in at one of her napping periods, because suddenly he was beside her, the warmth of his body seeping through to her. By the night light in the head Jennifer could see he was naked, and she flung out an arm, encircling his neck.
He leaned over and kissed her, tenderly, not savagely. It hadn't built to that yet.
But she could feel the stirrings in her pelvis, the awakening heat in her pussy. Her breasts responded to a gentle caress, with her nipples becoming erect, amber-pink buds of sensitivity.
She rolled over, pressing her breasts against his side, throwing one leg over his, so that his limp priapus touched her pussy. There was a faint stirring down there. She could feel the motion of his swelling penis and the slight restlessness of his hips as he snuggled closer in to her.
One arm crept around her shoulders and his hand draped over her breast, just a light, butterfly brush that started new urgings, catching her breath tight in her chest, making her breasts swell with anticipation.
His other hand rested on the curve of her waist and tugged her gently toward him. She moved closer, closer and the hand slipped behind her back, moved gently along her back, down toward her buttocks.
She heard him murmur her name... "Jennifer, Jennifer..." before his voice faded off.
And Bruce was asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
Asleep!
Bruce was asleep in her arms. His caresses had awakened her body to new responses-and he was asleep!
She tried to draw away, to see him better in the faint light, but even in sleep his grasp on her was firm, gentle but firm.
She was aching with the want of him, her breasts and nipples and pussy all prepared for a wonderful session of lovemaking, of pure, unadulterated sex. And Bruce went to sleep.
It was frustrating. It was exasperating. And then, by the dim night light, she saw his face. It was drawn and tired, even now, as he was relaxing, as the tiredness was seeping away and the lines smoothing. It had been a rough day for him, now that she thought about it.
He had been up the early part of the night before making love to her-and then up the rest of the night with the injured seaman-followed by a full day of work and an evening of exasperation and frustration, attending the wants of a bunch of passengers who could certainly have straightened out their own difficulties if they had to-and being pleasant through it all.
She reached out to smooth the tousled hair on his forehead and heard his soft murmur of her name again. She scrooched back in the berth as far as she could go, leaving him room to sprawl his long, lean body.
There was special tenderness in the way she moved him, just a trifle, so he could relax. She didn't mind the tensions in her own body, the aching want of him. Only that he should be comfortable, should rest for these last few hours, be fresh for the landing tomorrow, smiling at people who didn't really deserve to be smiled at, untangling problems people stupidly created for themselves. Settling disputes with local customs officers over illegible or neglected customs lists. A thousand little duties that must crop up when a great ship like this reached a foreign port.
Jennifer certainly hadn't anticipated anything like this. For her sex would just go on and on-wonderfully exciting, wonderfully stimulating.
But people did tire out. Even Bruce, with his magnificent body. And now it lay beside her, limp, inert and, for sex purposes, totally useless.
She smiled into the dark, thinking about it. She couldn't really believe it herself. And she wondered if others could. If, for instance, Elsie could envision being in bed with Bruce-or any man-and having him fall asleep before-well-before anything happened.
Yet, she knew, it must happen often. In marriage. There would come moments like this, when your partner in the love act was simply too physically beat to be able to start anything --just to fall into a profound sleep. There might even be times when she was too tired for sex; not that she could really accept that.
In marriage! That seemed the key to the situation for Jennifer. In marriage! This should only happen in marriage, in the confines of a legal and restricted union. Not in the free and easy atmosphere of a swinging cruise, where partners in sex played a delightful and apparently endless game.
But it had happened. It had happened with her. Bruce, though thoroughly worn out, had come to her, as he would have come to a legitimate marriage bed. And he had come expecting affection and understanding.
Marriage! It kept drifting back to that. Jennifer resented the idea, but it was true. Bruce treated her as if they were married, as if it were his right to fall asleep beside her, without even making a token gesture of sex.
It also implied trust, she told herself. Trust that she would understand, that she would give him refuge from a world of work and frustration and tribulation and expect nothing but the fact of his love for her. That was the way it would work in a marriage, wasn't it?
And her heart went out to him. She eased herself farther back into the berth to give his long, lean body more room, and felt him stretch out, sighing luxuriously.
Very carefully, so as not to disturb him or awaken him, she eased herself completely around until her back was to his stomach, soaking up warmth and yet not so dangerously aroused. A few more minutes of Bruce with his penis right against her pussy and she might easily have awakened him-in completely feminine ways, of course-so that he would take her, bring her to climax.
That did ease the tension, a little. But Bruce snuggled closer against her, his hand draping over her breast, his mouth and nose practically buried in her hair, so that, with each breath, he riffled the short hairs on her neck.
Eventually, with her tensions eased, Jennifer slept and awakened to sunlight pouring through the porthole and the awakening movements of Bruce as he squirmed and stretched, working his shoulders, moving his legs. And one prodigious yawn.
He sat up suddenly, glancing around and then down at Jennifer. His grin was rueful. "I'm a cad! I'm a scoundrel! I came here last night anticipating a lovely, lovely time for both of us. And I fall asleep, like an oaf. Would you care to kick me?" He leaned over and kissed her nose, just peeking through a tangle of hair. "You were wonderful, not to throw me out."
Jennifer half turned, yawning. She shook her head, making a mock scowl. "Why should I? It was too late to get a replacement. Besides, I like sleeping mashed up in a corner. It's so soothing to the muscles." Jennifer unkinked an arm, flexing her fingers. She moved one leg experimentally and groaned.
Instantly Bruce was massaging her leg, kneading the muscle with fine experience, so that in a moment she felt limp and at ease, smiling at him.
"You're quite nice-looking when you're asleep-and the scowl is eased out. You smile fiercely at all the passengers but you frequently scowl in here. For me."
"It's a special treatment, woman. Known as the Bruce Inverted Effect. And you are the epitome of all womankind. And I adore you for letting me sleep. What's more, I adore kissing your lovely, sleepy mouth... and your ' breasts and..."
Bruce ran his tongue from her throat down to one breast-and instantly the nipple was erect and hardening under the caressing of his tongue. He let one hand take over the pressure on her breast, the soft teasing of her nipple while his tongue traced its way excitingly down her stomach, across her belly-button and on down the crease between legs and stomach.
Jennifer moaned, arching up. Her body was ready for lovemaking, more than ready. It had stored all the want of the night before, all the unconscious knowledge that she slept beside a man. Her legs opened in sensuous enjoyment of his tongue running down the inner side of her thigh and then back up the other, to tease at her pussy, to slide gently across the lips of her vulva, bringing shudders of infinite delight. Sending her hands clutching at his shoulders, pulling him toward her, thrusting his head at her pussy, feeling his tongue slide in and then glide out, to tickle her clitoris, sending hot flashes far up her tunnel.
His hands stretched up to caress her breasts, to glide over her sides, to turn her so that his head was buried between her legs. His body squirmed around, until his pelvis was up by her head, his great penis erect and quivering before her eyes. It looked enormous. The purplish bulb was already sprouting a droplet of glittering fluid and the shaft seemed composed of great blue veins knotted and almost writhing.
There was fascination in seeing it so close. There was even a special odor of maleness about it. She reached for it, closing one hand on his shaft and moving it up and down, bringing more droplets of sparkling juice to the bulb.
Her throat ached with the want of him, with, she gradually came to realize, the desire to taste his penis, to feel it between her lips. Tentatively she slid her head forward, touching the tip with her tongue. The juices tasted salty- and somehow very male.
She formed her lips into an "O" and slid them over the bulb of his penis, feeling it fill her mouth with new excitement, start new fires within her body. And all the time Bruce was cramming his tongue into her pussy, touching and teasing her clitoris, sucking at the juices she knew she was producing.
His hands slid around her, grasping her sides, and turned her, so that she lay on her back. And his body arched over her, his penis aimed straight at her mouth. She held on to it, gently squeezing the shaft as more juices flowed into her mouth. Slowly his body was lowering, until his pelvis and stomach were touching her breasts. He moved his pelvis slightly, gliding his skin over her nipples, and then pressed down harder.
The bulb slid on down her throat, the shaft filling her mouth-and then that, too, slid on down. His balls seemed to press against her nostrils, and she moved them gently so that she at least had a modicum of breathing, though breathing didn't really seem important.
She wanted that bulb and shaft deep in her throat, the bulb spouting juices that tasted of Bruce, that were Bruce. And she wanted every bit of it.
And she wanted to give him every bit of herself. She moved her pelvis so as to push her vulva closer to his mouth and searching tongue. Her hands reached up, grasping either side of his buttocks, and moved him in a gentle rhythm, in and out. Once in a while she thrust him upward and he responded, pulling his penis far enough out so that she could gulp more air and start this wonderful new process all over.
She felt her vulva, and tunnel ready for climax, for those silent, white-hot explosions that meant a satisfactory orgasm, that meant she had achieved a wonderful state of ecstasy. She let go, her tunnel flooding with juice, her pelvis working frantically and thrusting at Bruce.
And his shaft moved faster, then became suddenly stilled just before it drove its deepest down her throat. His bulb exploded. She could feel the pulse of his juices shooting the whole length of his shaft to flood her throat and mouth with hot, salty semen that tasted of Bruce.
Reluctantly she felt his penis deflate and released it, licking at it as it slid from her mouth. Bruce was still licking at her pussy and lapping up her juices. And then they both relaxed, lying side by side but upside down.
Jennifer could see his penis deflate, shriveling from the monstrous shaft to something a little larger than his thumb. She marveled at it. When needed it was a stiffened shaft, engorged and swollen-but for ordinary use it went down, was flaccid and, she suspected, quite manageable within his clothes. And for other uses.
Jennifer giggled, and Bruce swung his legs around and sat up, looking down at her. "And what's this giggling? Did I do something funny?" It was mock severity, but he really wanted to know.
"It's your-thing. It's so-convenient. It shuts up like an umbrella when you don't need it for sex." She giggled again, helplessly, and fell into his arms. "Oh, Bruce! That was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I never thought I could... Well, as a matter of fact, I had never thought of it at all. But it is a wonderful experience, isn't it?"
"With you it is, Jennifer. With you. Here's a handkerchief. Wipe your face. You're a pig, you know. A very lovely, very pink and delightful pig-"
Jennifer accepted the handkerchief meekly, then slid out of the berth and trotted to the head. She washed her face and straightened her hair in quick, deft movements, and came back.
She had wet the handkerchief and now she dropped it over his face, still glistening with her juices.
Bruce leapt up, swabbed at his face, and then grabbed her, wrestling her back onto the berth. They fell laughing, their naked bodies still sweaty and gleaming.
"We'll have time for a shower-and double skinny-dip-and then to the landing." He patted her rump, scooting her toward the shower. "And don't forget. Don't take the land tour. It's a gyp. Besides, I have a car waiting."
Jennifer enjoyed the double skinny-dip even more than usual, she thought, because this session of lovemaking had been so sort of spontaneous, so-for her, at least-unexpected.
They played with each other, with the water and soap, and, just when things might have started up again, Bruce switched the water to cold. Which brought a scream and shivers from Jennifer and low, moaning bellows from Bruce.
"It's drastic! But it works. And, I regret to say, we do have things to do."
They came from the shower laughing, rubbing-each other down with almost childish lack of interest in sex. It was just-fun.
Chapter Nineteen
All the tight repressions of the night before, as Bruce lay beside her, sleeping, were gone. The early morning lovemaking, so spontaneous, so startlingly different, had wiped out the tensions of the night before, the fears that perhaps Bruce hadn't really cared.
She wasn't certain what it was she wanted him to care about, really. Herself? Her body? The sex she could give him? It didn't matter now. She had had her share of lovemaking and the precious moments afterward, of being just young and gay and naked together.
Elsie was absorbed in plans for the Acapulco stop, and Anna had lists-things to do, things she was supposed to see, people for whom she had to buy presents. Jennifer had nothing. She was free. She had no one to buy presents for, she knew Bruce would show her the places she should see, and perhaps they would find time, somewhere in that busy schedule, to make love.
The air on deck was warm and odorous, with a faint, underlying odor of kerosene that seems to be an integral part of every Mexican scene.
There were other odors, too, the almost overpowering odor of flowers, sunwarmed and fragrant. And people. And burros. And frying foods.
From the deck her eyes tried to sort out the kaleidoscopic bits of the scene, the bright colors moving and shifting. And the shouts and noises.
She was in no hurry. As she had told herself, she had no lists. Life could meet a tempo here. She had an idea it was not always as frenetic as when a cruise ship came in. No, it would be peaceful, perhaps even somnolent. That would be when she'd really like to know Acapulco. Or any part of Mexico.
She had an idea-perfectly valid-that Acapulco in its glitter and magnificent hotels was not typical of Mexico, any more than the Tijuana of mud huts and beggars was typical.
She was having a love affair with Mexico. It was love at first sight-the kind that grows, that matures into something that is a lifelong treasure.
Mexico can do that to you-or leave you cold, unappreciative. But that's you. That's not Mexico. For there is enchantment there. Jennifer could feel it seep into her, even at the distance of the boat from the land. And she returned it full measure.
She stared up at the cliffs and the huge hotels. She wouldn't want that. But to the South lay houses, small, private homes that seemed to have an enchantment of their own.
She understood now why Bruce made his home here. Even though economy might be part of the answer, he was in love with Mexico, too. He the experienced, the sophisticate, and she the neophyte-both in love with Mexico.
The enchantment grew as Bruce led her across the crowded docks, swinging her single, carefully packed bag. The noise and bustle closed around her. The smells came up, biting and sharp. And she could tell, simply from the way that Bruce sniffed at that air, that this was his love, this land his home.
He climbed behind the wheel of his convertible after settling her and her bag, and became a different person. He leaned over the side of the car and, in fluent Spanish, told a burro driver what his ancestors were like when they still lived in trees. He cursed and slammed his way out of traffic in such a state of fury that Jennifer feared for his blood pressure. Or hers.
And as they started to follow the winding coastal road she looked at him and saw he was completely relaxed, hands slack on the wheel, lips smiling. It was all a colossal bluff, a pretense of rage that fooled no one, except perhaps greenhorn tourists like herself. It was just part of the pattern of life he had accepted and loved. As she was learning to love it, to look, with regret, on the brief time she would have here and the return home.
Already, although she didn't know it, she was developing a homesickness for Mexico, a common affliction for those who are simpatico.
When they reached an isolated cove with a surprisingly clean, attractive beach, he stopped the car. Jennifer looked at him wonderingly, and he leaned to her with a gentle smile on his lips. "I can't wait," he said tersely. "I've got to have you again-now."
Obediently, she followed him out of the car. Roughly, almost brutally, he forced her to her back on the sand and began to tear at her clothes. It was all she could do to keep him from ripping them from her body. She manage somehow to keep him from doing any real damage, but within moments he was in his shorts and she in brief bra and panties. Hungrily he rained kisses upon her, such savage kisses that she became frightened. She had never seen him like this before. Would he rape her like an animal and then kill her, now that there were no prying eyes to see and no one to rescue her from him?
Then they were totally nude, and he was on top of her, his prick in her cunt. He rammed it in and out fiercely, seemingly without any regard for her pleasure or even comfort. And it hurt- hurt even more than it had when he had taken her virginity!
Within seconds, it was over, and he had rolled away from her. "I'm sorry," he said as he began dressing. "I got carried away that time. It won't happen again."
"It's all right," Jennifer told him, somewhat shakily, as she too began dressing. She remained somewhat bewildered, but she realized there were many sides to his character she hadn't seen yet. She had a lot to learn about him-and suddenly she wanted achingly to know everything there was to know.
Bruce tooled the car up on the heights and stopped for a view of the harbor and the big white ship they had left so recently. He didn't say anything; he just sat back and let Jennifer absorb the sights, the faint, faraway sounds, the drifting odors, now cleaner and smelling of bougainvillea and some honey-sweet odor she couldn't identify.
He started the car and drove on, on a road that wound southward along the bluff where houses clung precariously above the sea or climbed the wall of hill behind. She knew he was taking her to see his home. And she braced herself for meeting Judy.
It was a charming little house-well, not so little, she could see as they swung through the adobe wall and stopped before wrought iron gates. An elderly, bent Mexican in very white -well, they looked like pajamas to Jennifer- opened the gates, grinning at Bruce, showing enormous crooked teeth.
"That is Pepi. Sometimes he is Josephina's uncle, sometimes her father, sometimes a cousin. He doesn't always remember. But he remembers when the ship is coming. And prods Josephina into a frenzy of cooking. We will have suave burritos and awegatos and guacamole so smooth you could use it for face cream, so hot you could start a fire with it."
It was all there in his voice, his love affair with Mexico. This was his true love, not the boat, not even Jennifer or Jennifer's body.
And here was Judy. Here he kept his truly precious possessions.
Josephina, broad in black bombazine, with a startling white apron, waddled down a side walk, waving and moving with surprising speed for so much bulk. And a flash of red and yellow whipped around her and headed straight for the car, letting out a shriek that probably frightened birds for blocks around. Unless, of course, they were accustomed to it by now.
Bruce was out of the car and waiting for the impact, braced for the final hurtling attack as Judy launched herself and landed in his arms. She was babbling wildly in Spanish at him until she saw, over his shoulder, Jennifer still sitting in the car.
Her small button-bright face froze. Her mouth closed and she ducked her head. "Good evening, senora." And she wriggled out of her father's arms, giving him one slow, hurt look, that said, plain as language-Spanish or English-you have brought another woman into this house where I am the only one.
And then she was smiling a little-girl smile and bobbing a very sketchy curtsy. "Josephina has guacamole with tacos and mangoes and awegatos with mayonnaise. And suave burritos and can I have a dime on my next week's allowance? Josephine won't advance me a cent."
Bruce frowned at this important information. "Are you sure this is not your two weeks' off allowance? It seems tome..."
Judy grinned, impish and very small girlish. "All right, if you're going to get technical. Ak-shully its three weeks' off allowance, but that was because... I don't remember the why of because, but I had a very, very good excuse. Oh, yes. I took Josephina's second son's three little boys to see the circus. And we had crackerjacks and chewing gum and gellados. And I wasn't sick a bit."
"But Josephina's second son's three little boys were?"
"Only Manuelo and only a little bit. In the back of the burro cart but it's all cleaned up. Pepi helped."
Bruce hugged his daughter and surveyed Josephina, round-faced, with just a suggestion of a mustache. She was looking quite solemn until suddenly she smiled and then her face turned into a broad and beaming jack-o'-lantern. "Is no problem. Plenty guacamole, plenty melon, plenty awegato. We got trees of awegatos." Josephina turned her head to explain to Jennifer. "And mango. You come in, you eat."
And Josephina waddled off. Judy stayed to watch Jennifer get out of the car, considering her outfit with all the fierce judgment of a French couturiere, and nodded approval. The Italian yellow, gray and black print had won another feminine heart.
Judy walked between them up to the house, cool under the trees in spite of tropic heat, informing them that Monsteroso, the cat, was not, as she had first suspected, a boy cat, because she had just had six kittens under the piazza. And Cochina, the black hen, had laid six eggs and wanted to hatch them, so that she pecked at anyone who came near her nest. And the burro had eaten a peck of Josephina's cherished romaine. And...
The recital went on, even in the large, dark and cool dining room while Josephina served the guacamole-which was as hot as promised and a delight on tiny pieces of toast, washed down with a cool lemonade.
Bruce looked at his small daughter, looking even smaller in the huge Spanish grandee chair. "Don't you ever run down? And how you manage to say so much and still stuff yourself, I'll never know."
Jennifer winked at Judy. "It's a secret we women have. It's the only way to get it all in. Men talk so much."
Judy nodded approval of this. "And I'm not stuffed. Well, not yet, because there's dessert. A flan." And Judy looked at her father with large, wistful eyes. "Besides, I have to talk a lot and awful fast to get it all in before you're gone again."
Bruce laid down his fork and studied the child. "I do treat you pretty badly, don't I? But suppose-now, just suppose-I said this was the last trip. That we would settle down, all together. With only occasional trips. Regular business trips like lots of fathers have to make..."
He was about halfway through before Judy leapt from her chair to swing wildly around one of the grandee chairs and hurtle into his lap, upsetting a bottle of olive oil and a cruet of vinegar. "We'll all be together! All of us. Forever 'n ever, amen! Like you've been promising." Her hug threatened to break his neck, and Bruce unwrapped himself with difficulty. "I said- just suppose. Now, it might not happen. Maybe not this time, but very soon now. Very soon. I'll know later today. After I take Miss Lorn back to her hotel."
"Oh..." Judy's "Oh" was quite expressive and rather drawn out. It said she had thought Jennifer's introduction was as a new member of the family-and the taking her back to her hotel was the signal that all bets were off. For which she, Judy, was just as happy.
Jennifer had enjoyed the visit-regretting briefly that it was just a visit. This was the life she'd love to live, in the place she'd love to live it. But she enjoyed the ride down through the town with Bruce, his contentment with the life, even his rough and ready swearing at other drivers. And she enjoyed most of all his kiss at the door of her room.
"I have to go now. To see about the prospects of staying on in Mexico. But I'll be back." He looked at his watch. "At four. Just remember, in Acapulco, life starts late and keeps on through most of the night. So don't rush things. Rest now and relax."
She returned his kiss, a little warmer than she meant to, simply because she wanted to thank him for all he had shown her, in living, in the glimpse of the life he led, in the brief view of the happiness within his family.
She didn't exactly follow his instructions. The lure of shops, of people on the streets, of sounds, smells, colors got to her-and she went out under the arcades, jostling, being jostled, occasionally seeing a fellow passenger from the cruise, but mostly just moving through the magic of a new, strange place.
She was back well before four, discovering, in the air-conditioned cool of her room, that she was really hot and sticky. Which called for a shower.
It was while she was in the shower that Bruce came. The first she knew of it was when his hand, holding a large soapy sponge, ran down her spine. She whirled then, outraged, and saw his face, a smile carrying away any tiredness that lingered. He nodded. "Yup. It's settled. I'm not even going back on the cruise ship. But I am going to help you with that shower. A lonesome skinny-dip is hardly more than getting wet..."
And he was out of his white linen suit and in beside her. Jennifer agreed that a lonesome skinny-dip was simply a bath, a method of getting clean, while a double skinny-dip had certain potentials.
And Bruce was building those potentials as he massaged her back and slid his soapy hands over her breasts. He inspected her derriere and decided she was recovering, and then held her close, his body pressed against hers, his arms tight around her, letting the water run off their bodies, carrying away soap and inhibitions.
Jennifer returned the pressure of his body, thrusting her mouth up to meet his in a long, impassioned kiss. It stretched her breasts, tightened her whole stomach, so that she felt his body as never before, and realized that his penis was sliding between her legs, already stiffened. She wiggled her feet and spread her legs so that his penis could reach to her pussy, swallowing the excitement of this new form of lovemaking, this sex in a shower.
His hands caressed her breasts, pushing them tight against his flesh from each side and moving his body in a slow rhythm that teased her nipples, swelled her breasts. His hand slid around her, cupping her buttocks, and pulling her up, so that the bulb of his penis teased at the entrance to her vulva.
One hand slid down, seemed to come from behind to tease at her clitoris, and then she could feel the leaves of her vulva opening, knowing that the soft, pink cavern was ready for his penis.
The bulb slid in and her vulva closed over it, hungrily, almost mouthing it. She couldn't get enough of it. She worked with her pelvis to force it in deeper and felt Bruce give an extra thrust, but that drove it only partway up inside her.
Bruce's hands were locked behind her buttocks and she half sat in them, swinging her legs up to wrap them around his waist. And his priapus stabbed way up her, so that Jennifer gasped and then settled down to ride on that magnificent shaft.
And she was riding. Out of the shower, riding in Bruce's arms, her pelvis tilted up against his penis, and it was moving-both in and out and seemingly with a sort of rotary motion as he walked.
She rode backward, her arms around him, her breasts barely touching his chest as she rode in the basket of his arms.
Very gently he lowered her to the bed, her legs still up around his waist, and knelt beside the bed, so that his shaft was still in her. Now it moved far more freely. And his hands, instead of being imprisoned by her buttocks, were free to roam over her breasts, tightening the breath within her, making her stomach constrict with excitement, while his penis drove with increasing tempo far up her vulva, her tunnel.
He bent over her, kissing the amber-pink nipples, running his tongue over and around her breasts until Jennifer clawed at his shoulders, pushing his head down tight on her breasts, moaning with the ecstasy of his bulb and shaft far up her tunnel, writhing with the exquisite pleasure of the agony.
She tossed her shoulders, moaning, writhing as he rammed his penis far up her. She could feel his balls slamming into her from time to time as the rhythm increased. And the climax was coming, the glorious moment of sexual release. She felt it within herself and in the pulsing of the great vein of his penis, in the swelling and pulsing of his bulb.
Climax came. Together they moaned, cramming their bodies together in ecstasy, trying to reach farther than ever up her tunnel. And then the explosion. Her juices flooded her-and his bombarded her body, far up her tunnel, beating a new pulse within her.
She collapsed, lying on the bed, her legs still over the side, where they had stretched her stomach muscles for increasing the intensity of this moment. And Bruce sagged above her, supporting his weight on his hands as his penis slid slowly out of her pussy, both quivering.
Bruce dropped his head, just touching one breast with his lips, and Jennifer shivered with happiness. This had been real sex, deep and satisfying. She shivered again and his body dropped a fraction, to give her warmth, except that she didn't shiver from cold but from the high excitement of her own emotions.
Oh, she had come a long way from the girl who had looked at her body, really seeing it for the first time, only a week or so ago. She hadn't known of sex, much less felt it at that time- and now she had experienced sex in a variety of ways she hadn't even imagined existed. And all wonderful, all exciting, all promising delights and fulfilling them.
She reached up and pulled Brace's face close to hers, kissing him gently. "That's for nothing... And this..." She pulled his head down, crashing his mouth on hers, reaching for his tongue with hers and mouthing moans... "That was for teaching me the wonders of sex. The way it can be beautiful and exciting-and free, unfettered.
"We have been free, haven't we? No strings..."
Brace raised his head, looking down at her. "No strings. Except, perhaps, heartstrings."
"Bruce, don't." She put two fingers over his lips. "It's been wonderful. You have opened a new world for me. You have given me moments to treasure. And it's over. This was the last- and the best, I think. You won't be going back on the ship. I will. I think I'll find a deck chair and sit among happy memories."
"But, darling, you must have known-I wanted this to be for always. I couldn't just play like this..."
"Bruce, Brace.... Are you equating sex with marriage... and our kind of sex, as wonderful as it has been, as compromising me?"
Bruce scrambled up, the first awkward movement she'd seen him make. "But damn it! I'm not worried about compromising you. Or me." He grinned at her. "Maybe I can accuse you of compromising me. It works both ways, you know. We went into this together-very happily together. And, as you say, it has been wonderful. But it doesn't have to come to an end simply because a cruise ship is pulling out tomorrow."
Jennifer sighed. "Of course, darling, it has to end. That was built-in. It was to be a delightful shipboard flirtation. That's what I went on this cruise to find. And I found the best. But it's over. I go back on the boat, you stay here, loving this place as you do."
Bruce glared at her. "Jennifer, you've got to listen to me. I have some rights in this romance, this beautiful music we make together."
"Bruce, please. Please. You have a home here, a family-and a very attractive family in Judy. I can't stay on, playing tourist, waiting for those spare moments you can give me from your life here. It would spoil it all. Can't you see that?
"For a gay, swinging singles cruise, a surreptitious sex affair is all right-it's what they have cruises like this for. But surreptitious sex doesn't fit into a real life."
"God damn it, wench, haven't you been listening? I'm staying on in Mexico because I have the biggest job to come down the pike. The people I'll be working for plan to transform Baja into a new Riviera, a gorgeous gold-plated playground for the filthy rich, for the not so rich, for anyone who can come there. And I'll be part of it, telling the world of each new development, persuading the world that here is not a better mousetrap-but the best mousetrap. The most pleasure, the most glitter and the most real, downright fun.
"I know it's all there, because I happen to love Mexico. All of it. Even the dirt and funny smells, because these are part of the country, these make it uniquely Mexico.
"And I thought you fell in love with it. I seemed to feel it in you, see it in your eyes. I seemed to sense that you were having your own personal love affair with Mexico. And until that happened, I didn't dare ask you to stay. You might have stayed to please me, but that wouldn't work, either. It's only when you love this country that you want to be here-forever. To live in it, to live with it.... Good God, I'm sounding like the brochures I write. But I think you know what I mean."
"Bruce, are you saying-marriage?"
Bruce ground one fist into his palm. "What the hell do you think I've been talking about? Look..." His eyes widened and he stared at Jennifer. He suddenly threw back his head, laughing. "Good lord, I didn't, did I? And the first rule of a good promotion man is to get the salient point across. Of course I meant marriage. I've meant it from the beginning. But you had to fall in love with Mexico-and I think you did-or it wouldn't work."
"Oh, I did, Bruce, I did. I fell in love with a whole country in half a minute. And I've hated the idea of going back. Just hold me, Bruce, hold me tight. Not to make love to me, but to let me feel a bit of reality in this whirling, crazy world I'm in.
"Of course I'll stay. If Judy will tolerate me --and I think she will."
"Oh, she will. She's already asked when you're coming back-and how long you'll stay, just happening to mention along the way that she's only a little girl and needs somebody to help her run that big house and wouldn't it be nice if... Oh, yes, Judy will welcome you. There will have to be adjustments. Judy isn't always as angelic as she tried to make herself seem... But the main thing is-I love you!"
"Oh, Bruce! You great big boob of a promotion man! Don't you know you're supposed to get the salient point across early in the campaign?"
Bruce reared back and stared at her. "What did I muff this time?"
"That's the first time you've said, 'I love you.' And a girl..."
"But damn it, you knew... No, I guess you didn't. So I'm a schnook. A regular schlemiel. I love you, Jennifer darling, and I'll go on saying it for the rest of my life. If I don't, just hand me one of my brochures and mention a salient point." He glanced down at his bare stomach in surprise and then looked at Jennifer. "Do you know, I'm hungry!"
Jennifer nodded slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. That phrase sounded awfully married-a long time married. And happy with it. She was determined that was the way it would be. She started up to get dressed, already considering her wardrobe in relation to Judy. Would she like the smoky gray? Or would she feel it was a little drab, a little colorless? She started to ask Bruce, watching him struggle with his trousers, and decided he wouldn't understand such female subtleties.
