Marta Travis halted before the opaque glass door and scanned the fresh gold lettering.
"Marital Consultant," she read aloud. In the lower left hand corner she saw the name in small letters: Jonathan Temple.
She felt again the small tug of uncertainty. Marta was tall and well put together, with pert breasts and the fine, exciting legs of a showgirl. Her hair was blonde; in certain lights it would show the same tints as the gold lettering on the door. Her eyes were a warm hazel in color. Marta was twenty-five years old.
Now she shrugged shapely shoulders. She had gone this far; she might as well go through with it.
She smoothed the lapels of her gray tailored suit down over the points of her breasts and pushed the door open. Her trim buttocks had a saucy bounce as she walked.
She found herself in a small reception room. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air and the blonde wood desk, the green divan, and the rest of the furnishings had a factory newness about them. The room was empty. Marta's spike heels were silent in the deep pile of the verdure carpeting as she crossed to the desk.
Two doors gave off the reception room. The one on her left had the name, Jonathan Temple. She hesitated for a moment, then tapped on the lettered door.
A deeply modulated masculine voice called out, "Come in!"
Marta pushed the door open and went in. The quiet green decor of the outer office had been maintained and the long low divan and the two guest chairs had the same look of newness.
Behind a large, polished desk, Jonathan Temple rose to his feet. He was a slender man, just short of six feet. The soft brown hair, worn thick at the temples, and the deep brown eyes gave his narrow face a spiritual softness enhanced by the softly bowed lips and the cleft chin. He wore a quiet gray suit and a narrow black tie that gave him a ministerial appearance belied by the frankly sexual appraisal he gave Marta.
"Yes?"
His gaze dropped to the points of her breasts and traveled downward to the flare of her rounded hips and then back up again. His eyes ignited with a glow that bothered Marta. She'd known men before who had a knack of undressing women with their eyes.
Sooner or later this one will have a hand under my skirt, she thought grimly. Again she felt a spasm of doubt.
Unconsciously she threw back her shoulders, thrusting her breasts forward. "I'm Marta Travis. I wrote...."
With a visible effort he tore his gaze from her breasts. "Oh, of course, Mrs. Travis! I didn't expect you until tomorrow. I have your resume right here." He fumbled through some papers on his desk with long-fingered, narrow hands.
On the wall behind the desk were two imposing diplomas. One declared Jonathan Temple to be a Doctor of Divine Theology. The other proclaimed in frills and furls that he was a Doctor of Human Engineering. Marta didn't recognize the names of either university that had issued the degrees.
While he searched for the resume of her academic record, Marta glanced around the office. One entire wall contained shelves of books on psychology and sociology. On the opposite wall hung a framed sketch of a pair of hands folded in prayer.
"Ah, here it is!" Temple said with a toss of his head. He gestured to one of the chairs before his desk. "Please sit down, Mrs. Travis."
Temple sat down behind his desk. He rested his arms on his elbows, built a pyramid with his long fingers and peered at her over it. "I was quite impressed by the amount of psychology you've had."
"Psychology was my major," Marta said. She crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up above her knees. Temple's gaze zeroed in on the length of silken thigh thus exposed.
He may be a Doctor of Divine Theology, Marta thought, but he has some very unspiritual ideas.
She watched the tip of his tongue come out and wetly trace the outline of his thick lips. His eyes glowed hotter. Then his gaze swept slowly up. Marta could almost feel the heat of his eyes as his glance rested on the swell of her breasts. As if in answer to his unspoken demand, the tips tightened to a hard erectness and Marta felt a moistness gather between her tightly clenched thighs.
Nervously she dug into her purse for a cigarette. She lit it before she looked up again at Temple. He was leaning back, relaxed now, his mouth curved in a knowing smile as though he had correctly gauged the cause of her agitation.
"I was also impressed by your work in sociology," Temple said smoothly.
"I worked two years for the city in the Aid to Dependent Children Department." Marta knew she was chattering away like an idiot but she couldn't seem to help herself. Something about this man unnerved her.
"Oh, I have no doubt whatsoever about your competence," Temple interrupted her before she ran down. "I could hope for no better trained associate."
"Or bed partner," Marta said under her breath. All at once she relaxed. She had handled men before. What was so different about this one? She looked directly into the naming eyes and said demurely, "I hope I live up to your high expectations."
His gaze wavered, dropping again to her crossed thighs. "I'm sure you will, Mrs. Travis."
"Miss Travis." With a spark of malice she added, "Does Mrs. Temple help you in your work, doctor?"
"Oh, I'm not married." His aquiline features drooped in wistful sadness. Piously he said, "I've devoted my life to the work of God and man."
And women, Marta thought;, you've had time for them, I'll bet!
"Miss Travis, do you have a license to practice psychology?"
"Yes, I do. I haven't really needed it for the work I've been doing but I've kept my license up to date."
"Good! Come along now and I'll show you your office." He rose and came around the desk and held out his hand.
Marta stood up unhurriedly and placed her hand in his so that just the tips of her fingers rested in his palm. She put a little pressure on her fingers and scraped her long nails against the soft flesh of his hand.
She heard the soft gasp of his indrawn breath and saw the tiny muscle beneath his left eye jump spasmodically. His hand closed convulsively around hers. She turned close against him, letting her thigh brush his as she stepped toward the connecting door of the office.
She was completely at ease now. It was time to make him sweat a little. What was that expression? An eye for an eye? Of course, she was sure he'd eye her like a hungry infant if given half a chance. Working for Jonathan Temple was going to be a riot, in more ways than one!
"Through here," Temple said, opening the door.
The office they entered was a slightly smaller edition of Temple's own office.
"There's a powder room off here with a shower," Temple said. He opened a small door in the corner.
"Why, it's lovely!" Marta gasped, entering the powder room. It was finished in green tile and the gleaming fixtures were of green-tinted porcelain. There was a full-length mirror on one wall.
"I had it put in just for you," Temple said with a toss of his head. He led her back into the office. He gestured. "I want you to display both your degree in psychology and the license to practice same on the walls in here. It builds a client's confidence in you when they can see framed certificates."
They returned to Temple's office just as the door to the reception room opened, letting in a tall, striking girl with hair the color of a flaming sunset and eyes the color of limes. She was around twenty-five, Marta judged.
"Hello! I'm Selma Desmond." The girl spoke as though she were something special. And she is, Marta thought, appraising the voluptuous figure.
Selma Desmond wore a taffeta frock almost the color of her eyes. The dress clung tightly to her generous curves and a daring neckline revealed the snowy swells of an extraordinary bosom that threatened to burst the material of her dress.
From the corner of her eyes Marta saw Temple's tongue come out and race around his lips. His gaze leeched onto the woman's breasts. The tiny muscle under his eye jumped madly.
Clearly at a loss, Temple said, "Selma Desmond?"
"From the agency," Selma said throatily.
"Agency? Oh, of course! The secretary. I've been expecting you." Temple indicated Marta with a gesture. "This is my associate, Miss Travis."
The costume jewelry on Selma's wrist jingled musically as she extended a dainty hand. "Hi," she said. The green eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief.
Marta took the small hand in hers. It was like holding a live, warm little animal that squirmed to get deeper into her grasp. A tingling shock went up Marta's arm, creating a strange, yet delightful feeling of excitement within her. She looked directly into the green eyes and returned the pressure of Selma's hand.
"This might be a good time to discuss my method of operation," Temple said, motioning them to seats. "I have only one appointment this afternoon."
Selma and Marta sat across the desk from him. Marta smiled to herself as she saw his gaze shuttle back and forth between the two pairs of silken legs.
Temple began to outline the method of procedure he wanted them to follow. Either he or Marta would interview the clients. The initial interview should be with both husband and wife present. Then each would be interviewed separately. Notes would be kept on the interview and Selma would then write up the case history. After the history was completed, Temple and Marta would confer on the case. From the history they would examine the problems of the clients and attempt to offer a solution.
"Later on," Temple continued, "I'd like to try some form of group therapy. This has been used most successfully in other social maladjustments."
He took a large appointment book from his desk. "I'll give this into your keeping," he said, holding the book out to Selma. "We'll adjust the time devoted to each client by the volume of business, but that will work itself out in time."
Temple got to his feet. "And I think that about covers it for now."
Marta and Selma stood up together. As Selma leaned forward to rise, Temple's glance jumped to the scalloped neckline of her dress. Without thinking, Marta followed his gaze. She got a full look at the deep cleft between Selma's breasts and she caught a heady whiff of the woman's sultry perfume.
"Perhaps you'd like to sit in on the interview with me, Miss Travis?" Temple asked.
Marta nodded eagerly. "I'd like that very much."
Temple told Selma she needn't stay and conducted her toward the door. The redhead paused at the door and looked back at Marta.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" Selma's voice tinkled like clear bells.
Marta nodded, smiling. "Of course, Selma. Tomorrow."
"I hope she's as competent as she is attractive," Temple said, returning to his desk.
"Oh, I'm sure she is," Marta said with a straight face.
The muscle under his eye jumped and he pressed a thumb to it, his glance sliding away.
Marta resumed her seat and took out a cigarette. "Do you have any information on the client you're expecting?"
"None at all. She was referred to me by her minister." Temple went on to explain that he had made the acquaintance of many of the ministers in Los Angeles. He had once had a small church himself. When his fellow ministers began to send their parishioners to him for marital guidance, he had decided to give up his church and devote full time to marital counseling.
"Many lawyers also send clients to me, people who are divorcing," Temple finished.
A buzzer sounded in the reception room. "That must be my client." Temple jumped up. "Excuse me.
From Temple's nervousness and from the newness of the offices, Marta felt sure this was one of his first clients. Well, that was all to the good. They would both be starting from scratch. Her own nervousness fled and she relaxed with a sigh. It was going to be all right.
Temple returned shortly with a small, chic brunette. She had a cameo-like face with delicate features. Her eyes, large and deeply black, bulged slightly, making them appear even larger. Her black silk suit was luxurious in its simplicity.
"Mrs. Baker, this is my associate, Miss Travis," Temple said. "Marta, Mrs. Enid Baker."
"How do you do?" the brunette said in a tremulous voice. She took the chair next to Marta while Temple returned to his desk.
He said unctuously, "I was hoping Mr. Baker could come with you, Mrs. Baker."
"Well...." The woman glanced sidelong at Marta. "I did ask him to come but...."
"Perhaps we can persuade him to come later on,' 'Marta said gently.
A tiny smile tugged at Enid's rosebud mouth. "I doubt it. He won't even talk about our problem to me."
Temple erected his steeple of fingers and rested his chin on it. "Suppose you tell us just what your problem is?"
Marta watched intently as Enid figeted in her seat. The dark eyes did bulge, and at the base of the ivory throat was the slight swelling of the thyroid. Marta observed the girl's fluttering movements.
No doubt about it, Marta thought, a hyperthroid.
Enid sighed, causing her firm breasts to rise and fall. "I don't know how to tell you. I suppose you'd say my husband and I are incompatible."
"Just what does this incompatibility consist of?" Temple asked.
Enid tugged nervously at her skirt and smoothed it over rounded thighs. She smiled tightly at Marta.
"Perhaps it would be easier to tell us about the areas where you and your husband agree," Marta suggested.
Temple reared back in his chair and glared. "We are only interested in the areas where they disagree!" he snapped.
Marta felt her own temper rise, but she held it in check. But couldn't he see that the woman was too intimidated to talk?
"We only disagree about one thing, really," Enid said timidly.
Marta glanced around in surprise. The dark eyes were downcast and the ivory cheeks had twin spots of color. The woman knotted the handkerchief in her hands, tugged at the string of pink pearls around her neck, patted her raven hair, crossed and uncrossed her shapely limbs before she looked at Marta with a smile as pure as a child's.
"He won't whip me," she said simply.
A strangled sound came from Temple. "He won't what!"
Malta's mind raced. Then she felt a thrill of discovery as the significance of the key word, whip, dawned on her. She glanced at Temple and saw that he was at sea. He stared at Enid without comprehension. Marta folded her hands in her lap and waited.
"Why do you want your husband to punish you?" Temple finally asked.
"Punish me? I don't want to be punished, for Heaven's sake!" Enid was indignant. "I haven't done anything!"
"Then why in the world do you want him to whip you?"
The woman's tiny fingers tore at her handkerchief. "It's the only way...." She glanced at Marta as though seeking help. "It's the only way I can get in the mood."
"The mood? What mood? Oh!" Temple looked away in confusion, then he rallied. "But that's ridiculous! Surely you can...." His voice trailed away.
"All I want him to do is spank me a little. Then I can make love. But he won't do it. He calls me terrible names!" Enid began to sob into the limp handkerchief.
Temple looked over at Marta in entreaty but she kept her face carefully blank. She struggled with a desire to laugh. It was clear that Temple was at a complete loss as to how to proceed. Marta offered no help. Finally he settled back and went on with the interview.
Marta waited for him to probe back into Enid's past and discover where, and how, the sexual pattern had been distorted. But Temple's questions were pointless, barely relating to the girl's problem. Temple, despite his volumes of psychology and his framed degrees, had little understanding of the workings of the mind.
Finally Marta had had enough; she took charge of the interview. Temple let her take over with an audible sigh of relief.
With a few adroit questions Marta uncovered an early relationship between Enid and an older uncle. Enid was often in the care of the uncle and, when she did something bad, he would playfully spank her on the bare buttocks. This continued until Enid was twelve years old and, far from being a punishment, she found it an exquisite delight. By the time the uncle left for other places, the sexual connotation of the spankings had become an integral part of her personality.
As soon as Marta had rooted out the basic cause of Enid's problem, she signaled to Temple that she wanted to end the interview. She had two reasons for wanting to do so. Enid needed psychiatric treatment, not marital counseling, but mainly it was because of Temple that Marta wanted to close the session.
All through the questioning Temple had perched on the edge of his seat like a vulture. The brown eyes were glazed with lust, and he didn't see Marta's signal.
All right, doctor, she thought savagely. Aloud she said, "I think that's enough to today, Enid. But I wish you'd try to get Mr. Baker to come in. It would help a lot if I could talk to him."
"I'll ask him, but he was against it from the start." Enid got to her feet. "I just know he'll be sore at me for coming. He has a terrible temper." She plucked at her necklace, smoothed at her hair and tortured the handkerchief.
Marta seized a nervous, sweating hand and led the woman toward the reception room. Before they reached the door, there was a strangled sound from Temple. Marta paused, looking back.
"I haven't dismissed Mrs. Baker yet," the man said harshly. "I'll terminate the interview myself."
Marta guided Enid into the reception room.
"You wait in here a minute, Enid. I want a word with the doctor."
She closed the door and faced Temple. "That girl doesn't need marital advice. She needs psychiatric help. Help that neither of us is qualified to give her."
Temple sneered. "Speak for yourself, Miss Travis. She came to us with a marital problem. I make it a policy never to turn away a client."
Marta stared. "You can't be serious!"
"But I am. Besides...." Temple's grin was lewd. The muscle under his eye jerked. "You heard the woman-all she needs is a good spanking. I think I'm qualified to give her that."
Marta fought back her rising temper. Scathing remarks flooded to the surface of her mind but she was in no position to voice them.
As though reading her thoughts, Temple leaned forward to say tightly, "And I think you should remember something, Miss Travis. You are on probation here, so to speak. You are my associate, but the final decision as regards a client is always mine."
"
Marta whirled away and started for the door. Behind her Temple spoke again. "Send Mrs. Baker in on your way out."
Marta went out, slamming the door after her.
Temple listened to the angry sound of the door closing after Marta with a sense of satisfaction. He felt certain she would work out fine, but it did no harm to let her know at once who was in charge.
He felt the blood pound in his temples as his thoughts swung to Enid Baker. He built a pyramid with his ringers and touched the apex to his lips. He closed his eyes and concentrated his thoughts on the woman. Erotic images spun before his mind's eye like broken strips of film. When he heard the door open, timidly, he was ready.
He opened his eyes and went around the desk. "Perhaps you'd find it easier to talk of your problem, Mrs. Baker, if you were to lie on the couch."
Enid went unresistingly as he led her to the low couch.
"Sometimes it's difficult to talk about our problems," Temple continued. "But, you must remember, I am a minister of God, so anything you say to me will be sacred."
Enid sat on the couch and kicked off her shoes. "Oh, I have no difficulty talking to you, doctor," she said with an upward glance. "But with the lady doctor ... I was too embarrassed for words."
She stretched out on the couch, one knee raised slightly. Her skirt was halfway up her thighs, revealing a healthy expanse of pink flesh above the stocking tops. The soft material of her dress molded against her delightful legs.
It was obvious to Temple that the pose was deliberately provocative. He moistened his bowed lips and let his glance inch slowly over her shapely body. The muscle in his face began to twitch wildly. He pressed a thumb over it.
"Yes. Well...." he said huskily. Then his tone grew brisk. "Before we begin, I'd like you to take a mild sedative."
He went to a cabinet and returned with a small white pill and a tumbler of water. He gave her the pill and the glass.
Enid's pink tongue crept out between her carmine lips and she placed the pill on the tip. With a toss of her head she swallowed the pill. Then she blinked her eyes at Temple. "It won't put me to sleep, will it, doctor?"
"Oh, no. That wouldn't do at all, would it?" He pulled a chair up to the couch. "Now just lie back and relax."
Enid put her head back and closed her eyes. Temple settled down in his chair and waited for the pill to take effect. It was a composite of several extracts made from two highly potent narcotics.
When Enid opened her eyes again, the pupils had dilated almost to the rims of the iris. Her cheeks were flushed and her sensual mouth had turned a deeper crimson.
From personal experience with the drugs, Temple knew her nerve-ends were tingling and highly sensitive.
"Now, Enid, suppose you tell me again about the uncle who used to whip you."
Temple placed his hand on the warm flesh of her upper arm and stroked it gently as she talked. What she told him had no relation to her early life or to her present problem. The pill was doing its work and she began to recite strange fantasies.
As Enid rambled on, Temple's hand moved from her arm to her forehead. He brushed the hair back from her brow and stroked her hair and cheeks. Her hair was coarse; it had the raspy texture of sand to his sensitive fingers. It excited him tremendously.
Boldly he let his hand fall to her breasts. He knew instantly that she wasn't wearing a brassiere. The cloth under his hand tightened, digging into his palm like a dull thorn. Temple rotated his palm and Enid sighed, arcing her torso to him.
Temple's heart began to pound and his breath came in sharp, rasping gasps. He dropped his hand lower. Under his touch her abdomen tautened. She shuddered and her knees fell apart, allowing her skirt to ride up. Her full hips began, almost imperceptibly, the motions of love. She caught his hand and guided it.
"You'd better take off your dress," Temple said hoarsely. "It's getting mussed."
Enid looked up at him out of flat, opaque eyes. Like a flesh-and-blood mannequin, she allowed him to draw her to her feet. His fingers trembled as he found the zipper in the back of her dress and jerked it down. The muscle under his eye jumped madly. In frantic haste he tugged the dress down. It peeled from her lush, pink-and-white body like the skin from a grape. It fell in a puddle at her feet and she stepped out of it, facing about. She wore brief panties like a black mist, a black garter-belt, dark hose and nothing else.
Her delicately rounded body was exquisite in its perfection. Temple's gaze fastened on her hips and he fought down an urge to rip away the panties. Instead he fastened his fingers on her silk-smooth shoulders and pulled her near-nakedness against him. Her body ground against him and a sensation of searing desire exploded in Temple's brain.
He dug his fingers deep into the black mass of hair and bent her head back. He forced her mouth up to his. When she didn't respond, he crushed her to him and drove his mouth like a fist against her provocative mouth. Finally she placed her tiny hands against his chest and pushed herself away.
"Whip me, daddy!" She stood with her eyes clenched shut, her lips curved in a dreaming smile. She swayed from side to side. "Please, please whip me!"
Something burst loose in Temple. Mindless with emotion, he seized her again. Animal noises poured from his throat as he sought her breasts with cannibal eagerness. He bore her down on the couch with all his weight. With a sweep of his hand he ripped the panties from her hips.
"Whip me, damn you! Whip me!"
With a lithe twist Enid flipped over, straddling him, her full buttocks quivering under his gaze.
"All right," he snarled. "If that's what you want, all right!"
The contact of his open hand on her flesh sent a powerful surge of passion raging through him. Her flesh reddened rapidly.
"Harder, daddy, harder!" Enid screamed, arching her body to him.
Temple gritted his teeth and smacked her with all his might. His hands began to smart.
"God, yes! That's it! Oh, I love you, daddy!"
With a sinuous twist she flipped over again.
She sank her ringers to the roots of his hair and pulled his face down. Their mouths met with such force that Temple's hp split against her teeth and he tasted his own blood. With a curse he flung her face down on the couch and tore at his clothes with awkward fingers.
"Nobody wants to whip me," Enid whimpered.
Temple roared, "You're going to be whipped like you've never been whipped before!"
Goaded past all caution, he jerked the leather belt from his trousers and brought it viciously down across her back.
"No!" she screamed with pain. "Not that way. Spank me with your hands!"
She turned and he brought the belt whistling down, instantly raising a livid welt.
Enid rolled off the couch and tried to crawl away from the cutting leather. On her hands and knees she scuttled across the floor. Temple brought the belt down in one last searing cut across the drum-tight skin of her quivering flesh.
Enid screamed piercingly and collapsed face down on the carpet. A thread of blood like a crimson worm across her back.
Temple tore off the rest of his clothes and dropped to his knees beside her. He dug his fingers into the yielding flesh of her breasts and flipped her over on her back. With a bull-like roar he forced her knees with one hand and moved to her. She surrendered with a stuttering cry.
She lay inert, moaning. Temple cupped his hands under her back and manipulated her to meet his passionate desire.
Suddenly she came alive. She looped her arms around him, her sharp nails raking his back.
"That's right, daddy! Make love to me!" she grunted. "Make love to me good!"
Temple made love to her good.
Their bodies grew oil-slick with sweat. His own sweat ran down in Temple's eyes, blinding him. But his sight was already turned inward to the explosion of pure pleasure hurling him onward with express-train speed.
He was gloriously, insanely, excited. And he didn't care about her. But she was there, too. She told him about it with tiny screams, her nails shredding the flesh on his back. She arched a final time. A cry was torn from his throat and he collapsed, his lax weight bearing him down. She thrashed like a dying snake, then was still.
With an effort he rolled away from her. For a moment he lay still, his heart hammering, his lungs laboring for breath. Then he felt the feathery caress of her fingers below his rib cage.
"You're a good daddy. You spanked me," she crooned.
She placed her cheek on his chest and, with a contented sigh, curled against him in sleep.
Temple gazed down into the sleeping-child face with mingled awe and amazement. He'd been sure that he'd finally gone beyond the pale. In the back of his mind through the whole thing had been the sure knowledge that he'd sacrificed his career, his business and perhaps even his freedom in a frenzy of lunatic lust. And here she was contently snuggled against him!
And it would have been a shame, he thought, to lose all he had gained.
It was a long way from his new, swank offices on Wilshire Boulevard back to the grubby, poverty-stricken farm he'd left in Oklahoma at the age of sixteen. He'd listened while an itinerant salesman had sold his mother a Bible she couldn't afford. That had decided him.
So he ran after the salesman and prevailed on the man to let him try his hand at selling Bibles. The job fitted Jonathan Temple's natural talent.
Temple was a handsome youth with an open countenance and a charming smile. Few women could resist his sales pitch. His soft brown hair and glowing brown eyes would melt their hearts and open their slim pocketbooks. And if his sales pitch didn't sway them, there remained his bed pitch. Temple was good in bed and a heated bed session always clinched a sale.
He thoroughly enjoyed his work.
For ten years he milked the Bible belt. He not only sold the Bible, he read it as well. On lonely nights in grimy mining towns of West Virginia, through the cotton fields of Alabama and Georgia and across the country into Texas, he read and reread the Bible. He read it until he could quote it chapter and verse. Then he took a six weeks' course in Divine Theology and received a Doctor's degree. He moved to Los Angeles, rented an old mansion in the Westwood area and started his own temple.
In time he wheedled invitations from several ministers to be guest speaker in their pulpits. The theme of Temple's sermons was love, human and Divine, and often it was difficult for his listeners to distinguish between the two, as Temple expanded his themes.
His temple never acquired a large congregation, but he was impressed by the number of women who brought their marital problems to their ministers. He gave up his church and received, for a price, a Doctor's degree in Human Engineering from a local diploma mill. And that was the beginning of his Marital Counseling Service.
Now, struck again by the near jeopardy he had placed himself in by consorting with a client, Temple shuddered. The thought was a bleak wind blowing through his brain.
And Enid could still make trouble for him. He looked down into her sleeping face. He bent his head and kissed her awake. 'We'd better get dressed, baby," he said softly.
"Oh, you're going to be a good daddy!" she said without opening her eyes. She pulled his face down. "But you must promise not to be a naughty daddy again and beat me with a strap. I don't like it. I just want you to spank me!"
Temple sighed to himself. It was going to be all right. He said warmly, "I promise, baby. But we'd better get dressed."
He stood up and helped her to her feet. Her gorgeous breasts bore the bruises from his fingers and her back was striped with purplish welts, but she was still a desirable woman.
She stood on tiptoe and flattened her melon-sized breasts against his chest. "I love you, daddy." Her hips moved suggestively.
Temple felt the stirring in his flesh and he was tempted to try for seconds. Instead he said, "We have to be careful, baby. There'll be another time." He gathered her clothes together and helped her into the garter-belt and panties. Then he collected his own clothes and went into his shower-room to dress.
As he dressed, Temple chuckled to himself over his narrow escape. Not only had he escaped, but he'd brought Enid Baker completely under his domination. She'd never be able to resist him now.
When he returned to the office, Enid was fully dressed, sitting demurely before his desk. He studied her eyes carefully. The effects of the narcotics had about worn off, although the pupils were still abnormally large.
Enid had also freshened her make-up and combed her hair back into its stylish coiffure. She looked as chic as when she had entered the office. "My husband is going to be real sore at me for coming to you," she said.
"Perhaps it would be better if you didn't tell him about it," Temple said quickly. Uncomfortable visions of a jealous husband storming his office unreeled before his mind's eye.
"But I left him a note, telling him I was com-mg.
Temple felt a tug of alarm. "Do you think he'll be coming?"
Enid checked the tiny watch on her wrist. "He's not even home yet." She got to her feet. She smiled coyly. "When do you want me to come back, daddy?"
The endearing term suddenly grated on Temple's ears. At that moment all he wanted was to get her out of the office. If her husband came looking for her, he didn't want the man to find her here. He took her arm and ushered her through the reception room.
"Suppose you call me and we'll set up another appointment." He opened the door and waited impatiently for her to go.
Enid ran her hand inside his coat and squeezed the soft flesh under his arm. "All right, daddy. I'll call you tomorrow."
Relief flooded through Temple as he closed the door after her and leaned his back against it.
That was that, he thought.
And yet his nerve-ends still ached from the pleasure he'd had with her. And far back in his mind was the thought of how easy that had been and how much easier it would be the next time. This was the perfect set-up for a lover.
He smiled wryly to himself.
He entered the office and sat down at the desk. He read over the few notes he'd taken during the interview with Enid. He would have to start a file on her.
Thirty minutes later the buzzer sounded in the reception room. Temple glanced up as the office door opened and a slender, dark-haired, swarthy man entered. He paused uncertainly in the doorway, his gaze raking the room. Then his glance settled on Temple and his dark features twisted into a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"I'm Paul Baker. Is my wife here?" His voice was cold and his thin lips barely moved as he spoke.
Temple hid a sudden lurch of fear behind his best professional smile. "Mr. Baker, how nice of you to drop in!" he said heartily. "I'm afraid you've just missed your wife. Perhaps it's just as well. We can have a private talk."
The dark man glided silently to the desk. He shook a long, nicotine-stained finger in Temple's face. "I don't want my wife coming to you," he snarled. "We'll handle our own problems."
Baker hammered on the desk and Temple half-started to his feet.
Baker bared his teeth in a snarl. "This is the only time I'm telling you. The next time, damn you, I'll tear you apart!"
The man whirled about and was gone, silent and deadly as a stalking animal.
Temple sank back into his chair. His heart raced and fear rose like vomit in his throat. The tic under his eye started up and he placed a thumb over it.
CHAPTER TWO
Selma Desmond entered Marta's office without knocking and approached the desk. She wore a white silk dress that deepened her rosy complection and brought out the yellow flecks in her green eyes. The silver bracelets on her arms jingled as she leaned across the desk.
Marta looked up into the mischievous eyes. "Yes?"
"There's a Mr. and Mrs. Logart waiting in the reception room." Selma leaned farther over. "Jonathan is busy again with Enid Baker and I thought you'd...."
"Did Mr. Baker come with her?" Marta asked, pulling her glance away from the swelling mounds revealed by the deep V-neckline of Selma's dress.
"No, she came alone. Like always."
Marta glanced at the connecting door to Temple's office and shook her head. "I wish I could talk to her husband. That girl needs help we can't give her."
Selma grinned. "Jonathan is giving her ... something."
"Selma!"
"Aw, come on! Surely you know what's going on between those two?"
Marta was silent. She knew. Or at least she strongly suspected. But she felt it would be disloyal to Jonathan to discuss it with Selma.
Selma was speaking. " ... want to talk to her husband, why not let me call him and set up an appointment?"
Marta thought for a moment. She knew Temple would be furious if he found out she had interfered.
"Perhaps it would be a good idea," she said thoughtfully. "But I'd just as soon Jonathan did not know about it."
Selma closed one eye in a wink and said, "Just leave it to me." She started to turn away. "And the Logart couple?"
"Do they have an appointment with Jonathan?"
"No."
"Good, then show them in."
Selma strode to the door. She had a supple, flowing stride.
She exudes an aura of lust like a perfume, Marta thought; she's a walking invitation to be taken to bed.
Marta pulled her thoughts up short and sat up straighter. She was well into her second week with the Temple Marital Counseling Service but she still experienced a certain nervousness when meeting new clients for the first time.
Selma opened the door and said crisply, "Mr. and Mrs. Logart, will you come in, please?"
The pair Selma ushered in were both blond, both tall. Even so, the man loomed well above the woman.
As was her habit, Marta studied the woman first.
She was dressed in a formless brown suit that hung from her figure in straight fines. She wore low heels and thick stockings. Her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon and her features were devoid of make-up.
He was an outdoors man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was deeply tanned, his hair sun-bleached. He wore gray slacks and a chamois sports jacket with leather-patched elbows. In one hand he carried a broad-brimmed engineer's hat.
"Won't you sit down, please?" Marta gestured to the two chairs before her desk.
Mrs. Logart stalked to a chair and slumped into it. Her husband followed her slowly and perched on the edge of the chair.
"Were you referred to us, Mr. Logart?" Marta addressed herself to him rather than his wife because the woman was openly hostile.
"Our minister suggested we talk to Dr. Temple," the man said.
"I'm Dr. Temple's associate. But I'm sure he'll be free shortly, if you'd rather talk to him."
Logart gazed into Marta's eyes without speaking. His eyes were a bright blue. Finally he said, "Are you a doctor?"
"No," Marta said, unflinching under his probing gaze. "I'm a psychologist."
The answer seemed to satisfy Logart but his wife raised her head and fixed Marta with a flat stare. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Our only problem is that Stephan wants to make me into something I'm not."
"Please, Elizabeth." He laid a restraining hand on her arm. "We've come this far, now please let me handle it." He looked again at Marta. "It may be even better to discuss it with a woman." He combed his fingers through his clipped, blond hair in a distracted manner.
"I'm not sure just how to tell it," he began. His wife interrupted him.
"It's simple enough," she said harshly. "He's trying to turn me into a damned clothes horse!"
"It's not that simple and you know it," Stephan snapped. He got to his feet abruptly. "I'm not trying to make a fashion model out of you. I just want you to take some pride in your appearance!"
"Please!" Marta said sharply. "If we let this discussion degenerate into a family squabble, we'll solve nothing. Perhaps it would be better if I talked to each of you alone."
Once again Marta felt the impact of his gaze. Then he nodded. "That might be a good idea. I'll wait in the outer office." He spun on his heel and left the room.
His wife watched him go with active loathing in her eyes.
Why does she stay with him, if she hates him so much? Marta wondered.
"How long have you been married, Mrs. Logart?"
"Please call me Elizabeth."
"All right, Elizabeth," Marta said calmly. "How long have you been married?"
Elizabeth's features relaxed in a smile. Her china-blue eyes began to glow and her face grew animated.
Why, she's attractive, Marta thought in astonishment; I can see her husband's point. Put some decent clothes on her, fix her hair and face, and she'd be a good-looking woman.
Elizabeth was speaking. " ... three years, though it seems much longer. I was just out of college. I met Stephan in the engineering department of the firm where I went to work after college."
"Engineering department? Are you an engineer?"
"No, I'm an architect. At least I was until I got married. Now I'm nothing!" The scowl darkened her face again and the full lips drew down at the corners.
"Just when did your unhappiness start?"
The woman sneered. She said coarsely, "When I thought I was pregnant and married Stephan."
Is she deliberately trying to shock me? Marta wondered. Whatever she was before her marriage, she had turned into a femme de glace, a woman of ice, whose clear intent it was to spend the rest of her fife punishing her husband.
Marta leaned back and considered the woman across the desk. This was no simple marital problem that could be solved with a few soothing words and cliche-studded advice. More than ever Marta was made to feel her own shortcomings. To cope with a problem such as this demanded psychiatric training.
"If he thinks he's going to dress me up in frills and furbelows, just so he can tear my clothes off and rape me, he's sadly mistaken."
Marta sat up. "Does he rape you?"
"That's the only way he can have me," Elizabeth said in her coarse tone. "And he hasn't tried that in over a year. The last time he tried, I gave him a knee where it'd do the most good."
Marta managed to conceal her distaste. She said steadily, "Do you think it possible to effect a more compatible situation with your husband?"
"I like things just the way they are," Elizabeth said smugly.
"But you can't build a marriage on-"
A tap on the door interrupted Marta. It opened and Stephan Logart entered. He scrubbed at his chin with his knuckles. "I'm sorry to break in like this but I have to get back to work. I didn't think it would take so long."
Elizabeth jumped to her feet, snarling. "It'll take a lot longer than this to change me into a clothes mannequin."
Stephan ignored her and spoke directly to Marta. "I'm right in the middle of an important job and I can't take the time during working hours-"
"Your marriage is important, too, Mr. Logart. Would an evening appointment be more convenient for you?"
While Marta was speaking, Elizabeth had started toward the door. "If he thinks it'll help get me into bed, he'll make it convenient," she said, still speaking in the coarse manner.
Stephan whirled around, a tide of color moving up his face. "For God's sake, Elizabeth! Do you have to...?"
But his wife was gone, passing out of sight into the reception room. Slowly Stephan faced around, his embarrassment plain on his face. "I apologize for my wife, doctor. And thanks for trying to help."
Marta felt a curious empathy for the man. To be tied to a witch like that....
To cover her confusion, she got up and came around the desk toward him. With a smile she said, "I'm not a doctor, remember? And I only hope I can be of help, Mr. Logart."
She held out her hand, and it was instantly swallowed up by his huge, callused paw. The contact of their hands sent a tingle up her arm. This man exuded animal magnetism and masculine virility in intoxicating waves like electric shocks.
"Again, thanks for trying," he said with a final press of his fingers. "I'll call you if we decide on another appointment." He turned without another word and left the office.
"Heavens!" Marta said aloud. "Imagine not wanting to make love to that!"
Unconsciously her hands went to her breasts. She felt the flesh respond to her palms.
"What was that, doctor?" Selma said from the doorway.
Marta started. "What? Oh, I must have been thinking out loud." She scooted around behind her desk.
"I reached Paul Baker," Selma said. "He says he'll drop by to see you soon."
She came on into the office, the green eyes bright with amusement. She leaned on the desk and glanced briefly at the notes Marta had taken during the interview.
"How did it go with the Logart dame? Did she make a pass at you?"
"Make a pass? What do you mean?"
"Aw, come on, doctor! You can't be that innocent! No, wait...." She peered at Marta narrowly. "By God, you are! It's a good thing I was all prepared to rush to the rescue!"
Selma threw back her head and laughed. Her laughter was lusty and unrestrained. Everything about her moved as she laughed. But most of all her magnificent breasts. They bounced up and down and swayed from side to side.
With an effort Marta wrenched her gaze away to say primly, "I'm sure you must be mistaken, Selma. Mrs. Logart is a very frigid woman. The very idea of sex is repulsive to her."
Selma leered. "There's more than one kind of sex, you know. Or do you?" She sobered, her gaze intent.
Marta felt her face burn. She said stiffly, "I'm ready to start a file on the Logarts. Shall we begin?"
But they continued to discuss Elizabeth Logart while Marta dictated from her notes. It was late afternoon by the time they finished the beginnings of the Logart case history.
Finally Marta leaned back with a tired sigh. "Is Jonathan still in his office?"
"I'll check." Selma got to her feet and, taking her notebook, went out to the outer office.
Marta locked away her notes and tidied her desk for the night.
Selma returned. "Yes, he's still in there. And Enid Baker is with him." She grinned lewdly. "Now just what do you suppose they're doing all this time?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Selma," Marta said sharply.
She liked Selma very much but she sometimes thought the girl showed a disrespect unbecoming a receptionist. She got to her feet abruptly and went into her powder room.
Selma leaned in the doorway while Marta repaired her make-up. Covertly Marta watched the woman in the mirror. Selma's gaze moved boldly over Marta's figure, following its slender lines to the ankles and back up to the blonde hair. Selma's pink tongue came out and traced the outline of her red lips. A tiny core of sexual excitement formed deep in Marta's being. She found her own eyes exploring the voluptuous body reflected in the mirror. She envied Selma her fabulous breasts, thrusting like two huge melons, at the thin fabric of the white dress.
Finally she tore her eyes away. She said crisply, "Will you tell Jonathan I'm leaving?"
"I already did. He said I could leave, too. If you don't have any plans, let's have dinner together."
"I'd like that," Marta said after a slight hesitation.
"Good! Then we'll go to my place," Selma said happily.
Selma's place was a rented bungalow in Hollywood. The little house clung to the side of a hill, well away from its neighbors. It was an ideal setting for Selma, with its pink and rose decor. There was a profusion of satin pillows and downy, silken cushions. The tiny living room was carpeted in pale, old rose; the deep divan and low chairs were of pink damask. A large picture window took up one whole wall and looked out across a valley twinkling with lights like strewn jewels.
"Charcoal-broiled steaks and baked potatoes," Selma said. "How does that sound?"
"It sounds heavenly," Marta replied, "but don't go to any trouble."
"Oh, it's no trouble, doctor. I love to cook for my friends."
Marta stifled an impulse to remind Selma that the title of doctor didn't belong to her. Not yet. But she had learned enough of Selma's impish humor to realize she would only make it worse if she complained.
Selma led the way to a small rosewood bar at the entranceway between the living room and the kitchen. Quickly, deftly, she mixed a pitcher of martinis. She filled two stem glasses and gave one to Marta.
Selma took a pull from hers and said, "Finish your drink, sweetie, while I slip into something more comfortable."
While Selma was gone, Marta let her glance rove curiously around the bungalow. It was extremely, extravagantly feminine. She caught a faint scent of roses, a scent similar to Selma's perfume. Marta traced it to the wood of the bar.
On the center of the opposite wall hung a Degas painting, depicting a group of ballet dancers. Marta finished her drink and started across the old rose carpeting. Halfway across she slowed and kicked off her shoes, then dug her toes into the deep, soft fabric.
"It feels even better with your stockings off," Selma said behind her.
Marta glanced around. She gasped.
The titian-haired girl had changed into white silk lounging pajamas. The thin silk hugged her generous breasts and Marta could see the nipples, the color of crushed rose petals, through the transparent material. In fact, she could see in detail just about everything there was to see.
Selma's dainty feet were bare, the nails a blood-red. Without volition Marta's gaze moved up the woman's figure, drinking in the lush curves. Then she met Selma's amused glance and she felt her face burn.
"Wouldn't you like to change into something more comfortable?" Selma asked.
Without waiting for a reply she went to the bar, picked up the pitcher of martinis and came back. She struck a provocative pose before Marta, feet planted wide apart, a stemmed glass in one hand, the dew-covered pitcher in the other. The shining hair hung to her shoulders; the green eyes glowed like a cat's.
Marta's glance dropped away. Selma laughed throatily and gestured.
"Come along, sweetie, and talk to me while I broil the steak."
She led the way into a gleaming kitchen of white. Even the charcoal broiler was encased in white, glistening porcelain.
Within a short time Selma had the fire going. She buried two foil-wrapped potatoes along the side of the glowing coals. Then she placed a thick steak on the grill.
Marta sat in the tiny dining nook, watching the deft, graceful movements of her hostess. Constantly her eyes were pulled back to the generous breasts with their dark tips rising and falling with Selma's motions.
Selma finally said in satisfaction, "There!" She joined Marta in the nook. "Now all we have to do is wait. Here, let me refill your glass...."
"These are pretty strong," Marta protested. "I don't-"
"Nonsense," Selma said briskly. "Besides, there's only a little left. We might as well finish it." She filled Marta's glass and her own.
Selma took a pull at her drink and said without preamble, "Well, if the Logart woman hasn't slept with her husband for over a year, what do you suppose she does for fun and games?"
Marta felt a tug of annoyance at Selma's reverting to their earlier conversation. She said shortly, "Maybe she does without sex. From what she told me, Mrs. Logart is revolted by it."
"Don't you believe it," Selma scoffed.
"It's possible, Selma. She's a very frigid woman."
"Frigid is as frigid does," Selma said drolly. "She may be an icicle in bed with hubby but I'll just bet she's a ball of fire with another girl."
"Selma! I refuse to believe that. I think Elizabeth Logart would repulse any advances made by another woman."
The redhead snorted. "No woman would repulse such an advance if it were made at the right time and the right place."
"Oh, that's ridiculous!"
Selma tilted her head to one side. "Haven't you ever kissed a girl?"
"Of course. I went through that stage when I was in my freshman year in high school, but-"
"Didn't you like it?"
Marta stared. She felt uncomfortable. She did not like the way the conversation was going. She said curtly, "I don't remember liking or disliking it."
Selma's smile was enigmatic. She looked directly into Marta's eyes. Marta was the first to look away. The palms of her hands began to sweat. The room suddenly seemed very warm.
With a gesture Selma got up and set the table. She took the steak out, divided it equally, putting half on each plate. She split the potatoes carefully lengthwise and spread a little sour cream and chives on the steaming, white insides. She carried the plates to the table and they began to eat.
"Oh, this is heavenly," Marta said after her first bite. "If you treat me like this, I'll be a frequent visitor."
Selma's face lit with a gamin grin. "Maybe that's what I had in mind all the time."
When they finished, Selma insisted they leave the dishes for morning. They returned to the living room. Selma went to the bar and came back with an odd-shaped, square bottle.
"I've been saving this, but I can't think of anyone I'd rather share it with."
"What is it?"
"Eau-de-vie, the water of life. A twenty-five year old brandy." She set out two large snifters and poured generous portions in each.
Marta, still feeling the martinis, exclaimed, "Damn! I'll be drunk if I drink anything else!"
"One doesn't get drunk on twenty-five year old brandy, my deah," Selma said satirically. She picked up the square bottle and did a pirouette to a silken hassock before the divan. Her hair swirled in a brilliant cascade around her piquant face, and the white silk of the pajamas clung like wet tissue paper to her exciting curves. "One gets gloriously intoxicated." With a flourish she sank to a graceful posture on the hassock.
Marta had watched Selma's whirling dance quizzically. "You're a strange creature, Selma," she said, bemused. She crossed to the couch and settled back among the downy cushions.
"But not as strange as Elizabeth Logart." Selma set the bottle of brandy on the floor between them and took a long pull from her snifter.
Nettled, Marta said, "I think you're wrong about Elizabeth. And I don't see why we have to talk about her." Then she took a sip from her glass and her annoyance vanished. "My this is good!" Almost immediately she could feel the warmth of the brandy spreading out through her being.
Selma was unruffled. "You think I am wrong about a lot of things. And I say any woman would respond to another if it was done in the right way." She stood up abruptly. "Even you, doctor."
A spark of alarm tugged at the edges of Marta's mind as she looked up at the girl before her. The cat's eyes were glowing, compelling, almost hypnotic. Suddenly she sensed what was about to happen. Her heart thudded and she felt the familiar moisture gather in her clenched fists.
Marta sat transfixed as the rosebud mouth of the titian-haired girl came slowly closer. Attar of roses assailed Marta's nostrils, escaping like scented steam from the deep valley between Selma's breasts.
The lips parted, revealing small white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. With a sigh Marta put her head back and closed her eyes. The mouth, delightfully warm and soft, descended. Then the pink lips crushed Marta's mouth like a brand of sensation. With a smothered gasp she buried her fingers in the red hair and crushed the woman closer.
Their tongues met, playing a delightful game of excitation. Marta's body threshed, and she clutched Selma closer still in a rush of aching need.
After a moment the redhead gently disengaged herself. "Not here, sweetie," she whispered, drawing Marta to her feet.
Marta covered her flaming face with her hands. "Heavens! What am I doing?"
Selma drew her hands down from her face. She said, "Are you ashamed, sweetie? Or afraid?"
"Neither, I don't think. I'm not sure," Marta said slowly. "Maybe a little afraid."
"No need to be. I'll show you all you need to know."
Marta looked deep into the emerald eyes. Suddenly all her fears and inhibitions fled. She had an uncontrollable urge to hold Selma's warm, throbbing body in her arms and to know again the honeyed mouth.
As though reading her thoughts, Selma opened wide her arms.
Marta took a step forward and caught the lush body in her arms. Eagerly she sought the other's lips. They swayed together like two long-stemmed roses. Under the tissue-thin garment Marta could feel Selma's body move. The whispery feel of silk under her fingers drove her wild.
Selma pulled free. She seized Marta's hand and started to lead her toward the bedroom. "Oh, wait!" She ran back and picked up the square bottle of brandy from the floor. "Bring the glasses, sweetie."
Marta picked up the snifters and followed in the wake of Selma's heady perfume.
The walls of the bedroom were covered with drapes of blushing pink. Thick, white carpeting covered the floor. Indirect lighting gave the room a warm, intimate glow.
A giant bed, covered with a satin coverlet the color of old rose, took up one whole side of the room. A large vanity with a profusion of cruses and bottles stood next to a three-way, pink-tinted mirror along the opposite wall. A wide chaise lounge, a low round table before it, was against another wall.
Selma placed the bottle on the low table and faced about. The green eyes glinted with mischief. Her bare toes curled in the deep carpet.
Marta approached slowly. She couldn't keep her eyes from the firm, full breasts thrusting at the white silk. Her heart pounded and her blood raced. She felt weak and light-headed.
She held out the large snifters while Selma splashed generous portions into each.
Then she raised her glass and gazed deep into Marta's eyes. "To you, sweetie."
Marta clicked her glass against Selma's. "No, to us."
"You're right, sweetie. To us," Selma said solemnly. "Like they say, two is better than one."
Marta stiffened. She felt a flare of resentment.
"I'm sorry," Selma said swiftly. "I've got a nasty tongue. I was told once that I must've found it in a pickle barrel."
She set her glass down and held out her arms. "Come here."
Marta went to her at once and pressed the agonizing ache of her flesh against a smooth, silken-clad hip. "I don't know how...."
"Relax, sweetie. There's nothing to it. You'll see. First, you stand perfectly still while I undress you."
She slipped the jacket from Marta's shoulders and let it fall. With tantalizing slowness she opened the buttons of the blouse next and let it drop to the floor. She brushed her lips across Marta's shoulder.
"Hurry! Please hurry!" Marta gasped. She dug her fingers into the redhead's full hips.
But Selma was not to be hurried. With deliberation she unzipped the skirt and pushed it gently down. Then she seized the hem of the slip and peeled it off. And Marta stood in white nylon panties, bra and garter-belt.
When Selma knelt to strip the stockings down her legs, Marta felt the twin jets of the woman's breath on her. She flinched away.
Selma stood up and unfastened the bra. Marta's breasts popped free. Selma put her face in the valley between them and cupped them in her hands, pressing their fullness to her cheeks.
"God!" Marta said huskily. Her breasts ached with a sweet agony.
Selma dropped to her knees and removed the nylon panties. Then she unsnapped the garter-belt and Marta was without a stitch.
"I won my bet," Selma said with a chuckle.
"What bet?"
"I bet myself you were this beautiful."
Again Selma rose to her feet and, with almost a single movement, removed her pajamas. Her feet planted wide apart, she posed, proudly nude, for Marta's inspection.
Marta's gaze brushed slowly over the firm, full breasts with their tumescent, cherry tips, over the slightly rounded middle with the navel like an inward-turning flower, over the full legs and on down the slender calves and delicate feet.
With a moan Marta swayed forward and was clasped in Selma's arms. They fused together gently, tenderly. There was none of the hard muscularity of a male embrace. Marta cupped a magnificent breast in her hands reverently and guided it to her mouth. In the tight embrace they sank slowly to the soft carpet.
Marta sprawled on her back staring up into the green eyes, bright with hunger.
"Here's where we separate the women from the girls," Selma said with a chuckle.
Her face disappeared. And Marta felt the woman's mouth on her breast. Purring sounds came from Selma's throat as her hands fluttered like moths over Marta's body, teasing her to an anguished pitch of passion.
Waves of searing heat scorched Marta's flesh, causing her to jerk and roll in agitated desire. Selma's hair trailed across her breasts like live wires emitting tiny shocks of ecstasy.
"Selma, please! I don't know what to do!"
"Lie still. It'll come to you." Selma's muffled whisper drifted up to her. Her moving mouth was a moist line of fire down her body.
"I can't lie still!"
The redhead bobbed just on the edge of Marta's vision. She sank her fingers into the foam of hair and forced Selma's face even closer.
"Do something! Please-do something!"
And Selma did. Marta screamed as Selma's touch found its target. Her limbs expanded and contracted.
And, as Selma had promised, the release arrived, gloriously, explosively, wondrously.
A torrent of passion like molten lava caught Marta up and tossed her to a dizzying peak of ecstasy. The room faded from her vision and her whole being strained for an even greater height. Explosions jolted her like electric shocks and the world receded from her consciousness as her body melted in a red-hot burst of flesh and drained to star-streaked blackness.
Selma's voice came to her from a great distance. "Are you all right?"
Marta opened her eyes. She couldn't speak.
Selma heaved a sigh of relief. "You scared me, sweetie."
Marta reached up with trembling fingers and brushed the damp hair away from Selma's eyes.
"Did you like that, sweetie?" Selma asked. "Was I good for you? Like they say in the books, did the earth move?"
Marta pulled the hovering face down and kissed the woman full on the lips.
"That was marvelous," she murmured. "The most exquisite pleasure I've ever known."
"I'm glad, sweetie," Selma said simply.
"But you ... You didn't...."
"Never mind about me." She stood up and drew Marta to her feet. "Let's rest a little."
She led Marta to the giant bed and threw back the satin coverlet. The bed gave off a faint scent of roses.
They stretched out side by side, their naked bodies barely touching. For a few moments they rested without speaking.
Gradually Marta's breathing quieted; her thudding heart resumed its normal beat. She raised herself on one elbow and looked down on the full breasts. The flesh was hard and erect. Her mouth descended. Within seconds Selma's breathing grew agitated.
After a little Marta raised her head to catch her breath. She met Selma's glittering gaze.
"All right, sweetie," the woman said gutturally. "Now it's my turn!"
Without hesitation Marta lowered her head. Slowly her lips worked their way. With her questing kiss she explored the navel. But all the while she moved toward the Elysium awaiting her. Marta cupped the yielding buttocks in her hands and found what she sought.
Selma tensed. A strident cry came from her. "That's right, sweetie! God, that's right!"
And then, without Marta knowing quite how it came about, their positions were reversed. She knew Selma's touch and the sweet agony began again, causing her to strive even harder to please Selma who was so good to her.
Oh, so good!
Dimly she recalled what Selma had told her. It wasn't hard to learn. Not really. And from the muffled sounds coming from Selma it was plain to Marta that she had learned her lesson well.
Together they rocketed into a world of pure sensation. Their bodies shook and shuddered. They clung together desperately as they spun toward mutual release.
When it was over, Marta righted herself on the bed and looked down at Selma. The redhead's eyes were closed. Her breasts were relaxed now, the nipples like crushed berries. Her lax body was covered with a film of sweat.
"We were good together, weren't we, sweetie?" she murmured.
Without opening her eyes she curled up against Marta, her mouth closing loosely. In that position she went to sleep.
Marta lay for a long time without moving, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Her physical release had been complete, but her emotions were still stretched taut as piano wires.
It was gratifying in its way, she thought.
But if she found the emotional release so necessary for complete union with Selma, she would have to conclude she was a Lesbian.
Yet the release had been no more nor less than she had found with male companions. Was she ever to find a mate, of either sex, who would take her that extra step to final fulfillment?
She felt suddenly disconsolate. Tears flooded her eyes and she bit down hard on her Up in an attempt to hold them back.
In that moment Selma stirred and sat up. She stretched contentedly, smiling, then glanced around at Marta.
"Not tears! Sweetie, you're not sorry?" she said in dismay.
Marta dashed the tears from her eyes. "No, not exactly. I don't know...."
"I didn't please you! I didn't-"
"Of course you did, Selma," Marta said crossly.
She sat up. Catching sight of the brandy bottle, she slipped off the bed and went to it. She poured a goodly amount in the snifter. Before she could drink, she heard the whisper of Selma's feet behind her.
"Sweetie, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Selma!" she snapped. She tossed her head back and drank, welcoming the fiery bite of the brandy. "I'm going to get dressed."
Without looking at the redhead she scooped up her clothes and carried them along with the snifter into the living room. She dressed quickly and was seated on the couch when Selma came in. She had on the white pajamas and carried the square bottle.
Marta averted her eyes from the woman's figure so lushly revealed by the clinging garment.
Selma poured into both snifters and curled up on the other end of the couch with hers. "It's never as good as you expect it to be," she said mournfully.
Marta was silent. What could she say? That it was sinful, unnatural, an exercise in wickedness? That it had been tremendously exciting but now she felt like a hardened Lesbian?
She was sure that Selma wanted to hear none of those things, for she felt none of them. Marta strongly sensed that Selma was an amoral animal who enjoyed without guilt whatever gave her pleasure.
Yet Selma's next words seemed to give the lie to her diagnosis. "No, it's never as good as we expect. It hasn't been for me since I was ten."
"Ten! Good God!" Marta exclaimed. "Do you mean you made love at...?"
"I can't even remember what she looked like," Selma said wistfully. Her eyes had a distant look. "Her name was Teresa. Mother hired her to babysit with me, but she couldn't have been more than fourteen herself. But she taught me how to make love. And I loved it."
"But didn't your parents...?"
Selma's laughter was cynical. "I never knew my father. And my mother was too busy having a ball herself. Sometimes Teresa and I would crouch outside her bedroom door and listen to what went on inside. Then we'd crawl into bed and Teresa would do her best to show me what the man was doing to mother."
Marta was both shocked and moved. "Wasn't there anyone you could talk to? No one you could go to?"
"No. Teresa swore me to secrecy. Besides, I enjoyed it. Why should I run tattling Then, when I was thirteen, one of mother's drunken lovers snuck into my room and introduced me to the bare facts of male love. And I do mean bare!"
"What a terrible thing to happen!"
"Oh, it wasn't so bad. I didn't like it right then. But it wasn't long before I was coaxing mother's lovers into bed with me. In fact, we had some stiff competition going on between us." Selma chuckled. "Until she'd had enough and booted me out."
Selma laughed aloud, her old lusty, carefree laughter. Her brief mood of despondency was gone. She gestured carelessly. "And that's enough confession for one session, doctor. You'd think I was on an analyst's couch."
She tipped the snifter up and drained it. She put it on the floor and sprawled back on the couch, a loose smile on her lips. She held out her arms. "Come here, sweetie."
Her parted lips were red and moist from the brandy. Her body seen through the pajamas sent forth a heated invitation.
Marta found herself leaning toward the woman. Then her mind cleared and she shook her head sharply. She got up abruptly. "No, not again. Not tonight."
She started away.
Behind her Selma said throatily, "Don't go, sweetie. Stay a while. You've only had the first lesson."
Marta went out without looking back. She was convinced that, if she looked around, she would turn, not to stone but to quivering flesh forever receptive to Lesbian love.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning Marta went to the office with some misgivings. She didn't know what to expect from Selma after last night. But her fears were groundless. Selma was crisp and fresh in a powder-blue sheath that hugged her figure like a glove.
She glanced up from her desk, the green eyes guileless. She greeted Marta cheerfully, "Good morning, doctor!"
Marta hid her relief behind a smile. "Well, you sound bright and cheerful this morning."
"I feel like the meringue on a lemon pie," Selma said with a solemn face.
Marta's glance slid away. "Is Jonathan here yet?"
"He was here when I came. He asked for the transcript of the notes on the Logart interview."
Marta said testily, "I'd like to see it first. After all, it is my case."
"It's almost finished. I'll bring it in to you and and you can give it to him." Selma turned back to her typewriter.
With a nod, Marta went on into her office. She was hanging up her jacket in the powder room when she heard Temple's voice. She returned to the office. He was standing beside her desk.
He scowled at her. "I looked all over for the notes on the interview you had yesterday."
"I don't make a habit of leaving my notes around for just anyone to read," Marta said with heat. "I think we should give our clients as much privacy as possible."
"Oh, I agree," Temple said hastily. "I only meant that I'd like to have the case histories as soon as possible after the interview."
Noting the conciliatory tone of his voice, Marta said more calmly, "Selma is still typing the case history. I'll bring it in to you myself when she finishes."
"That's fine. And beginning this morning, I'd like to make it a practice of having our conferences in the morning. I think it will work better that way." He started toward the connecting door to his office.
"Did you talk to Enid Baker again yesterday?" Marta asked.
Temple paused without turning. Marta saw his shoulders stiffen. "As a matter-of-fact, I did." His voice sounded strained. "I've decided we won't be able to do much for her."
"Maybe we can talk about her case after I've seen her history."
"Well, I'm afraid I didn't take many notes. It seemed such a waste of time." He started again toward the door. "But I suppose we could talk about it."
The door closed quickly behind him.
Now what do you suppose is bugging him? Marta thought.
Then she laughed softly at herself. It was plain what was bugging him. Whatever went on between Temple and Enid Baker behind closed doors wasn't something Temple would care to take notes about. Even if he had the time!
Selma broke into Marta's revery as she came in with the transcript of the Logart case. "Jonathan just informed me he wants to hold a conference on this case."
"I know, he told me," Marta said curtly.
She sat at her desk and scanned the notes. Selma went out, to return almost at once, carrying a pencil and her shorthand book. "Jonathan just buzzed me. He's ready now."
With a nod Marta got up. She followed Selma into Temple's office. They took chairs before his desk. Marta smiled to herself as she watched the man's gaze jump from one pair of knees to the other. Sober-faced, Selma crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up. She didn't bother to pull it down.
The muscle under Temple's eye started to twitch. Hastily he looked down at the papers on his desk. "What seems to be the basic problem with the Logarts?"
Selma's pencil carved curlicues of shorthand on the book balanced on her knees.
"I couldn't draw any conclusions from just one interview," Marta said. "I haven't even really talked to Mr. Logart."
"Well, you must have some ideas," Temple persisted. "Why did they come to us in the first place?"
"Mrs. Logart came because her husband insisted on it. She doesn't expect, or even want, to be helped. She told me, as I mention in her case history, that she's quite satisfied with things the way they are."
Temple thumbed through the pages before him. "You say here she's punishing her husband and is envious of him. How is she punishing him?"
"She refuses to allow him to make love to her. And in my opinion she affects a dowdy appearance just to irritate him."
Temple glanced up, scowling. "Then why did he marry her?"
"The question should be the other way around. Why did she marry him?"
"Well, why did she?" he snapped.
"She thought she was pregnant," Marta said calmly. "She wasn't, but she didn't find out until she'd married him and quit her job. In my opinion she blames her husband for forcing her to leave her profession. And she envies him his success as an engineer."
Temple grunted. "Envy! You talk like a head shrinker. We're here to give people marital advice, not analyze them."
Marta's head snapped back, but she held a tight rein on her temper. After a little she said tightly, "Sometimes, the two go together. In both Elizabeth Logart and Enid Baker, I think psychiatric help is indicated."
Temple glared. "I'm not about to turn my practice over to a psychiatrist!"
"That wasn't my idea at all!" Marta said angrily. "But it wouldn't hurt to have a consulting psychiatrist sit in on some of these conferences. Especially when we're discussing somebody like Elizabeth Logart."
"And have him gobble up my fees?" Temple snarled. The muscle began to jump again, and he put his thumb over it.
Marta dropped her gaze to hide her contempt. Jonathan Temple was a fraud, a charlatan, as she had sensed from the beginning. She should get up and walk out right now.
But what about people like Elizabeth Logart and Enid Baker, and God knew how many others? They couldn't expect competent help, or advice, from Temple. And Marta knew she was too young and inexperienced to get a position comparable to this one anywhere else. Perhaps she could do some good behind his back. If she could help someone, anyone, now and then, it would be worthwhile.
Finally she said evenly, "A consultant psychiatrist might bring in more money than he took out. And the prestige he would add could be invaluable."
His eyes brightened. He built the steeple with his hands and rested the point of his chin on it.
He said, "It's something to think about. But for the present we'll get along without a psychiatrist."
He shuffled the papers on his desk. Clearly the conference was at an end.
Some conference, Marta thought acidly.
"What progress have you made with Enid Baker?" she asked with a faint malice.
He glanced up; his eyes glinted with remembered lust. His mouth fell open, the lips wet and glistening. "All that woman needs is the right treatment from her husband!"
I was right, she thought with a feeling of revulsion; he has been making love to her!
She said, "Then you've talked with the husband?"
The lewd smirk drained away from his face. His eyes flickered with fear. He jumped up. "He's the one who needs a head shrinker! He came in here that first day and threatened to kill me! For absolutely no reason!"
Marta said slowly, "But he must have thought he had a reason-"
"I tell you he's crazy!" Temple whirled on Selma. "I've been meaning to warn you. If he ever comes in here again, Selma, you tell him I'm not in!"
"That won't solve many marital problems." Marta leaped to her feet. "I thought we were trying to help people, not run away from them!" She said to Selma, "If Mr. Baker should come back, I'll be happy to talk to him."
Without waiting for Temple's reaction, she stormed back to her own office. Seething, she paced the floor. She was sorely tempted to go back to Temple and resign.
She was still pacing when Selma showed a couple into her office. Selma gauged her mood with one quick glance and discreetly retired.
They were a non-descript couple, not easy to place in a category. Their clothes were of good quality and clean, but slightly threadbare. Marta read the unmistakable signs of alcoholism in the puffy features of the woman.
Their history was classic. The husband had reached the end of the line with his wife. Coming to a marriage counselor was his last effort to save their marriage. Marta listened attentively as the husband catalogued his wife's indiscretions, amorous and otherwise, while drunk. Then she suggested Alcoholics Anonymous. After considerable persuasion and not a little browbeating from Marta, the woman agreed to attend at least one meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.
"It's accepted medical opinion that alcoholism is a sickness," Marta said. "Not enough is known about it, but the type of therapy proved most successful is the one I'm recommending."
While the couple waited, Marta set up an appointment for them at the local office of the organization. Then she watched them leave the office with a feeling of satisfaction.
It was only a small victory, but it finned up her decision to stay. She could help, after all. She had just proven it.
Selma poked her head in the door. "Busy?"
Marta relaxed, leaning back with a smile and motioning for Selma to come in.
"Whatever you said to that couple sure juiced them up," Selma said. "They came in here draped to the ankles in gloom and left grinning from ear to ear."
"I just sold her on the idea of helping herself." Marta shrugged. "Alcoholics Anonymous can do more for her than we ever can. Of course, the rest of it is up to her."
Selma whistled softly. "You sent them to someone else?" She rolled her eyes toward the other office. "I wouldn't let Jonathan know about that."
"Why not? That poor thing's an alcoholic. I can't help her. The AA might be able to."
"That's not the way Jonathan sees it. He'll treat people for the D.T.'s so long as they pay. If he has to refund this couple's fee, he'll flip."
Marta sat up. "Fee! Did you collect a fee from them?"
"That's Jonathan's orders. He told me never to let anyone past my desk without paying first."
"Why, that's terrible!"
"Terrible or not, that's our Jonathan. I should think you'd have him figured out by this time." Selma approached the desk to lean on it.
Marta's anger at Temple came surging back. "I can't help what he says," she said in a thick voice. "I refuse to take people's money unless I can help them!"
"You take things too seriously. I tell you what, sweetie." Selma's voice dropped. Her eyes began to glow. "After work we'll go to my place, have a drink, a leisurely dinner and generally relax."
Unexpectedly she leaned forward and kissed Marta full on the mouth. Memories of last night flooded Marta's senses like a drug. With an effort she pulled her mouth away.
"No, Selma, not tonight," she said unsteadily. "I have something to do."
Selma's full mouth curved in a teasing smile. "It isn't something we can do together?"
"No, no, it's-"
At that moment the telephone in the reception room rang. Selma hurried to answer it.
Marta lit a cigarette with trembling hands, berating herself for responding, even momentarily, to Selma's advances.
The call was for her. In impersonal tones Selma told her that Stephan Logart was on the line. Marta waited; her heart began to pound unevenly.
When the connection was made, she said somewhat unsteadily, "This is Marta Travis."
Stephan's warm voice flowed over the line. "Miss Travis, I wonder if I could possibly see you tonight?"
The sound of his voice filled her mind with vivid memories of the man as she'd seen him in her office yesterday. The spread of shoulders, the narrow hips, the sun-bleached hair, the piercing blue eyes, the powerful hands.
Most of all, the hands. She wondered how they would feel on her body.
Damn it! she thought, what's the matter with me?
She realized time had lengthened since his question. She took a deep breath and said, somewhat stupidly, "Tonight?"
"Yes, I'm working on a water reclamation project and every minute of daylight is important."
"Why, yes. I think it could be arranged. Will Mrs. Logart...?" '
"No," he said curtly. "I want to talk to you alone. Will eight-thirty be convenient?"
"Oh, the building is locked at eight o'clock," she said in dismay. Then a thought struck her. "But perhaps you could come to my apartment? If that would be all right?"
"That would be fine."
Marta gave him her address and broke the connection. Her heart was still beating erratically, and she felt a pulsing heat in her flesh. Why, she was acting like a schoolgirl on her first date!
But at least it would give her an excuse to avoid Selma.
On that thought she picked up the receiver again. When Selma answered, she said crisply, "Selma, I'll be leaving early this afternoon. Will ou tell Jonathan if he asks for me?"
CHAPTER FOUR
In the middle of the afternoon Selma came into Temple's office closing the door after her. "Mrs. Logart is here. Without an appointment. And Miss Travis is gone for the day. Shall I send her in to you?"
"Mrs. Logart? The one we discussed this morning?"
Selma nodded.
"By all means send her in! Wait...." he said as Selma turned away. "You said Miss Travis has left for the day? Already?"
Selma nodded again.
"Why so early?"
"She didn't tell me. I...." Selma hesitated. She seemed on the verge of adding more. Her eyes burned with some strong emotion. Then she lowered them, saying merely, "She didn't have any more appointments. That's all I know."
Temple snorted softly. "That's hardly an excuse." Then he gestured curtly. "Send the Logart woman in."
While he waited, Temple debated, not for the first time, the wisdom of hiring Marta Travis. She was snippy, snoopy and too damn smart-mouthed. He'd thought, when considering hiring a female associate, that he'd have a little free fun around the office for whenever he wanted it. But he knew now that he'd only succeed in getting his face slapped if he tried to get so much as a finger on her.
He sat up as Selma ushered in Elizabeth Logart. The redhead made the introductions and left them alone.
"Mrs. Logart," Temple said in his best ministerial tones, "I'm glad you came in. Won't you sit down"
Scowling, Elizabeth said, "I'm glad you're glad. Frankly I don't know what the hell I'm doing here."
She slumped down into a chair, her glance drifting around the office. Her blonde hair was dull, her face devoid of make-up. She wore a shapeless, gray wool suit that hung limply on her body.
Temple studied her intently. Dowdy was right, he thought; she looks like a slattern. Marta was right about that, at least.
Aloud he said, "I'm not thoroughly acquainted with your case, Mrs. Logart. Would you care to tell me about it?"
She gazed at him with studied indifference.
She rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and dropped her forehead into her hand. She shifted in the chair, crossing her long legs. Despite the thick stockings she wore, the clean curve of her calf and thigh drew Temple's gaze down to her legs. He felt a tug of desire.
"Do you find it difficult to talk to me, Mrs. Logart?" he asked.
"I find it no harder to talk to you than to any other man," she said dully. "But I didn't come here to talk. I came here to find out how to keep my husband from getting a divorce."
She shifted again in the chair, laying her head back and resting her elbows on the arms. The heavy jacket pulled taut across her breasts, and Temple was no longer left in doubt. They were gloriously large and thrusting, pushing two impudent hillocks against the material.
"Preventing divorces is what we're here for," he said smoothly. "You look tense, Mrs. Logart. I find it helps my clients to relax if they take a mild sedative before we talk."
He crossed to the cabinet and put two little pills in the bottom of a heavy glass. He hesitated a moment, then added another. He crushed the pills into a fine powder with a pestle. Then he filled the glass with water and stirred it thoroughly.
"This will relieve your tension," he said as he returned to her. "Drink it right down."
She took the glass. "What goop is this?" Then she shrugged. "No matter. I've tried them all."
She tossed her head back and gulped the contents of the glass, her throat working convulsively.
Temple watched her closely. He'd never given such a large dose to anyone before and he wasn't at all sure she would react.
Elizabeth looked at him solemnly. Already the pupils of her eyes were beginning to dilate. Then she put her head back and rolled it slowly from side to side. Her breathing deepened, causing her generous breasts to toss about like loose melons. An unintelligible mumble came from her lips, and she began to turn from side to side.
"Mrs. Logart?" Temple said in some alarm.
"No! Not Logart! Elizabeth!" she said heatedly.
"All right ... Elizabeth. Would you like to he down?" He took her hand. It was hot and moist.
She got to her feet obediently and followed him to the couch. "Beautiful!" she exclaimed. "How beautiful!"
"Huh? What's beautiful?" He looked quickly into the dilated blue eyes. They were wide and unfocused.
She started to claw frantically at her jacket. She ripped it off and dropped it on the floor. She said gutturally, "Spires! Long, beautiful spires!"
Temple was worried. Things were getting out of hand. He was accustomed to people having strange fantasies under the influence of the drug, but usually he could control the fantasies and use them to his advantage. But he had never seen anyone act like this. The woman's eyes stared wildly; her movements were frenzied, epileptic.
Now she whipped off her skirt and began tearing at the heavy cotton blouse.
Frightened now, Temple ran to the door and called Selma. "She's having a fit or something! Maybe you can help."
Selma hurried to Elizabeth and caught her hands. She glanced around at Temple. "Why, she's burning up! You'd better call a doctor."
Temple choked back his panic. He said quickly, "No! She'll be all right in a few minutes, I'm sure."
Elizabeth ran her hands down over her swelling breasts and to the insides of her thighs, as though brushing fire off her body. "My clothes! They're burning me!" She caught the top of her blouse and ripped it open to the waist, exposing bulging crescents of snow-white flesh above the bra.
Then, for an instant, her eyes seemed to focus, and she saw Selma standing before her.
"How beautiful!" She reached out and ran her fingers into Selma's hair. "Come, let me give you my beautiful spire." She pulled Selma against her.
With a gasp Selma tore away. She glanced around at Temple, her eyes beginning to dance. "She's got a fever, right enough, but I'm sure I can cure it if you'll leave me alone with her." Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What did you give her, anyway?"
"A sedative!" Temple said hastily. "Just a mild sedative."
"I'll bet," Selma said dryly. She gasped again as Elizabeth folded her tightly into her embrace and pressed her mouth to Selma's.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Temple yelped, running over to them. He pulled Selma away.
"Go away, Jonathan," Selma said rudely. "Just go away and leave us alone."
He was outraged. "You can't talk to me like that! I'm your employer!"
For all the heed Selma gave him he might as well have been on the moon. All her attention was fastened on Elizabeth Logart. Her red lips were wet and glistening, her breathing agitated; the tip of her tongue came out and darted around her lips.
Bemused, Temple let his hand slide down Selma's silken back until he was cupping a half-moon of her rounded hip. Tentatively, his fingers traced the swelling curve. Then he caressed the inflamed flesh, kneading it with his fingers.
Meanwhile Elizabeth had been busy. She had stripped down to her slip, a thick, unattractive, cotton garment that failed to conceal the clean sweep of her tapered legs or the fullness of her marvelous breasts.
"Dear God!" Selma muttered, unmindful of Temple's busy fingers.
"My spire! Don't you want my beautiful spire?" Elizabeth asked, holding out her arms.
"Hell, yes, sweetie. I want anything you can give me!" Selma laughed huskily and stepped into the circle of Elizabeth's arms.
Temple watched in amazement as the two girls clung to each other in a passionate embrace, their mouths glued together, uttering little animal sighs.
Damn, he thought in disgust; an abomination of sexes. Lady-lovers, by God!
And yet he knew, dimly, that he wasn't all that disgusted. On the contrary he was enormously excited.
Then Selma broke free. She reached down for the hem of Elizabeth's slip and raised it over the woman's full hips on up over the blonde head. The slip caught in the combs of the blonde chignon, and Elizabeth's hair shook free, flowing down around her white shoulders. Underneath the slip she wore a long, tight-fitting bra that reached below her rib cage.
And, instead of panties, she wore a pair of men's shorts.
Temple felt his eyes bug out. He couldn't believe it. He'd never before seen or heard of such a thing.
He clapped a hand to his forehead and said aloud, "What the hell! I need a pill myself!"
The two women were completely oblivious to him, Elizabeth in her drug-induced world of fantasy, Selma in the grip of her lust.
Temple ran to the cabinet in the corner and quickly swallowed one of the small white pills. Then he locked both the office doors. Whatever was going to happen, he didn't want any interruptions.
Selma was helping Elizabeth out of the confining brassiere. When the garment came free, Selma tossed it back over her shoulder.
It smacked Temple in the face, and he fought to get free of it.
Selma was staring in awe at Elizabeth's bared breasts. "God, sweetie! What a pair of beauties!"
She stripped away her own clothes with trembling fingers. Elizabeth had stood still while Selma had undressed her, her eyes rolled back in her head. But now, as Selma's breasts, the coral nipples erect and quivering, were uncovered, she roused slightly. "So beautiful," she whispered and reached for the redhead's breasts with both hands.
Selma moaned and threw herself at the other woman. They locked together in a fevered embrace, arms to arms, breasts to breasts.
Temple saw the two writhing women through a shimmering haze. His clothes felt as constrictive as a straight jacket. He tore at them until he was free. In his mind his lust assumed the shape of an ever-increasing bubble. It was overpowering. Unless he found surcease soon, he would burst.
Naked, he ran toward them.
Ran? Hell, he was floating!
He floated toward them, yelling, "I'm a bubble! I'm a bubble!"
The pair were too absorbed in each other to notice him. Together, they offered a literal feast of female flesh. Temple capered around them like a wild goat, pinching and squeezing and fondling. He was beside himself with passion. But he could not find an opening. Either one would do. He wasn't particular. Desperately he tried to pry them apart. But it was useless.
Then Selma dropped to her knees before the blonde. She rained kisses on the other woman's hips and legs. She trailed her kisses across the flat, boyish middle. Her face dipped lower. And then the redhead was still.
A stuttering cry tore from Elizabeth's throat. She sank her fingers into the foam of red hair and held Selma close. She stood with her feet planted apart, her head thrown back, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth open. The tendons in her neck stood out like taut ropes.
Craftily Temple moved in behind Elizabeth in a half-crouch. He reached around and dug his fingers into the flesh of her breasts. He crushed himself against her, cautiously searching for an opportunity. He felt a thrill of ecstasy as he began to find a way.
Then Elizabeth seemed to become aware of him. She loosed a string of oaths, masculine in their foulness. A sharp elbow caught Temple just below the rib cage and her heel came down on his instep like a club. He yelped with pain and let go. Again her elbow smashed at him, and he fell backward onto the floor.
When he glanced up again, both women were on the couch, in the classic position. Both were marvelously adept at what they were doing. Even Temple in his ignorance was made aware of that as he watched their passion-tossed bodies and heard their muted cries.
There wasn't much time!
He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the couch. He clambered up on his knees and tried to approach Selma's rosy, arcing back. But it was like trying to ride a saddleless, pitching, rodeo bronc. Once again he landed on the floor.
The activity on the couch increased to a frantic pitch. The end was near. Temple could almost feel it, roaring through the room like an approaching express train.
As he reared up on his knees, both bodies left the couch, a straining, trembling, soaring arch of female flesh. There were two simultaneous cries of completion. And before his very eyes the bridge melted, quivering, and collapsed in a heap of fused flesh.
He clambered to his feet and ran at them, shouting, "How about me? Damn it, how about me?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Marta rose from the perfumed bathwater and stepped free of the black, tiled tub. Her slender body was pink from the hot water, and the coral tips of her pointed breasts lay soft and quiescent. She toweled her body dry.
With some amusement she remembered the disappointment on Selma's face when she told her they would have to postpone their rendezvous.
She finished drying herself and stripped the terrycloth turban from her head. Her hair shimmered as she shook it out. Naked, her long legs twinkling, she went into the bedroom.
It was an uncluttered room, done in pale blues and yellows. In a way it reflected Marta's own sleekness. The vanity was a marble-topped table with a round mirror and a graceful wrought iron chair. A soft, tawny rug covered the floor, and a boudoir chair of powder blue stood beside the bed.
The bed stood out in the quiet room like an insane shout. It was average size but covered with a satin spread of violent scarlet. In the center was a large, white, silken, heart-shaped pillow.
It was as though the bed satisfied a secret yearning within her for flamboyance. During her working day, in her contacts with people, she was subdued; in most instances she strove to be as colorless as possible. But here, in the privacy of her own bedroom....
Very few people had ever seen the bed.
Marta took a spray cologne from the marble-topped table and misted her body in a lilac-scented cloud. Then she crossed to her clothes closet and fingered the hanging garments thoughtfully, finally selecting a long, black velvet housecoat with large mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. It covered her from throat to ankle. She stepped into a pair of gold sandals.
Then she examined herself in the mirror.
This is a counselor preparing to interview a client? she thought satrically.
Her doorbell chimed musically.
Stephan!
She hurried to answer it.
As she opened the door to him, her first thought was: He's even bigger than I remembered.
She smiled, stepping back. "Do come in."
His gaze swept quickly, almost impersonally, over her, but Marta was sure his eyes darkened briefly.
He was in stained khaki; his field boots had been splashed with mud. He removed his broad-brimmed hat and said, as he strode past her, "If s kind of you to see me."
The living room, like the bedroom, was done in subdued tones of yellows and blues. The circular couch before the screened fireplace was finished in a soft white fabric. A thick white rug was before the fireplace in which a fire blazed.
The only light in the room, aside from that cast by the hearth fire, came from a dim corner lamp. Stephan took a wide-legged stance before the fireplace, his huge shadow falling athwart the couch.
And Marta realized, with a lurch of dismay, that the dim room, her housecoat-all smacked of an arranged atmosphere of seduction. Certainly it wasn't the proper setting for a marriage counselor to analyze said client's marital difficulties.
And, to be completely honest with herself, Marta had to admit that she had arranged it this way purposely.
But Stephan seemed to find nothing amiss as he said, "I know this is an imposition, but it is urgent"
"Please! It's no imposition...." Marta glided to a small side table stocked with liquor bottles. "What would you like to drink?"
"Bourbon will be fine." He slung his hat onto the couch and sank down with a soft sigh.
"You look as though you could use some rest," Marta said as she brought him his drink.
"I didn't realize I was so bushed until I finally sat down." His grin was boyish. "I didn't think it showed, either."
"It's hard to miss the fact that you've had a busy day," she said, her glance slipping down to his muddy boots.
Stephan's eyes followed the direction of her glance. He scowled. "I came right from the field. I should have changed first."
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way!" she said in dismay. "There's never any need to apologize for an honest day's work."
"Well...." He scrubbed his knuckles across his eyes. "For someone who's always griping about his wife's appearance, I should pay a little more attention to my own."
"It's not the same at all. But now that you mention it, why do you complain about Mrs. Logart's appearance?"
Stephan's eyes came up to meet hers. "You've seen her. She's a beautiful woman, but she insists on looking like a hag."
"Is it a recent thing? Her disregard for her appearance?"
"It started shortly after we were married." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, shading his eyes with his hands as though shutting off an unpleasant vision. "She was never what you'd call a clothes horse, but just a few months after we were married she started to neglect herself altogether. Not only her clothes but her personal appearance as well."
"Do you think that her finding out she wasn't pregnant had anything to do with it?"
"So she told you about that." Stephan drained his glass. He glanced toward the side table.
"Help yourself," she said with a gesture.
She watched his tall form unfold as he got to his feet. A strange thrill coursed through her. She hugged her knees. He walked with long strides to the table and brought back a bottle of bourbon. He stood above her, an inquiring look on his face. His virility hit her like a solid blow, and she could feel the moisture gather in her tightly-clenched fists. She held her glass out and he splashed some liquor into it.
"She wasn't pregnant," he said. He poured a drink for himself and returned to the couch, stretching his long legs before him. "But that was only one disappointment. She expected too much." He gazed into the fire. "She was an architect, you know, and she thought she was going to start at the top. She came to work for the firm where I worked and they put her to doing detail work on other architect's plans."
"Is that the usual thing for a beginner?"
"It is with that firm. After we got married, I went to work for the state. I wrangled a couple of small designing jobs for her, but she turned up her nose at them."
"She told me you took her away from her profession. I got the impression she resented your success. Are you a success?"
Stephan threw back his head, his throat rippling with laughter. "Hardly. At least I'm neither rich nor famous. But I like what I'm doing, and I think it's important work."
"Just what is it you do?" Marta asked. "You said something about reclamation...."
"It's water conservation. Flood control, salt water conversion. It has a lot of names. They all mean more water." His blue eyes were very intense.
"You talk as though water was the most precious thing in the world."
His tanned face cracked in a grin. "Isn't it?"
Stephan drained his glass and sat looking at it speculatively. Marta took his glass for a refill. When she returned it to him, their hands touched. Her heartbeat speeded up. She felt her breasts scratch against the velvet robe in sudden excitement. She turned away to hide her agitation.
"I got the impression from Mrs. Logart that it wasn't your work so much that caused the breakdown of your marriage. There seemed to be a physical maladjustment."
"Maladjustment! There's never been an adjustment!" he said harshly.
"She claims you rape her-"
"Rape! That's a laugh. I haven't slept with her in more than a year. And how can a husband rape his own wife? Tell me that, will you?"
"If he forces her against her will, it's a form of rape. Perhaps not legally, but...."
He got to his feet and prowled to the fireplace, carrying his drink. He leaned on the mantelpiece, staring down into the flames.
"Perhaps I wasn't always as gentle with her as I should have been." His tone was thoughtful. "It's hard sometimes to be gentle and patient with my wife."
Marta felt drawn to him. She moved over and stood beside him. She asked softly, "Did you ever love her?"
He turned from the flames and looked directly into her eyes. She took his probing look without flinching.
"Why do you ask me that?"
"If you could listen to your own voice, you'd know." She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "When you speak of your work, you sound warm, vibrant. But when you speak of your wife...."
"I sound cold. Is that it?"
"You sound trapped."
"Trapped is right," he said grimly. He clenched his hand until the knuckles shone white. "But I'm about to spring the trap, even if I have to smear her name over the front pages of every newspaper in the city!"
Marta gasped, her hand going to her throat. She said faintly, "My goodness! Why should you want to do a thing like that?"
He didn't answer her directly. "You asked me if I ever loved her." He laughed wryly. "I'm not even sure I ever knew her."
"But you married her! You must have felt something...."
"I felt an obligation. She was pregnant. Or so she said."
"But that was three years ago. Surely in all that time you could have gotten a divorce. Have you ever considered it?"
"I've considered it. I've also considered how stupid I'd look going into court and saying I wanted a divorce because I couldn't make love to my own wife!"
"But incompatibility is legitimate grounds...."
"I know, but I've never believed too much in divorce. I've always believed in living up to a bargain, even a bad one. But that's all by the boards now!" He gestured abruptly. His lip curled in disgust. "After last night."
"Last night?"
"I've always been a little suspicious of Elizabeth. No normal woman could be as cold and unresponsive as she is. I thought maybe she was frigid or maybe it was all my fault. Well, last night I found out the truth."
He paused, staring down into his empty glass. Bitter lines etched his face. Finally he went on. "I was supposed to be out of town last night, but I'd forgotten some maps. I drove down and found Elizabeth...." Stephan slammed his glass down on the mantelpiece and whirled on her. "I found my wife in bed with a woman! Do you understand what I'm telling you? My wife's a Lesbian."
"Oh!" Marta's face flamed. She remembered Selma's diagnosis of Elizabeth Logart.
"She hates men and loves women," Stephan continued bitterly.
Marta couldn't speak. She turned her face away. She felt stupid, woefully inadequate. She should have known. She should have listened to Selma. Then perhaps she could have done something. At least she could have warned this man before he found it out for himself.
Then she felt his hand on her shoulder. "Did I shock you? I really don't know why I came here tonight. There's no problem now. Elizabeth solved it for me herself. But I felt I had to talk to someone."
She took a deep breath and faced him. "No, you didn't shock me. Not really. I just wish I could've been more help, is all."
"It still may need your help, Miss Travis. I told Elizabeth I wanted a divorce. She said she wouldn't give it to me without a fight. She said she liked things as they were. I don't want to air a mess like this in court." He looked at her almost pleadingly. "Will you talk to her? Try to get her to agree to a quiet divorce?"
"I'll try," she said simply.
"Thank you, Marta." His eyes began to glow. He placed both hands on her shoulders and moved her toward him. Through the V of his shirt she could see the tiny golden hairs curling on his chest.
A look of pure astonishment crossed his face. "You know something?" he said huskily. "I just now realized, Elizabeth wasn't why I came here at all!"
"Wasn't it, Stephan?" she whispered.
Then his arms were crushing her to him, his hard mouth sweeping down. There was a smell of the soil about him, of the hot earth under a steaming sun.
She surged against him eagerly, willingly. Everywhere his hands and mouth touched, her body flamed with desire. Marta dug her fingers into the muscles of his back and flattened her breasts against his chest. She pressed against the almost instant hardness of him and began to move her hips slowly.
She wormed her hands inside his shirt, glorying in the feel of his warm skin. The hairs on his chest felt like tiny electric wires.
Stephan stepped back and stripped his shirt away. Then his big hands rumbled at the buttons of her housecoat. After the fourth button he peeled the coat from her shoulders. It slid to her hips, hung there for a moment and then landed in a velvet puddle around her feet.
He sighed gustily as she plastered the whole naked length of her body against him. They kissed, tongues mingling and executing a slippery dance of desire. Stephan was the first to pull away. He lowered his lips to the pulse at the base of her throat. Marta kissed his ear. Stephan shuddered and dropped his mouth to her breast.
She gasped in anguished pleasure as he pressed at the flesh with his lips. She jiggled the breast up and down, causing it to tremble against his mouth.
His hand moved across her middle. Marta held her breath, waiting, her abdomen as taut as a drumhead. Then his hand cupped her, and she arched against him like a wanton cat. And then his finger curled and she tensed, crying out. She sagged against him, dizzy as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. She clamped her knees tight.
"Your buckle. It's hurting me."
"Oh, hell!"
He released her and stepped back. With one motion he jerked the belt open and kicked off his field boots. His trousers, followed by his shorts, slid down his legs. He kicked them aside and threw his socks after them.
Then he was naked, gloriously thewed, as symmetrical as a golden statue. Only there was a fine detail about him Marta had never seen on any statue. She tore her eyes away and devoured the rest of him with her gaze.
She hurled herself at him, throwing both arms around his waist. She .teased his flat chest with her lips. And with one hand she teased him elsewhere.
With a grunt he raised her face on a level with his. Marta offered her mouth to receive his. They stood swaying, straining to get closer to each other.
But there was only one way they could get closer.
With a strangled moan Marta tore her lips away. She slid from his arms like a molten mass of flesh. She flowed to the white rug where she sprawled on her back, her knees slightly raised and spreading. She lay there, a bundle of aching desire.
"Now! Make love to me now, darling!"
His body leaned toward her, blotting out the world. She reached out to guide him, but he knocked her hands aside, then pinned her arms to the floor, one big hand on each wrist.
Slowly, gently, he moved toward her, seeking. He found his goal.
And stopped.
Marta went wild. Frantically her body searched for him. But he held himself away, waiting. His eyes were slitted. In the flickering firelight his grin looked Satanic.
"Please! Dear God, don't torture me!" she screamed.
And then, when Marta feared she was about to go out of her mind, he calmed her with one smooth, flowing attempt. "Heaven! That's right!"
She met him with all the force of her supple body and was slammed back to the rug as they plunged to a torrent of love.
Marta clawed at the rippling muscles of his back and sank her heels into the rug. His powerful fingers cupped the flesh of her back. She felt the muscles in his legs tighten as he dug his toes deep into the rug.
"Oh, how wonderful! Delicious! Oh, ecstasy!" She was scarcely aware of what she was saying.
She arched her head back against the rug, twisting from side to side. She felt his panting breath like tongues of fire on her breasts as wave after wave of shattering ecstasy swept over her.
"Now? Now, darling?" It was a question, an entreaty, a command.
She felt him nod against her breast, and her body left the rug in a mighty arc, clear of the floor. The convulsing thrills jolted her like electric shocks. The ecstasy went on and on. It would never stop. She didn't want it to stop. But it did stop. Finally. Inevitably.
And they collapsed in a heap, mutually exhausted and fighting for breath.
A tender warmth flowed through Marta as she gazed at the face cushioned on her breast. She felt drained, both physically and emotionally.
Stephan started to move. She tightened her arms around him. "No!" she cried softly. "Stay! Please stay!"
He lay still. But, after a little, she loosened her grip and let him go. He found his shirt and searched for a pack of cigarettes. "Want one?"
"No, darling," she said drowsily. "Right now, I don't need a thing."
"I know what you mean." He chuckled richly. "But I can't promise how long that'll last."
He pushed aside the firescreen and lit his cigarette from a smoldering wood splinter. The fire died down now. Then he rolled back to he beside her, his thigh warm against the back of her hand. He smoked in silence.
Marta was quiet, also, busy with her thoughts. It had been completely satisfying. Far, far, better than last night with Selma. And she knew she loved this man by her side.
And I'll be most happy to help him, she thought I'll damn well see that Elizabeth grants him a divorce!
And how's that for ethics, Marta? A marriage counselor counseling divorce! Did that make her any better than Jonathan? To hell with it! She didn't care. She loved Stephan and every female instinct told her to fight for him.
Stephan raised up and tossed his cigarette into the hearth. He said abruptly, "God, how I needed that! You don't know how I needed that."
She felt a tremor pass over him. She said tenderly, "I'm glad, darling. I'm glad I was the one."
She rolled against him and ran her hand down his body. She gasped. "Again? Already? It has been a long time for you, hasn't it, darling?"
He laughed softly. "I told you." He caught her hand. "Too soon?"
"Oh, no, never! Never too soon! But let me!"
Before he could move, she rolled over against him. She made her way to him.
She gave a chuckle of satisfaction. "There! How's that?"
He sucked in his breath. His eyes were closed tightly. "That's fine. Just fine. Couldn't be better!"
She moved. "And this?"
"I was wrong. That's even better."
She worked again. "And this?"
"You just keep going and you'll find out!"
She began to hum under her breath.
CHAPTER SIX
"They're not dope!" Temple said furiously, snatching the bottle of pills from Selma's hand. "And I don't want you going through my things!"
It was the morning after the day before, and he'd just entered the office to find Selma going through his medicine cabinet. She'd found the little white pills as he came in the door.
"Don't be coy with me, sweetie. Not after yesterday!" Selma shook with silent laughter. She followed him as he strode to the cabinet, the slim material of her dress rustling as she walked.
"You can trust me, sweetie," she continued. She reached up and ran her fingers into his hair.
"Don't muss my hair," Temple said petulantly, flinching away from her. "After what I saw in here yesterday, I'm not sure I want you around any more." He crossed around behind his desk and sat down.
Selma followed him. "Oh, you'll keep me around." She hoisted one cheek of her buttocks up onto the desk. "You'll keep me around because of what happened in here yesterday."
Temple was silent. He knew she was right. If she gossiped about what had happened, he'd be laughed out of town.
"You know what's bugging you, sweetie?" Selma asked, her eyes dancing. "Liz and I made a cozy little sandwich and you're sore because you couldn't join the fun." Again she rumpled his hair. "Ain't that right, sweetie?"
Her dress rode up above her knees, and Temple could see a considerable expanse of creamy thigh. He stared at her full breasts, the pert nipples punching at the silken blouse, and his tongue came out and ran around his lips.
"Well," he said casually, dropping his hand to her leg, "maybe we can work something out."
"Oh, I'm sure we can, sweetie." Selma shifted her position. She placed the toes of her shoes on the edge of his seat. Her feet fell aside in a wanton sprawl.
Temple's eyes felt as though they would pop from his skull as he glimpsed the patch of white lingerie.
"Who knows? Maybe next time we can find a way to accommodate you," she said slyly. "So why don't you tell me what's in those pills?"
Furtively he walked his fingers toward the white of her panties. She sat without moving, an amused smile on her lips. Then she dipped her head and closed her mouth on his, the red hair falling about his face like a perfumed net. At the next instant that his crawling fingers touched the yielding softness, she closed her knees.
Also at that moment there was a tap on the connecting door to Marta's office. Selma was off the desk in a flash and was standing some distance away when Marta came in.
Marta's gaze darted from Selma to Temple's flustered face. "Am I interrupting something?" she asked caustically.
"No! No, of course not!" Temple snapped, pawing at his disarranged hair.
"We were just discussing a case," Selma said blandly.
"Is that so?" Marta took a seat before the desk. "That's a nice shade of lipstick you're wearing, Jonathan."
Selma giggled as Temple hastily turned to remove the lipstick.
"I wanted to discuss a case myself," Marta said. "I talked to Stephan Logart last night."
Temple spun around. "Last night? You mean after you left the office?"
"Yes. He's too busy at his job right now to get away during the day."
"But Elizabeth was here-" Selma clapped a hand over her mouth as Temple shot her a warning look.
"Oh?" Marta's gaze drifted from Temple to Selma and back again.
"Yes," Temple said briskly. "She dropped in to talk over her problem with me."
"And just what is her problem, doctor?"
Temple chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Mrs. Logart is afraid her husband is going to divorce her."
"She has reason to be afraid. Stephan is definitely going to divorce her-"
"Stephan!" Selma broke in. "Well! Didn't we get cozy all of a sudden?"
Faint color stained Marta's cheeks, but she said steadily, "He surprised his wife in a ... situation and he's determined to get a divorce."
Temple felt a prickle of apprehension. Logart could have walked into the office yesterday without anyone noticing him. Temple glanced at Selma before he remembered he'd locked both doors. He said casually, "Where did all this take place?"
"He came home unexpectedly and found his wife in bed with-"
"That's ridiculous!" Selma scoffed. "She hates men. You told me that yourself, Marta."
"He found her in bed with another woman," Marta said calmly. "That's when he knew for sure he was leaving her."
Selma grinned impishly. "Say, our Liz is a busy girl when she puts her mind to it."
Temple shifted uncomfortably. Damn Selma! Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut. As for the Logart couple....
He closed his eyes in actual pain. He could see a plump fee flying right out the window. Of course, he'd collected a fee from Elizabeth yesterday before seeing her. But still....
He opened his eyes to say, "Selma, call up Logart. I think it's time I had a talk with him.
"I doubt that you can change his mind," Marta said quickly.
"I can try," he said smoothly, cheered by the prospect of a fee after all. "That's what we're here for, to change people's minds about divorcing each other."
Marta, her eyes veiled, shrugged and got to her feet. She turned away toward her office.
Temple spoke to her back. "And see that you remember to bill him from this office for your counseling services last night."
Marta stiffened and looked around. "Bill him?"
"That's what I said!" Temple snarled. "He's a client, isn't he? Of course, you'll bill him!"
"Maybe he's more than a client," Selma said.
Marta looked coldly at Selma and left the office without another word.
Temple scowled after her. "Now what's nibbling at her, do you suppose?"
"You've never seen Stephan Logart, Jonathan," Selma said. "He's a Greek god with all the qualifications of a prime lover." Her voice took on an edge of scorn. "For a Doctor of Human Engineering, sweetie, you show great ignorance of people. I'd guess our Marta had her eyes loved out last night."
"You mean she's loving Elizabeth's husband!" He was indignant. "Damn it, we can't have that sort of thing going on with one of our clients!"
Selma snorted indelicately. "Oh, come on, sweetie! Who do you think you're kidding? Every time Enid Baker comes in to see you, she leaves here exhausted!"
Temple said with alarm, "Now look here, don't you-"
"Don't tell her hubby? Don't worry, he won't learn about it from me. I never interfere with anyone's private affairs. Well, almost never."' She came to him quickly. She bent down and blew at his ear. "Now, why don't you just tell me what's in those pills? Huh, sweetie?"
He jerked his head back. "Hell's fire! There's nothing in those pills!"
Selma perched on his lap. Almost absently, it seemed, she took his hand and placed it on her knee. She said thoughtfully, "You know what might be fun? Get a bunch of people together and feed 'em those pills. No telling what might come off. But from what happened yesterday, I can guess. First, the clothes come off. And then...." She grinned wickedly, squeezing his hand. "Well, you know."
Temple did know. The scene in his office multiplied several times. It stirred his emotions like a strip of erotic film. But he pretended outrage. "Selma, you're talking of an abomination! A confusion of the sexes!"
"Yeah. How about that?" She patted his cheek. "And you have such a cute way of putting it, sweetie."
She took his other hand and led it to her breast. It probed into his palm like a stiff finger.
Why, she isn't wearing a brassiere, he thought in astonishment. Come to think of it, she hadn't been wearing one yesterday, either.
He closed his hand around her breast. He drove the other hand to her convenient leg. He became as busy as a beaver.
And all the while Selma sat on his knees, talking calmly. He was too occupied to listen...." could be quite a party. Liz and Enid Baker. A few people I know who dig orgies real good. Maybe we could even get Marta. Jonathan, you're not listening!"
Dazedly, he said, "Who has time to listen?"
She flounced off his legs, leaving him empty-handed and aching.
"How can you turn off and on?"
"Turn what off and on?" she asked innocently.
"You know what I mean," he roared. Then he flopped back into his chair. "Oh, to hell with it."
"Poor Jonathan," Selma cooed, going to him and pulling his head down to her breasts. "Maybe I'll turn on again, if you'll tell me what's in those little pills of yours."
"Oh, those hell-fired pills!" he said in disgust. "Only a mild narcotic."
Selma stepped back. "What does it do to you?"
"It's an excitement. It can keep you in high gear for hours and opens your mind to things you never knew existed."
"Is it harmful?"
"Not in the way you mean." He grinned lewdly. "You saw Elizabeth Logart yesterday. She had three of the pills. You took her home. How was she?"
Selma grinned, her eyes dancing. "Like a string of firecrackers timed to go off every so often," she said admiringly. "You know, I had to pull off the road and stop three times before I got her home!"
"So, there's your answer."
Selma's eyes glinted at some private vision. "Can you taste them? I mean, if you put them in a drink or something?"
"Not in a highball. Liquor kills what taste there is."
"Give me a few and I'll try them out tonight."
"Try them out? On yourself?"
"No. Oh, I might take one, just for kicks. But Liz is coming over to my apartment tonight and I-"
"So that's it! That's why you've been smooching up to me!"
"That's why."
"And what if I don't give them to you?"
"You know what, sweetie." She winked. "Now if I told Marta what happened in here yesterday, she'd run out of here screaming at the top of her lungs. Wouldn't she?"
"All right, all right! I'll give you the blasted pills!"
He threw his hands into the air in defeat and crossed to the medicine cabinet. He took out the pill bottle and returned to her. Selma held out a hand, and he shook out four pills into her palm. "Remember now, don't give her more than three."
Selma tore a sheet from his memo pad and carefully wrapped the pills in it. "I'll put them in my purse," she said. She started off.
"How about what you promised?"
She paused, turning back. "Promised, sweetie? What was that?"
"You know what!" he yelled. "You're nothing but a damned tease!"
"Oh, no, sweetie. "I'm a ... what did you call it? An abomination? A confusion of sexes! That's what I am!" Laughing, she went out and closed the door after her.
For a long while Temple cursed her in a monotone. Finally he sat down at his desk and tried to work. But there was no work that interested him, and he had no appointments the rest of the day.
Eventually he gave up. He leaned back and gave his thought free rein. Exotic visions unrolled before his mind's eye, each one more extreme than the one before. By mid-afternoon he was in a state.
He was considering doing something about it when Selma stuck her head in his door. "Marta's leaving early again. She asked me to tell you she's going over to Alcoholics Anonymous."
Temple sat up in alarm. "What's she doing there? She's not an alcoholic, is she?"
"No." Selma laughed. "She's not. It probably has something to do with the Gleason case. The couple she sent over to the organization."
"Couple she sent there!" He was scandalized. "You mean she sent someone from here?"
"They couldn't afford your prices anyway, Jonathan. They were about on their last legs financially-"
"We can always tailor the fee to fit the client," Temple said piously. "I'll have to have a talk with Marta."
"You do that, sweetie," Selma said dryly. "You give her hell."
She withdrew her head, closing the door. Temple tried to work up indignation over Marta's perfidy. But it was no use. He had other things on his mind. He pulled his private telephone across the desk and dialed Enid Baker's number. She loosed a little-girl giggle when she heard the sound of his voice.
Brusquely he told her to meet him at his apartment within an hour. As soon as she agreed, he hung up.
Then he sat for a moment, deep in thought. He didn't know what was happening to him. But he couldn't help himself. He had everything he had ever wanted, yet he risked it all every time he cornered Enid for a sex bout. He not only risked his practice but his life as well. Several times recently he'd been sure he'd seen Paul Baker following him. That was the reason he'd decided to meet Enid outside the office from now on.
With an angry gesture he got up and went through the connecting door into Marta's office. She still hadn't returned. He left her a note saying he wanted to talk to her about the Gleason case at the first opportunity.
Then he got his hat and coat and went through the reception room with a curt nod to Selma. He rode the elevator down to the basement garage, got into his car and drove up the ramp. As he pulled out onto the street, a car drew away from the curb and fell in behind him.
It was Paul Baker! He was sure of it!
The muscle under his eye began to jump. He pressed his thumb over it until his initial panic subsided somewhat. Soon he was in heavy traffic on Wilshire Boulevard. He drove fast, cutting in and out of traffic. Then he got a lucky break. The car following him was trapped by a red light.
Temple whipped his car off the Boulevard at the next corner and drove aimlessly for miles, drove until he was positive he had lost his tail. He considered calling his apartment and telling Enid to go home. She would be there by now. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
He needed what she had for him. God, how he needed it! Yesterday's frustration, combined with Selma's adroit teasing, had left him seething with lust. Strangely, his fear of Paul Baker added spice to his coming rendezvous with the man's wife.
He headed the car for Westwood, where he had an apartment.
Enid, naked and panting like an animal, was waiting for him in his darkened bedroom. Without a word he hit her across the face with his open hand. She was knocked flat on her back.
"Oh, daddy! I like what you do to me!" she said hoarsely as she came up on her knees.
Temple hit her again.
When she started to get up a second time, he tangled his fingers in her hair and guided her. She moved willingly, eagerly.
With his other hand he adjusted his clothes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As Marta drove into the garage, she saw Temple's car leaving.
It's just as well, she thought; I've had all of Jonathan Temple I can stomach for one day.
Besides, he'd want to know where she'd been. And if he learned what she was doing for Margaret Gleason, gratis, he would really flip.
She entered the reception room just as Selma was tidying her desk for the night.
The redhead was surprised to see her. "I didn't think you'd be back today."
"I guess it's force of habit," Marta said wearily. "When I was doing social case work, no matter what time I got through in the field, I always reported back to the office to do my paper work."
Selma followed Marta into her office.
"If we don't get more clients, there won't be any paper work to do," Selma said. "Did you know Jonathan didn't soul all day?"
"I saw him leaving just as I came in."
"I guess he decided to take a leaf from your book."
Marta said absently, "Maybe he had a golf date."
"Golf!" Selma hooted. "The only games our Jonathan plays are bedroom games!"
Marta saw the note on her desk. She picked it up and read it, then gave it to Selma. "What does he want to talk about, do you suppose?"
Selma scanned the note quickly. Then she said in dismay, "I'm afraid I goofed on that one. When Jonathan asked me why you were going over to Alcohoucs, I mentioned the Gleason couple."
"Does he think he can help them?"
"Help them! Sweetie, you slay me! You really do! He wants to get a fee out of them. That's how he wants to help them!"
"A fee!" Marta said wearily. "They don't have a dime. That poor woman was picked up this morning on skid row, dead drunk."
"Is she in jail?"
"No. Her husband has her in a hotel over on Westlake run by the AA. He's the one who called me. It seems I'm the only person she'll talk to at all."
"Were you with her all afternoon?"
Marta glanced at her wristwatch. "I guess I was," she said in surprise. "I didn't realize I had spent so much time with her."
"Jonathan isn't going to like you spending all that time with her and all for free!"
"The woman's sick, Selma. She needs help."
Selma said slyly, "Maybe you'd be better at handling problems like hers than marital breakups."
Marta sat down at her desk. She lit a cigarette and said thoughtfully, "You could be right. More and more I'm beginning to think I don't fit in here."
"Speaking of marital break-ups," Selma said, "Liz is having dinner at my apartment tonight."
"Oh?" Marta stared at the redhead narrowly. "Well, have fun."
"Oh, I intend to," Selma said airly. She came around the desk and stood very close. "Aren't you jealous, sweetie?"
"Of course not!"
"Not the teeniest little bit?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Selma!" Marta snapped.
The green eyes darkened. "You know something, Sweetie? I don't believe you. Not for a minute."
Without warning she bent and put her open mouth to Marta's. Marta twisted violently in the chair trying to free herself, but Selma pressed a silken knee down across Marta's threshing legs and held her captive in the chair while she pressed fiercely with her lips. Despite herself Marta felt a leaping response.
Finally, with a gasping intake of breath, Selma let go and stood back.
"You don't have to tell me you liked it, sweetie. I know you did," Selma said in satisfaction.
Marta leaped to her feet. Her voice cracking with fury, she said, "Don't you ever touch me like that again, Selma! I'm not like you-"
"Oh, come on!" Selma's laughter was taunting. "You may like men, but you walk on both sides of the street just like I do."
Marta was trembling. She stamped her foot. "Get out! Get out of my office!"
"Don't get in an uproar, sweetie. I'm going." With studied unconcern Selma turned and strolled out, closing the door softly after her.
Marta fled to the bathroom and filled the small basin with cold water. She lowered her flaming face into the water and held it there a moment. Finally she raised her head and gazed into the mirror. The water hung in little droplets on her cheeks and lashes. The water had doused the surge of desire ignited by Selma.
Resolutely Marta turned her thoughts to Stephan. She was to see him that evening. And then the full import of Selma's remarks struck her. If the redhead was embarking on an affair with Elizabeth Logart, it might soon be easy to persuade Elizabeth to grant her husband a divorce.
Humming under her breath, cheered by her unethical thoughts, Marta dried her face and hands. Her body yearned for Stephan's touch. Memories of last night burned in her blood like a potent drug. She began to hurry.
She returned to her office and stopped short at the sight of the slender, swarthy man standing before her desk. The man's gaze was on the door to Temple's office.
She stilled a flutter of panic and moved forward. "Yes?"
The man whirled around, his glance leaping at her like an animal. His eyes were deep and cold and very black.
"Miss Travis?" His lips barely moved as he spoke.
"Yes, I'm Miss Travis. What can I do for you?"
His glance darted again to Temple's door. "Are you alone?"
"Yes, I'm alone." She was sorry the instant the words were out. There was something vaguely threatening about the man.
"I'm Paul Baker. You called me, or rather your secretary called me."
Marta let her breath go with relief. "Oh! Mr. Baker."
"You left a message you wanted to talk to me."
"Yes, I do want to talk to you, but...." She hesitated. If she spent too much time talking to this man, Stephan would reach her apartment first. Then, with a mental shrug, she capitulated to her conscience and gestured to a chair.
But he didn't sit down at once. His gaze was fixed on the framed degree on the wall behind her desk. He nodded as though in answer to a question in his mind. "Then you are a practicing psychologist."
"Of course," Marta said in some surprise.
"Then you can help Enid." His narrow face twitched in what could have been a smile.
"That remains to be seen, Mr. Baker. But that was the reason I wanted to see you." She gestured again. "Won't you please sit down?"
He perched on the edge of his chair. He gave Marta the impression of being poised to react to some obscure danger. His gaze was never still. It returned again and again to Temple's door.
"I waited until I could talk to you alone," he said in a low voice. "I think you can help my wife, but I don't want that phony louse next door fooling with her."
"You mean Doctor Temple?"
"Doctor!" He spat the word at her like an epithet. "He's no doctor. He's nothing but a book salesman. I checked him out."
Marta stared. "Checked him out? What do you mean?"
"I investigated him. Just as I investigated you. That's how I learned you're not a phony."
Marta gasped. "You investigated me! I must say you have your nerve!"
Baker looked at her. Somewhere back of the cold glitter of his eyes ghmmered something resembling a smile. "Why get angry? You checked out okay. Temple is the phony!"
Marta felt compelled to defend her employer. "Doctor Temple may not be a psychologist, but he is an ordained minister-"
"He got his Doctor of Divinity degree from a correspondence school operating from a post office box number."
Marta was silent. What could she say? She knew in her heart that what this man was telling her was true, that he was simply confirming what she had suspected all along.
Finally she said, "Why are you telling me all this?"
"You've seen my wife. She's a child. She never grew up. I don't think she ever will, but I don't want to see her hurt." The man leaned forward, his hands locked together in his lap.
"Your wife needs psychiatric help, Mr. Baker."
"She's had that! It didn't do her any good."
"Well then, what makes you think I can help her?" Marta demanded.
"I don't know. But somebody must be able to! You're a woman and Enid goes to all these male doctors and ends up ... I'm sorry, Miss Travis, but it's true!"
His dark features stained with shame, and Marta was as astonished, and touched, to see a shine of a tear in his eyes.
"She wants me to beat her, you see," the man said painfully. "And I can't do it!"
"I know, Mr. Baker," she said gently.
"I'll pay. I'll pay anything if you'll only help her!"
"It isn't a matter of money, Mr. Baker. If I can help your wife, I'll be happy to do it."
He stood up. The cold, hard look was back on his face and his eyes were flat and opaque. "I'll send her to you. But if he doesn't keep his filthy hands off her...." Once again he jerked his thumb at Temple's door. "I'll kill him!"
Shocked, Marta said, "You can't mean that!"
"Believe me, I do!" His voice was tight and deadly.
Before she could speak, he was gone. She leaped to her feet and ran toward the door, calling, "Mr. Baker!"
But the reception room was empty. Paul Baker had vanished as quickly as he'd appeared.
He could do with a little psychiatric help himself, Marta thought as she re-entered her office.
Her thoughts refused to leave him as she put her desk in order, left the building and drove home.
Her meager experience told her that Baker was a desperate man. There was no doubt that he loved his wife. There was also no doubt that he was terribly jealous of her. And with good reason, Marta felt sure. But there was something else about the man that sent shivers down her spine like icy-toed spiders. He was edging toward madness. And if something wasn't done to straighten out his wife, it was very likely he would plummet into an abyss of insanity.
Marta shivered. She made an effort to push it from her mind. But it continued to gnaw at her. If she could help Enid, perhaps it wasn't too late to save her husband.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Happily Stephan hadn't yet arrived when Marta reached her apartment house.
She closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief and kicked off her shoes. She felt weary, used up by the long day. She padded listlessly in stocking feet to the low table before the couch and put down her purse. She removed her hat and ran her fingers up into the blonde hair, shaking it out around her shoulders.
She went to the side table where she kept the liquor and mixed a martini. She took a sip and carried the drink to the couch and sat down, stretching her feet out onto the table.
The drink soon worked its magic. She began to relax. She finished it and went into the bedroom where she removed every stitch of her sweaty clothing. She got under the shower and stayed there a long time, stayed until the needle-spray of water had driven the weariness from her bones and shattered the mood of depression.
She put on the same robe she'd worn last night and went into the living room in her bare feet. This time she mixed a pitcher of martinis. Stephan would soon be here, if he was coming. If he didn't come, she'd drink the martinis and get stoned all by herself. Why not?
But her doorbell rang before she'd taken more than a sip of her second drink. She scampered to the door and threw it wide.
"Darling, I thought you weren't coming!" She reached out for his hand and drew him into the apartment.
He had stopped to change clothes this time. His head was bare, and his light gray sports jacket gave his tanned face a golden tone. "I said I'd be back tonight."
Marta kicked the door shut with her bare foot and turned into his arms. Standing on tiptoe, she sank her fingers into his hair and pulled his face down. She brought her mouth to his. Her body was on fire. She couldn't stay still. She squirmed and twisted in the circle of his arms.
She felt his growing response and she sought him with her hands. She fumbled between them and unbuttoned the robe, then unbuttoned his shirt. She scratched her full breasts across his chest.
After a time Stephan tried to pull his mouth away, but she wouldn't let him. When he continued to try, she bit his Up.
With a grunt he seized her hands and pushed her back from him. "What brought this on?"
He released her hands and touched his hp. He stared in astonishment at the blood on his fingers.
"I had a terrible day, darling," Marta said in a rush. "And I kept thinking of you. And of last night." She was suddenly attacked by shyness, and she turned her face away.
"Hey! I didn't mean I didn't like it," he said. "I just wondered what brought it on, is all."
He reached for her hand again, but she eluded him.
"I have drinks mixed for us." She started toward the liquor table.
"You can think of a drink at the damndest times!" Stephan grumbled. He followed her to the table.
"I stopped by home to change clothes. Elizabeth was there," he said as he took the drink from her. "I asked her to get the divorce."
"That would be much better than washing all your dirty linen in public," Marta said. "What did she say?"
"She refused again. She said she'd see me in hell first." He frowned. "But something's happened to Elizabeth. She's changed."
"Changed? In what way?"
As they talked, they crossed to the couch and sat down close together.
"For the first time since we married, she seems to be taking some interest in her appearance," Stephan said.
"That sounds like she wants to make up with you," Marta said apprehensively. "Or maybe she thinks that if she improves her personal appearance, you won't insist on the divorce."
"Nothing she could do will stop me now," Stephan said vehemently. "I'm not going to live with a Lesbian!"
"Maybe she can't help being what she is, Stephan. Maybe she doesn't want to be a Lesbian."
He scowled at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, from what I know, many Lesbians can't help being what they are...."
Marta paused, appalled. What was she doing? Stephan's decision to leave his wife was now firm, and here she was trying to talk him out of it!
Resolutely she continued, "Sometimes, women like Elizabeth can be helped."
"Helped! Are you out of your skull!" he roared. He gulped at his drink, then went on in a more reasonable tone. "Look, I don't give a damn about her and she couldn't care less about me. I slept with her a couple of times and she told me she was pregnant, so I did what I thought was the right thing. But all she wants, all she ever wanted, was a man around the house so people will think she's normal while she plays around with any woman she can get her hands on! Well, I won't play!"
He leaned his head back to say glumly, "She's a damned confusion and I want to be rid of her. I know what I want now."
He raised his head and looked at her. "There's nothing confusing about you, baby. You're all woman. I've known women before Elizabeth and a few since, and you're the best!"
He reached for her.
"My drink!" Marta yelped. She held the glass out at arm's length. "I'll spill it."
"To hell with your drink!" With a sweep of his hand he knocked the glass from her hand.
Marta laughed suddenly and sprang to her feet. He made a grab for her, but she ducked away and ran for the bedroom, shedding the robe on the way. She halted in the doorway and looked back at him. He gaped at her and then, with a muffled shout, he left the couch and plunged toward her. She ran on into the bedroom and sprawled across the bed on her back.
In a moment Stephan loomed in the doorway. He stood there, his hands busy removing his clothes. With the living room light behind him it was like watching a shadow play. Without volition Marta's hips flowed into the motions of love. Dizzy with desire, she watched him through slitted lids.
Naked, he joined her on the bed. She surged against him instantly, her fingers plucking at him.
But he held her away. "You're a beautiful woman, baby," he said huskily. He rested his weight on one elbow and gazed deep into her eyes. He traced the outline of her lips with the tip of a forefinger. "Like a Norse goddess."
He put his mouth next to hers and whispered, "Sometimes you look a lot like her."
Marta stiffened. "Like who?"
"Like Elizabeth."
Selma's words to her that afternoon sped across Marta's mind-screen like letters of fire.
"I'm not like her!" she screamed at him. She tried to pull him to her. "I'll prove it to you! I'm not like her at all!"
A demon seemed to take possession of her and she flung herself against his body in furious assault. With fingers and lips she tormented his body to roaring excitement.
Shrill little cries poured from her throat as she indulged her passion. Her mouth left a trail of kisses down across the washboard hardness of his chest. She kissed and fondled until he threshed madly against her.
Her kiss moved on. And stopped.
Stephan tensed, his body arching off the bed. A muted cry escaped him. He tried to pull her face up to his.
"No!" she panted and put her kiss to him again. In a moment he snarled, "That's enough, damn it!"
He pulled her up to him. She kissed his warm mouth for a moment. Then, as he began to move against her, she twisted about in the circle of his arms until her back was pressing against him. With a muffled giggle she got up on her elbows and knees, presenting herself to him. There was a moment's hesitation before the bed sagged with his weight as he got up on his knees, pressing himself against her.
He reached around her and cupped her breasts, catching one in each hand. He rolled them back and forth between his fingers and explored the back of her neck with his tongue.
She raised herself higher, bent almost double, and spread her feet farther apart. She heard the quick intake of his breath as he ran his hands over the hillocks of flesh. She held her own breath, waiting.
Then he moved. His hands closed like pincers on the curves of her hips, and her passion filled her. He hurt at first, hurt like the devil. She buried her face in a pillow to keep from crying out. But soon the pleasure began, and the pain and the pleasure became one continuous sensation.
"Harder! Faster! Oh-h, darling that hurts so-o good!" she cried.
She heard the whistle of his breath as he spent his desire. Looking around and back over her shoulder, she saw his face contorted in the agony of his pleasure. His eyes were closed, his lips peeled back from his teeth.
Marta welcomed the onrush of the final ecstasy. She worked with him frantically, her fingers clawing at the coverlet. She felt it rip beneath the slash of her nails, but she couldn't have cared less.
"Oh! Oh! Heaven! Now! Now, my sweet golden man!"
His rhythm increased to a savage pitch. A shuddering groan spilled from his throat, and his fingers dug like talons into the yielding flesh of her hips. For a long moment he held her, her face pushed into the pillow, their bodies clasped in one great, convulsing tremor. Then, with a gusty sigh, he collapsed.
Marta was half-fainting. Never before had she felt such sweet release, such complete emotional fulfillment.
After a moment she stirred away from his exhausted body. Stephan moved away from her.
They lay side by side in silence, their bodies struggling for breath. Marta's heartbeat sounded like erratic thunder in her ears.
Stephan lit cigarettes for them and they smoked for a time, still without speaking. Finally Marta put out her cigarette and rolled against him with a sigh. She snuggled into the crook of his shoulder.
"Do you still say I'm like Elizabeth?"
He raised his head to stare at her. "I didn't say you were like her, for God's sake! I said you sometimes look like her."
"But I'm not her," Marta said tightly. "I'm me!"
"I'm finding that out, baby." His face cracked in a grin. "I'm getting to know you pretty good."
"Not good enough, darling," she said throatily. "Not nearly good enough yet."
She was quiet and still for a moment. Then, when he leaned over to put his cigarette out, she said, "It's been a long time."
"Huh?" He squinted at her. Then he smiled slowly. "Yeah, a long time. All of ten minutes."
"That's a long time. You've got a lot to make up for, remember?"
He grunted. "Yes, but it takes a little time to recuperate, for God's sake!"
"Does it, darling?" she asked softly. "Let's see."
Her fingers moved over him like tiny waltzing feet. "Oh, maybe you're right. But wait! See? See what's happening?"
And she bent to him, her hair falling around her face.
Stephan went rigid. "No!" he gasped out. "Not that way!" He tried to roll away from her.
"Yes, darling, yes!" she said softly. She held him to her tightly, refusing to let go.
With a sigh he relaxed and lay quite still except for a convulsive twitch now and again. He tangled his fingers in her still-damp hair. Within a very short time his breathing grew labored and heavy. It had the sound of a bellows in the room.
"God!" he said gutturally. "What are you doing to me, Marta?"
But she knew that the question was meaningless. By his heaving breath, his strangled moans and madly threshing body he let her know that what she was doing was wonderful.
Then his whole body went rigid, curving off the bed like an arch of steel.
"Baby, baby!" he yelled. "That's enough! That's enough, I said!"
And what he said was true. It was more than enough.
CHAPTER NINE
Temple sang lustily as he drove to the office the next morning. He sang an old-time revival hymn with all the gusto of the pure in heart. He was well-pleased with himself. He had made love to Enid Baker both on the floor and on top of the bed most of the night. She had been bruised and satiated by the time he'd driven her home.
And there he'd encountered some difficulty.
He'd fed her pills off and on during the night until he had lost count. She'd gotten pretty wild, her fantasies pretty far out. But he'd managed to control them for his own diversion up until the time she'd passed out.
Then he'd gotten frightened. It had taken several pots of black coffee and several cold showers to revive her sufficiently for him to drive her home.
Of course, he hadn't driven her all the way. He hadn't dared. The closer he'd gotten to her home, the more vividly he'd remembered Paul Baker's cold black eyes. Most of all, he had remembered the man's threat.
Temple had stopped at a cab stand several blocks away from Enid's home. He had managed to convince the cabbie that Enid was drunk. And, with the aid of a five-dollar bill, had persuaded the cabbie to drive Enid the rest of the way home.
All in all, not a bad evening, Temple concluded as he drove jauntily into the garage beneath his building. His euphoria carried him into his office, lasting until Marta came in at ten.
She waved a piece of paper at him. "What did you want to see me about, Jonathan?"
He stared blankly. "Huh?"
"You left this note for me last night."
"Oh, yes!" He leaned back. He built his steeple and peered at her over it. "About the Gleason couple, why'd you turn them away, send them to somebody else?"
Marta sighed, "Oh, that."
He sneered. "Yes, that!"
"I didn't send them to just somebody else, Jonathan. The woman's an alcoholic and I ... Jonathan, you simply can't expect to treat every disturbed person who comes to us."
"I'll decide who we'll treat and who we won't treat!" he said harshly. "How many others have you turned away?"
"I haven't turned any away!"
"You were ready to turn both the Baker case and the Logart case over to a psychiatrist. And you would have, if I hadn't stopped you." He leaned toward her. "Fortunately I was able to persuade Enid Baker to keep coming to me."
"Come to you for what, Jonathan?"
He glared at her. "Now what kind of a hell-fired question is that?"
"Something happened last night that might interest you. Paul Baker came to see me."
Temple tensed. "What did he want?"
"He made it clear to me that he didn't want you treating his wife!"
"Last night? Where did you see him last night?" Temple sneered to hide his fear. "In your apartment?"
Marta's face closed with anger. She said tightly, "No, he saw me in the office. I came back after you left."
Temple studied her, wondering how much the man had told her. "Was he looking for me?"
"On the contrary. He was trying to avoid you," Marta said with a touch of smugness. "He wanted to talk to me. Alone."
"So what did you tell him?"
"I didn't tell him anything. He told me."
"Was he looking for Enid?" He held his breath for her answer.
"No, he seemed to know where she was." Marta's eyes glinted. "Did you know where she was, Jonathan?"
Temple glanced away. He cursed under his breath as he felt the color mount to his face. The muscle under his eye began to jump and he placed his thumb over it. He snarled, "Well then, what the hell did he want?"
"He wanted to talk to me about treating his wife."
He said skeptically, "He wants you to treat her?"
"That's what he said. That was after I suggested he get her to see a psychiatrist."
"And how does Enid feel about this?"
"I haven't spoken to her, but he assured me she'll cooperate."
"I doubt it," Temple said, "and even if she would be agreeable, I wouldn't allow it."
"For Pete's sake! Why not?" Marta asked sharply.
"You said yourself you weren't qualified to treat her," he said in what he thought was a reasonable tone.
But her reaction wasn't reasonable at all. "And you are, I suppose?"
"Yes! Yes, I am!"
Their voices had risen in volume. The door opened, and Selma came in. "Goodness! Let's keep it down to a roar! You can be heard in the next county!"
They ignored her, glaring at one another in smoldering fury.
Finally Marta said in a trembling voice, "If Mrs. Baker comes to me for help, I'll do all I can for her!" She whirled away toward the door to her office.
"You seem to forget who's running this office!" Temple shouted after her. "You keep messing around and you'll find yourself out on the street!"
When the door had closed behind her, Temple slammed his fist down on the desk. "Damn that woman, anyway!"
"Hey! Take it easy there, sweetie," Selma said. "You must've had a bad night."
He turned his anger on her. "I had a fine night, but I'm having a lousy morning."
Selma shrugged. "Well, that's the way it goes. You had a bad night, I had a marvey time."
"I told you I ... Ah, skip it." He paused, cocking his head at her. "What went on between you two lady-lovers last night?"
Selma took a deep breath, pushing her breasts out. "Everything, sweetie. Liz and I get along real fine together. You know, I'm thinking of asking her to move in with me. It might be fun. I've never tried keeping house with a woman before."
Temple made a sound of disgust. But something compelled him to ask, "What happened? Tell me what happened."
She peered at him. "In detail, sweetie?"
He nodded, swallowing.
"Are you a second-hand Peeping Tom, sweetie? Is that the way you get your kicks?" She gestured abruptly. "Never mind. I'll be happy to report, doctor."
And she told him in graphic, lewd detail what had taken place with Elizabeth Logart.
Listening carefully, Temple felt his excitment grow.
She finished with a flourish, "And that's all the juicy bits! Get you all worked up, sweetie?" she asked with her impish grin. "I'm sort of warm, myself. I guess we'll have to do something about that."
She got up and locked both doors. She came back, took him by the hand and led him to the couch.
"How about Marta?" he asked apprehensively.
She grinned again. "We don't need her, do we? We can have fun without her."
She fell back onto the couch. With a deft twist she opened her blouse to the waist, freeing her marvelous breasts. He wondered idly if they always were standing at attention like a combat soldier ready for action.
She bunched her dress up around her waist. She wasn't wearing panties.
"Well, come on, sweetie. I'm ready. Aren't you?"
She fumbled with him. Her eyebrows shot up. "Why, you aren't, are you? We'll have to do something about that, too, won't we?"
Temple was certain he'd never be able to do anything after last night's orgy. But he badly underestimated Selma. She did things to him he had never dreamed of in Heaven or hell. She got him ready in short order.
And finally she led him through erotic rites that left him spent and gasping on the couch.
Then she got up and adjusted her clothes in a business-like manner. "I'd better get back to work. Our Marta might start to wonder."
At the door she turned back. "By the way, I've arranged for that little party we were talking about. So lay in a good supply of pills. It's all set for Saturday night at your place. That's two days away." She looked at his prone body with cat-like satisfaction. "You should be ready by then."
She went out, laughing quietly to herself.
It was nearly an hour before Temple found the strength to stir from the couch. He had one appointment shortly before noon, a quarreling couple with plenty of money. He listened to them with his eyelids propped open, dispensed with a few hoary aphorisms, socked them with a fat fee and sent them on their way.
Then he stretched out on the couch and was instantly asleep.
"Daddy! Daddy, wake up!"
At first he thought he was having a nightmare. Then his eyes flew open as he recognized Enid's voice.
He sat up. "What are you doing here? I told you to stop coming to my office!"
Her child-like face took on a wounded look. She pouted. "But I thought you'd want to know about Paul-"
He was instantly alert. "What about your husband?"
"He was furious with me when I got home so late last night. He said if he found out I'd been with you, he'd come looking for you."
Fear slithered across the floor of his mind. He slapped a hand to his cheek as the muscle began to jump wildly. "What did you tell him?"
She said guilelessly, "Oh, I didn't tell him I'd been with you, daddy. I said I'd been having a few drinks with a girl friend."
"And you think he believed that? With all those bruises and...." He fell silent. What was the use? It was like talking to the wind to try to alert her child-mind to danger. He reached a decision. It was past time to be rid of her.
He stood up and took her hand. "You go home now, Enid. I'm going to send you to a doctor who will help you."
Obediently she trotted along beside him. "But, daddy, I don't want to go to a doctor. I want to keep coming-"
He said smoothly, "No, Enid, it's time you saw a psychiatrist. I've helped you all I can."
He opened the door wide and stopped short. Marta was standing by Selma's desk. At the sound of the door opening, both women faced around.
Temple moved to block Enid from their line of vision, then stopped. It was too late. Marta was coming toward them.
He stepped to one side, gesturing. "She's all yours, Marta."
With as much dignity as he could muster, he crossed the reception room and went on out.
CHAPTER TEN
Marta watched Temple leave with a feeling of utter disgust. Selma had been inviting her to attend a party at Temple's apartment Saturday night when the man came out of his office with Enid. Marta had coldly refused; she could well imagine what sort of party it would be.
She turned to Enid with an abrupt gesture. "Please come into my office, dear."
"Wait-" Selma hurried over. "Mrs. Baker, we're having a party at Jonathan's apartment Saturday night. We'd like you to come."
Marta said hastily, "No! Oh, no, Enid!"
But she was too late. Enid's face lit up. She said eagerly, "Oh, I'd love to come!"
Selma turned her head aside and winked at Marta, slyly triumphant.
Quickly Marta ushered Enid into her office and closed the door. She seated the girl and crossed around behind her desk. She studied the face across the desk from her for a few minutes. Enid sat almost primly, her hands together in her lap.
Heavens, Marta thought in dismay; what can I say that will get through to her? She's got the mind of a child!
Finally she said, "Enid, your husband was in to see me yesterday. He asked me to talk to you."
"Paul?" Enid clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggly. "Oh, he doesn't like me coming to see Jonathan."
"I know. Why is that, do you suppose?"
"Paul doesn't like me to see any men doctors." She giggled again. "He thinks I have too much fun."
Marta leaned forward. "I think you should see a psychiatrist, Enid. Perhaps if you went to see a woman doctor?"
Enid's face went dull. She said listlessly, "All right. Does that mean I can't see Jonathan any more?"
"I'm afraid so, Enid," Marta said gently. "You see, there's nothing either Jonathan or I can do about your-about your problem."
The girl sat with her eyes lowered. She said nothing.
"Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?" Marta asked in exasperation.
Enid raised eyes filmed with tears. "I understand you're trying to take me away from my daddy."
"Your daddy?" Marta felt her mouth fall open. "You mean Jonathan?"
At that moment the door swung wide and Paul Baker burst into the room. His face was frozen with fury, his eyes like two burnt holes in his face. He was halfway across the room before he saw Enid.
"Enid-" He plowed to a stop beside her chair. "Are you all right?"
Enid glanced up to say emptily, "Hello, Paul."
Marta got to her feet. "Your wife's all right, Mr. Baker."
Baker looked at her. He jerked his thumb toward Temple's door. "Is he in there?"
"No. No, he isn't."
Baker nodded curtly. He reached down for Enid's hand. "Come along, Enid. I want a word with Miss Travis." His voice was strangely gentle. "You wait for me outside."
Marta watched as he led Enid from the room. She sat down and lit a cigarette, smoking nervously until Baker returned. He closed the door and marched across to her desk.
"Your phony doctor's got my wife on dope," he said harshly.
Marta stared in horror. "I can't believe that!"
"It's true, all right. She came home late last night. At first I thought she was just drunk...." He began to pace as he talked, pounding a fist into his palm. "I accused her of being with Temple, but she said she'd been drinking with a girl friend. She always says that, but she doesn't have any women friends. Not any more. Then she lapsed into some sort of coma. She talked wild, out of her head. She kept talking about taking little white pills that made her feel so good." Baker leaned on the desk on his knuckles. "He's got her on dope, I tell you!"
"Dear God," Marta said faintly.
His voice rode over hers. "I'm going to the police!"
"No! No, Mr. Baker, don't do that. Not yet. What if you're wrong? Please, let me see what I can find out first."
He stared at her intently. She returned his look steadily. Some of the tension seemed to leave him.
Finally he nodded, "All right, but if something isn't done about him...."
"I'll do something. I promise." She stood up. "Meanwhile, keep your wife away from this office." She debated whether she should tell him about the party and Enid's being invited. She decided against it. If he could keep her home....
"Can I trust you to do that?"
He nodded again. "If I have to tie her to the bed."
Marta continued, "And I really think you should take her to a psychiatrist. A reputable one, not another Jonathan. A woman, if you're afraid of what might happen with a man."
He turned away. He said meagerly, "I'll think about it."
Marta accompanied him to the door. In the reception room Elizabeth Logart was at Selma's desk. The two women had their heads together, talking in a low tone. Elizabeth was a new woman. Gone was the dowdy appearance, the ill-fitting clothes, the uncoiffured hair. She was smartly dressed and had recently been to the beauty parlor.
Marta watched Paul Baker cross the room to where his wife sat, her eyes cast down. Baker took her hand and led her out.
Marta approached the desk. Selma glanced around, the green eyes sparkling. "Marta! Mrs. Logart is coming to Jonathan's party! Isn't that nice?"
Marta said evenly, "How are you, Mrs. Logart?"
The woman's gaze was level, faintly malicious. "I'm fine, doctor." She placed slight emphasis on the last word.
"It's too bad you aren't coming, Marta," Selma said.
"I'm sure I won't be missed," Marta said coldly. She turned away. "Have fun."
"Oh, we will! You can depend on that!" Selma's laughter was mocking.
Temple didn't return to the office. Marta waited until Selma had gone for the day. Then she went into Temple's office. In his medicine cabinet she found an array of pill bottles. They were all labeled except two, two large bottles filled with small white pills. Marta took a number of them, wrapped them in a piece of tissue and stored them in her purse.
Then she went home.
She didn't expect to see Stephan that evening, but he rang her bell at seven-thirty.
She rushed into his arms. "Oh, darling, I didn't think I'd see you tonight."
Their kiss was long and fierce.
Finally he pulled back to look down into her face. "I've been working like a fiend lately. It's Thursday, so I decided to take a long weekend." His boyish grin flashed. "I used to spend weekends at the project. It's different, now that I've something to come to town for."
"I'm glad, darling," she said simply. "I was feeling so damned low...."
Stephan ran his fingers into her hair and held it in a pile on top of her head. Then he let it tumble through his fingers to cascade down around her shoulders.
He brushed her forehead with his lips. "What have you got to feel so low about?"
"Come sit down." She led him to the couch. "I'll mix us a drink."
Marta's spirits rose as she fixed the drinks. As always when she was with him, everything else faded into the background.
She returned with the drinks and sat down next to him in the crook of his arm. Then she told him about Paul Baker and his suspicions of Temple.
When she was done, his face had settled into grim lines. "I don't think it's smart for you to work in a place like that. This Temple character sounds like a real case to me. You could be in a mess up to your teeth before you know it."
"I know, I've been thinking the same thing. But I don't want to quit just yet," she said unhappily. "Not until I know for sure Jonathan is what he seems to be. What I was thinking, I brought some of those pills home with me. Could you analyze them? You're an engineer."
His quick grin broke. "An engineer! I build dams and such." He sobered. "But I do have a friend who's a lab technician. He might do it."
She ran to her purse and got the pills for him. While he examined them, she took his glass and refreshed their drinks. When she came back, he had stowed the pills away. She gave him his drink and sat down beside him.
"Darling," she said, remembering, "I saw Elizabeth this afternoon. And you're right. She's changed so much I hardly knew her. She looked very nice." She frowned. "But I'm not sure it's a good idea for her to keep on seeing Selma."
"Selma? That's the redheaded receptionist, isn't it?"
"Yes. And I don't think she's good for Elizabeth." Marta hesitated, then said quickly, "She's a Lesbian, too."
"A Lesbian? How do you know that for sure?"
Marta felt her face burn, and she had to look away.
"Tell me, how do you know?"
"You've got to understand, Stephan," she said. "I...." But she couldn't go on.
"Understand what?" His voice had a cutting edge.
"Selma and I. I became involved with her," she blurted.
"Involved?" He caught her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "What do you mean, involved?"
"Please! Let me tell it my way!"
He shook her. "Are you trying to tell me you let her make love to you? Is that it?"
He stood up and pulled her to her feet. He shook her until her head snapped back and forth like a puppet's on a string.
"Wait," she pleaded. "I-"
"Answer me, damn you!" His fingers dug into the flesh of her shoulders like talons. "Did she make love to you?"
"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes, she did!"
"You! And I thought you were different! No wonder you pleaded Elizabeth's case. Do you have plans of your own for her?"
He hit her across the face with the back of his hand, and she fell across the couch. Before she could move, he was gone from her range of vision.
After a long time she got up and stumbled into bed. She was certain she wouldn't be able to sleep, but she fell asleep almost at once.
Friday was a very bad day. To begin with, she had a large bruise on her cheekbone where Stephan had hit her. She tried to dredge up some anger at him, but she wasn't very successful. Maybe he'd been right to hit her. She should have told him about the episode with Selma at the same time he had told her of his learning Elizabeth was a Lesbian.
She had barely reached her desk when her phone rang. It was Robbins, the manager of the hotel where the Gleasons were staying. "I think you'd better come over right away, Miss Travis."
Marta hurried out without telling Selma where she was going. Selma was her usual cheerful self, but Marta had very little time for her.
The Fonds Hotel on Westlake had a history of deterioration. Once a good residential hotel, it was now operated by Alcoholics Anonymous. To ah outward appearances, the guests of the Fonds looked like guests of any second-rate hotel. But closer examination revealed the puffy faces, the furtive, apologetic eyes and the uncertain poise of the chronic alcoholic.
Robbins, the hotel manager and director of the local office of the AA, was a slight, middle-aged man, also a former alcoholic.
He greeted Marta sadly. "I'm sorry to have to tell you, Miss Travis, but Margaret Gleason is a lost cause. I know you were coming to see her today. That's why I called you."
"A lost cause? What do you mean?"
"The police picked her up this morning in the park," Robbins said glumly.
"Oh, no! They'll put her in jail this time, won't they?"
"Yes. There's nothing anybody can do this time. She was arrested for soliciting a vice officer."
"What will they do to her?"
"The least she can expect is six months."
"And her husband?"
"He packed up and left a while ago. You can't really blame him, I suppose. He stuck longer than most men would have."
Marta's spirits were at a low ebb when she left the hotel and drove back to the office. She had felt so confident she could help someone, at least. Now it looked as though she was failing all around. Grimly she determined to stick it out until she found out the truth about Temple. If she could break up his operation, she would at least have accomplished something.
Temple remained in his office all day behind closed doors. Marta didn't catch a single glimpse of him. Several times she thought of confronting him with what Paul Baker had told her. But she had no proof.
Stephan called her late in the afternoon. His voice cold and distant, he told her what was in the pills.
"Then there's nothing illegal about the pills, is there?"
Stephan said, "It would be illegal if you could prove Temple is using this concoction under the guise of treating disturbed women who come to him for help."
Sensing he was about to hang up, Marta leaned forward, gripping the receiver tensely. "Stephan, please don't hang up!"
"Can you give me one good reason why not?"
"Please, I want to talk to you." She talked fast, running her words together. "You owe me that much at least."
There was a lengthy silence. Finally he said reluctantly, "All right, Marta. I'll talk to you."
Marta felt weak with relief. "Where? My apartment?"
"No! Not there! Look, I'll buy you dinner. Come to think of it, I never have bought you dinner, have I?" His laughter had a brittle sound. "I guess I do owe you that much, anyway."
"Whatever you say, Stephan," she said in a low voice.
He named a place and hung up. She hurried to meet him. She didn't even take time to go home and change her clothes. The restaurant Stephan had selected was close to downtown. He was already at a table when she came in. When the hostess led Marta up to the table, he glanced up. His glance found the bruise on her cheek.
As she sat down, he said slowly, "I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't've hit you."
Involuntarily her hand went to her cheek. She tried to smile. "It's all right, Stephan. It doesn't matter too much."
After that they were like two strangers, filling in the spaces between the long silences with small talk. This continued through two drinks and through their steaks.
Desperately Marta sought a way to say what she had to say to him. Finally, over coffee and cigarette, she couldn't bear it any longer. She leaned toward him. "Stephan, do you hate me so much?"
He didn't answer. He exhaled smoke that drifted like a cloud between them.
"Even if you do hate me, at least listen to me."
"Twice!" he said bitterly. "How could it have happened to me twice! He snubbed out his cigarette in an ash tray. "What is there about me that attracts Lesbians?"
Marta winced. Her temper flared, but she said evenly, "I'm not a Lesbian. I should think I've proved that to you by this time."
He looked at her directly for the first time, his eyes thoughtful. "I guess I'd never thought about it like that."
"I love you, Stephan. And you say you love me. Have I ever asked you what happened before you met me?"
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No."
"What took place with Selma happened before I met you." It was a small he, a very small he. Surely she could be forgiven that. She held her breath, waiting tensely for his reaction.
"All right! So I went off half-cocked. I'm sorry. Okay?" He grinned sheepishly. "But you've got to understand. Hitting me with something like that on top of the business with Elizabeth...."
"I understand, darling. I do understand." She reached across for his hand. She lowered her voice. "Take me home, Stephan."
His grin quickened and he nodded. They stood up. Stephan left money on the table for the dinner, and they hurried outside. Leaving Marta's car on the parking lot, they took Stephan's to her place. In the car he placed her hand on him.
He drove fast, nudging the speed limit all the way. They hurried into her apartment building, hand in hand, almost running.
Like two panting high school kids who can't wait, Marta thought.
And in the elevator she feared she really could not wait. They were alone on the short ride up. They fell into each other's arms the instant the doors sighed shut. Stephan's mouth was hot and demanding. He cupped her through the dress, and she sagged back, her knees almost giving away under her. And she knew, if he lifted her dress right there, she wouldn't resist.
But they made it, stumbling through the apartment door and swaying across to the rug before the fireplace. They fumbled with one another's clothes, each more a hindrance than a help to the other.
But finally she was naked and on her back on the rug. The hearth was cold, but the heat roaring through her body made the room like a furnace.
Stephan knelt before her. Now that the time and place was right, he refused to hurry. He made slow, silent, passionate, expert love to her. With his mouth he teased her breasts into leaping, frantic life. Her body jumped everywhere he touched.
His mouth left her breasts and moved across her stomach, tracing the outline of her navel. And moved still farther.
Marta cried out as the exquisite sensation jolted her. She stroked the back of his neck feverishly. She began to plead with him for release from torment.
Then before it was too late, she reached down and drew him up and guided him to her. He was with her, and she was all his. It was wonderful.
God, how wonderful!
Soon the ecstasy began. She gave herself to him in a frenzy of frantic motion, seeking the final release. And then it came, came with shocking suddenness. She was caught and swung high on a pinwheel of pure pleasure.
"God, what you do to me!"
She cried out a last time and rose to cling to him. Then she fell away, afloat on a soft, warm sea of semi-consciousness.
As her topsy-turvy world began to right itself, she thought contentedly, I was wrong. It wasn't such a bad Friday after all!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saturday night Marta waited until after eight o'clock before going to Temple's party. She wanted to make sure it was in full swing, that everybody was there, before she put in an appearance.
She'd had a devil of a time convincing Stephan that she should go. They'd argued half of last night.
"It's a damn fool thing to do," Stephan said. "If you think there's something off-color going on there, then call the police in."
"But I don't know for sure, don't you see?" In her earnestness she got up on her knees in the bed, her breasts swinging freely as she gestured for emphasis. "And I feel partly responsible for whatever Jonathan has been doing to Enid Baker. If everybody is goofed up on those pills, I'll know for sure. Or I'll be able to find out. Then we can do something about Jonathan. He can be put away so he can't take advantage of women like her again."
Stephan leaned over to put out his cigarette. "Then if you're so set on going, we'll go together."
"No, I don't want that!" she said explosively. "If you're along, they'll run like scared rabbits. We may not learn a thing." She reached over and touched his cheek with her fingers. "Besides, your wife will be there."
"Elizabeth?"
"Didn't I tell you?"
"No. No, you didn't."
"Well, she will. That's the reason I don't want you along. Don't you see, if I can catch her and Selma in ... in the act, so to speak...." She grinned suddenly. "Then there'll be no more trouble about your divorce."
He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said stubbornly, "It's too risky, damn it! This lab guy told me people have some weird fantasies when on this lysergic acid. No telling what they might do to you."
"Darling, I'm a big girl. Remember? If things get too sticky, I can run. I don't think they'll chain me to a bedpost or anything like that. Jonathan may be evil, but he's also a coward."
"I still don't like it."
She thought a moment. "I know, we'll do it this way. I'll stay long enough to learn what I need to know. Then, the first chance I get, I'll call you. Then you call the police and you all come a-running. Just like the cavalry in the movies. How's that?"
Stephan argued some more, but they finally left it at that. But he insisted on one thing. He would find a bar a few block from Temple's apartment, a bar with a phone. He would get the number for her, drop her off at Temple's building, then return to the bar to wait for her call.
Now Marta stood outside Temple's door. And now that it was time to go in, she was more than a little frightened. The sound of muffled voices and shrill laughter filtered through the door.
She squared her shoulders in determination and rang the bell. She had to ring twice more before the door swung open in her face. A rumpled Selma stood swaying in the doorway. Her blouse was unbuttoned, her skirt awry. She was holding the blouse closed with her hand. When she saw who it was, she let the blouse fall open again. She was naked underneath.
Her mouth curved in a dreaming smile. "Sweetie! You decided to come after all! Good, goodie for you!" She stood back with a sweep of her hand, "Come in. Everybody's here!"
Clutching her purse, Marta followed the woman into the living room. The room was very large, oblong in shape, with expensive, modern furniture. It was very dim, the chief source of light being a bar in a far corner. Selma was making her way unsteadily toward the distant bar.
When Marta's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she was appalled at what she saw. The room was packed with people. Very few were fully clothed. Skirts were raised and trousers at half-mast. Men were paired off with women. And women with women. Everyone was much too busy to notice Marta. And the ones who did glance at her had a dull, unfocused look.
The room was close and hot, stinking of perfume, alcohol, and sweat.
Marta averted her gaze, fixing it on Selma's lush buttocks. She reached the bar with a feeling of vast relief. It was like a lighted island. The activity around her was obscured by darkness.
Selma set two stemmed glasses on the bar and filled them from a pitcher of martinis. "Here, sweetie. Bottoms up. Hey!" Her wink was bawdy. "I like the sound of that, don't you?"
Marta gulped at her drink. She felt in need of it. Selma watched her with a musing expression.
"Is Jonathan here?" Marta asked.
She peered into the darkness around her, then pulled her gaze back with a shudder. She finished her drink.
The redhead refilled the glasses. Marta drank this one more slowly. She was beginning to feel warm, uncomfortably so.
Selma's face lit up. "Here's Liz!"
She pushed past Marta, who faced about. It seemed to Marta that Selma walked with Amazonic, slow-motion strides. The walls of the apartment seemed to expand and contract. On the wall behind the bar was a painting of a ballet dancer. Marta could have sworn the dancer was in motion, dancing dreamily to some music not quite audible to human ears.
Selma came back with Elizabeth Logart.
Elizabeth wore a black sheath that displayed her lovely breasts to good advantage. She looked as though she had been poured into the dress.
Both women seemed terribly tall to Marta. Selma looked like a disheveled fire-goddess. Her titian hair shimmered like a live flame.
They came whispering, their heads together.
"How good to see you, dear," Elizabeth said throatily. She took Marta in her arms and kissed her on the mouth.
Marta saw nothing really wrong in that. And yet she sensed, vaguely, that something was wrong. What was it? She shrugged. It didn't seem to matter. Not really.
Selma went behind the bar and set a glass out for Elizabeth. She filled all three glasses. She looked from Marta to Elizabeth and back again. She said in wonder, "Like peas in a pod. And so beautiful!"
She leaned across the bar and ran her fingers into the two blonde heads of hair. Gently she drew their faces toward her. Elizabeth slipped her arm around Marta's waist. Together, they leaned toward Selma. The three mouths met in a long kiss.
Again a faint bell of warning sounded in Marta's mind. She willed her body to break away. Then all reservations were burned away in an exotic burst of feeling.
Finally, with a pleased laugh, Selma pulled away.
Marta stepped back. She ran the palms of her hands down across her throbbing breasts, across the slight bulge of her middle and on along the flare of her hips.
"Heavens, I'm itchy!"
Selma came around the bar. "Let me help you, sweetie." She found the zipper beneath Marta's left arm and pulled it down.
"Let me help, too," Elizabeth said huskily.
"No!" Marta tore away from them. She staggered in the general direction of the door. But she never reached it. She got lost among the other dream-like shapes floating about the room.
Time passed.
Hands plucked at her. She was pulled down to the floor. Fingers tore at her clothes. Hands stroked her flesh. Lips touched her hastily. She managed to struggle free and to her feet.
Her dress was gone. Her slip was gone. Her shoes and stockings were gone. She was left with nothing but her bra and panties.
Dimly, oh so dimly, she realized that she had been drugged. But, before she could act on it, the thought was gone. Gone like her clothes.
More time passed.
Enid's face swam before her eyes.
"Enid! What are you doing here? You should not be here!"
Enid's face was slack, her eyes dull. She was curled up in a corner like a rag doll thrown away in a child's fit of petulance. Marta leaned down and tried to pick the girl off the floor. But she seemed boneless, all melting flesh.
Selma's whisper sounded in Marta's ear, "Her husband locked her in the bathroom. But she crawled out the window and down a drainpipe.
She had to see her daddy. But you know what?" Selma chuckled. "Jonathan squealed like a rabbit when he saw her. He locked her out of his bedroom. Ain't that something, sweetie?" Still more time passed.
There was something she had to do. What? What was it? Stephan? Yes, call Stephan. What was the number? The number was in her purse.
Her purse was gone, too.
And still more time passed.
She was on the floor, on a soft thick rug. She was between Selma and Elizabeth.
The bra and panties were gone now.
What were they doing to her? Whatever it was, was good.
Oh, so good!
Fingers and lips moved over her. She was awash on a sea of flaming lust. Her body leaped and jerked, shook and trembled.
Her hands found a taut abdomen and eager legs. Her mouth found a full breast. Her knees fell and she arched greedily toward a seeking kiss. She went rigid as it found its goal.
The room suddenly flared with blinding light. The stillness in the room was that of death. She felt Selma and Elizabeth roll away from her.
The light hit Marta with the force of a blow. She sat up, blinking.
Stephan loomed over her, his face terrible in its wrath. Beyond him the front door stood wide open.
"Like a fool, I had to trust you again. I wait and wait for a phone call that never comes. And look-" He swept a hand around the room. "And look what I find!"
His words cleared Marta's head momentarily. Vainly she tried to cover herself. Her body flushed scarlet with shame.
"God," she whispered. "Darling, you've got to understand what happened...."
Behind Stephan the figure of a man filled the doorway. It was Paul Baker. There was a gun in his hand. The gun seemed to Marta, in her present state, a logical, deadly extension of the man's personality.
"Stephan! Look out! Behind you!"
And then she screamed at the top of her voice.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Temple was having a ball, a real swinging ball.
As a minister, he had preached many a sermon about the fiery pit of hell where earth-sinning couples were condemned to endless passion, the flames licking at their flesh.
But he had been wrong. God, how wrong he had been! It was heaven, not hell!
He'd dispensed the pills freely, until one bottle was almost gone. Then he had announced that anyone who wanted more pills would have to come with him. He'd taken the full bottle and retired to the large bedroom. He'd had an amazing number of takers. Blondes, brunettes, redheads ... All were generously proportioned, all very stimulating in the nude. Which all soon were. Along with Temple himself, a loose bull in a pasture of heifers in season.
For that's what he was tonight. A roaring, always-ready bull. And it was a good thing, because the women in his bedroom were hungry and demanding.
Hell-fire, they were hungry!
They didn't want to let him rest. Not that he needed much rest tonight. But a man had to have some!
When he got too tired, two or three or four of the girls would put on a rousing show for him. It was astonishing the things one woman could do for another. It was even more astonishing what two or three women could do to two or three other women.
It was enough to give a man pause. It was enough to cause a man to think the male sex really wasn't necessary.
But just when such thoughts began to depress him one of the women would take him by the hand and lead him to the bed and give him a chance to prove that a man was handy to have around, after all.
At such times his pill-induced fantasies took many shapes. He was other things than a bull ... an oilwell about to strike ... a volcano about to erupt ... Old Faithful about to geyser ... a tidal wave about to inundate....
And then he would be all those things at once.
But when it was over, he was a bull again, strutting, prancing, roaring through his private meadow of adoring females.
Once, twice, three times he lost consciousness, blacking out as the room spun around him, sucking him down into a whirlpool of pleasure.
And once, coming out of it, he went into the bathroom and came back with a pitcher of water.
He stood over two female forms embracing on the floor. "I baptize thee: Women of Babylon! Sinners!"
And he dumped the contents of the pitcher over them to the accompaniment of feminine squeals.
Female shapes closed in on him from all sides. They led him to the bed and tossed him onto his back.
"I'm not ready!" he yelped.
"We'll soon fix that," chanted a chorus of voices.
A blonde head dipped to his face, probing his open mouth with fiery lips. A brown head bent over his chest, teasing his flesh. A black head, farther down, explored him with sophistication. And other heads, a dizzying confusion of colors, did incredible things to him.
But they fixed him, just like they had promised.
He never knew which of the many heads granted him the ultimate favor. It didn't seem to matter.
What really mattered was the fusion of his fantasies again. This time he was a distant sun, wheeling through the universe, finally exploding in a galaxy unimaginable light-years away.
When he came out of it this time, his first thought was, strangely, of Enid Baker.
He had felt a few moments of panic when Enid showed up for the party. He had fed her a few pills and deposited her in a corner. Then he told Selma to entertain her, love her, do anything to divert her, and get rid of her as soon as possible.
He hoped to hell she was gone.
He realized that he had been listening for something for some little time. He wasn't sure what he was listening for. He was seized by a vague apprehension.
Then a woman's scream came from the living room.
Temple got to his feet and struggled into a robe. In his bare feet he stumbled across the room and fumbled with the locked door for a moment, then threw it open. He walked down the short hall and stepped into the living room.
His glance went at once to the man in the doorway. Paul Baker didn't see him right away.
Although in an icy grip of terror, Temple didn't once think of running. The whole scene seemed a part of a play, and he had to perform the role as it had been written for him.
The muscle under his eye began to tic, and he put his thumb to it.
He watched as Baker began to turn slowly, the gun swinging with him. Then the man's gaze leaped at him.
"You louse, I told you to leave my wife alone!" Baker's voice was high, shrill, with the nerve-crawling sound of chalk over slate.
Temple saw a spurt of flame from the gun, and he was hit a sledge-hammer blow over the left breast, slamming him back against the wall.
As he started to crumple to the floor, he realized that his thumb was still pressed to the twitching muscle.
My nerves are shot, he thought dimly; I should see a doctor.
The hand fell of its own weight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Horrified, Marta watched as Temple slid slowly to the floor.
Stephan was the first to move. In a swift, gliding crouch he closed in on the man with the gun. But there was no need for haste or caution. The firing of the gun had acted on Baker somewhat like a fulfillment. He stood with his hands hanging limply at his sides, his dark face without expression. He offered no resistance as Stephan took the gun away.
Stephan closed and locked the door. Then he crossed quickly to Temple's body and knelt there for a moment. Finally he stood up and looked slowly around at the faces that were pale and still with shock.
"This man is dead. And nobody leaves here until the police clean this up." His voice held the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "Nobody leaves. Is that understood?"
He had everyone's attention. Heads nodded. There were no protests.
Tall, tanned. Commanding presence. Steely eyes that brooked no disobedience. Like the man said about the airplane captain, it's the father image, people. So listen and obey.
Marta giggled. She tried to get a grip on herself. The initial shock was wearing off, and the drug was clouding her mind again.
Then Stephan was there, squatting down before her. He cupped her chin in his strong hand, forcing her to look at him. He searched her eyes.
He grunted. "Doped! I should've known. They managed to slip some pills to you. Little Miss Smartie Pants, playing detective all by herself. Next time you'll listen to me, by God, or I'll belt you good!"
Then his eyes warmed to her. He stood up and shucked his coat. He pulled her to her feet and draped the coat around her. It didn't cover everything but it helped.
"Now see if you can find your clothes and get dressed."
Marta stood without moving, her face turned aside.
"Move, damn it!"
She fled without looking at him. She searched for her clothes, finding an item here, an item there.
Other people were moving now, getting dressed. All but Enid Baker, who still huddled in her corner, naked as Eve.
When Marta left the room, Stephan was on the phone to the police.
She found a bathroom at the end of the hall and locked herself in. She took a scalding hot shower, washing away the shame. Then she turned the cold water on full. The shock cleared her brain.
The police were very quick. When Marta returned, fully dressed, the living room swarmed with them. Everybody was dressed now, even Enid. She sat alongside her husband, her hand folded trustingly in his.
Marta felt a pull of pity for Enid, for both of them. But she knew there was nothing she could do for Enid or her husband. There was nothing much anybody could do for Paul Baker, but perhaps Enid would now receive competent help. At least Jonathan Temple would never plague her again.
Marta hurried to Stephan who was talking to a lean, middle-aged man. A Lieutenant Raston of the Los Angeles Police. Stephan was just finishing his version of what had happened.
Marta stood close to him. She groped for his hand. After a moment he wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed.
The knot of tension in her dissolved, and she leaned against him with a soft sigh. She was very, very tired.
But it was going to be all right. No matter what happened, it would be all right so long as he didn't shut her out.
Apparently nothing very bad was going to happen, except to Paul Baker. Lieutenant Raston seemed unsurprised by what had happened at the party and no punitive action would be taken.
"But I'll need statements from everybody. However, everyone can go as soon as we get names and addresses." Lieutenant Raston closed his notebook with a snap. "You can all come downtown and make your statements."
Marta watched as Paul and Enid Baker were led away. "What do you think will happen to him, Stephan?"
"At a guess I'd say his attorney will enter a plea of temporary insanity. It may not go too rough with him. And from what I've learned about Temple, Baker should get a medal for-"
Marta saw Selma and Elizabeth Logart approaching, and she tightened her grip on Stephan's hand.
Elizabeth confronted Stephan with her head thrown back. Her eyes were defiant. "I've changed my mind, Stephan. You can have your divorce. I won't contest it." She looked at Marta. "Is it too soon for congratulations?"
"Thanks, Elizabeth," he said dryly. His glance moved to Selma. "It looks like congratulations are in order for you, too."
The woman's color heightened. She turned away abruptly and started off.
Selma winked at Marta. "Be good, sweetie."
She hastened to catch up with Elizabeth, and they went out, arms around each other's waists, heads close together.
"Imagine that, will you? Losing your wife to another woman!" Stephan's voice burned with bitterness.
"Never mind, darling. You're getting what you wanted. She's letting you go." Marta gazed after the pair. "Besides, if I know Selma, it won't last. Before long she'll be looking around for a new thrill, and Elizabeth will be getting another divorce."
Soon they were free to go.
In the car Marta slid over close to him. "Darling, what you saw happening in there. It was the pills. I didn't know what I was doing."
"Well, I should hope so, by God!" Then he grinned around at her. "Of course, there's one way you can prove it to me."
"How's that?"
"You know."
"Oh!" Her breath caught. She placed her hand on him. "I'll be glad to prove it to you."
"I'm a pretty stubborn sort of guy. Sometimes it takes a lot of proof to convince me."
Her laughter was rich and full. "I'll offer proof any time, anywhere. All you'll ever have to do is ask."
